‘Our information is that Calvin Lawrence catches bus into Bakewell once a week to collect his bei money.’
‘Ah. So he’s a Social Security scrounger. What at the other one?’
‘Simon Bevington isn’t even registered for benei said Cooper, ‘He seems to stay in the vicinity of quarry or on the moor. He doesn’t claim anythin suppose they must share what little they’ve got.’
‘Oh, love and peace, hallelujah,’ said Jepson.
‘It must be enough for both of them - they hai have an extravagant lifestyle. But they’re not gypsi ‘They could be circus trapeze artists, for all I c
Cooper. Have we asked them about animal sacrific ‘No, sir.’
‘Then ask them. And find this Martin Stafford the girl, Ros Daniels. We ought to be able to fine least one of them, shouldn’t we? Is there anything e And don’t make it anything too exciting. I’ve enough for today.’
‘Well,’ said Hitchens, as if suddenly noticing important item that everyone had forgotten, ‘then the phallus farm.’
‘What kind of farm?’ said Jepson.
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I ‘Well, I don’t mean Warren Leach’s kind of farm. There are no EU subsidies for this particular crop….’ Warren Leach was waiting for the milk tanker. It was one of the few routines that still held his day together. Bringing the cows in, milking, waiting for the tanker. The morning’s yield was taken for Hartington Stilton, the local cheese made at the dairy in Dovedale. It was something most farmers were proud of, that their milk was going for Stilton. It was like still being part of the traditional dairy industry of the dales, not an anonymous unit of production for some huge commercial organization. Leach had once been proud of it himself, and had boasted about the quality of his milk. Now he found he couldn’t care less. He would have been just as happy to pour the stuff down the drain or into the nearest ditch. The lad who normally came to help him had not turned up yesterday or today, so Leach had done everything himself. Gary was one of the Dawsons, from over the moor at Pilhough. The Dawsons weren’t up to much, but at least they were farming folk. But there had been a blazing row on Sunday afternoon, when Leach had lost his temper and sworn at the lad and accused him of being idle. Gary had threatened he would never come again, and it looked as though he never would. In a way, Leach preferred it; he preferred to be left on his own, to have so much to do that it left no time for thinking. Yet it only lasted for a while, only until after the tanker had gone and the rest of the jobs held
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no urgency. Then, when there were no cows bellowing for attention, no tanker driver sounding his horn in the lane, when his sons had gone off to school in Cargreave on the bus - then he found the rest of the day stretched before him endlessly. But this morning a car had arrived. He had been expecting the tanker turning in from the road, but the sound of the engine was wrong. The big diesel always made the glass in the windows of the farmhouse vibrate, and the layer of dust on the window ledge dance and slide before it settled into a new pattern. There had been plenty of police vehicles going by the farm for the past two days, of course - but they went straight up the lane, past the front of the shippon. They didn’t turn into the yard like this car did. Leach’s chest grew tight with apprehension. He had known it would only be a matter of time before the men he feared arrived. The farmer looked at his hands, astonished at the dirt ingrained in his fingers, as if he hadn’t washed for days. How long had his hands been like that? He glanced at the steel cabinet where his shotgun was locked, and waited for the familiar surge of aggression to come, for the righteous anger to drive strength and heat into his limbs. He was the sort of man who ought to be able to see a bailiff off, no problem. But something was wrong. Somehow the adrenalin failed to flow, the flush of testosterone never came. He felt weak and helpless; he was alone and cornered, yet with no fight left in him. It was the feeling that he had always dreaded would come to him in the end.
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Leach laughed quietly as he listened for the men to enter the gate. ‘You’ve had it, Warren. What use are you now?’ He thought of not answering the door, of hiding in another room until the strangers went away. It was what a woman might do, or a child. Was he reduced to that? Unable to face the answer, he stood paralysed when the knock came at the door. A second knock followed, more impatient. Then Leach moved, without a thought in his head about what he would say. What did bailiffs do in these circumstances? Obviously, the men hadn’t come alone in a car to take away his furniture. Maybe they had come to deliver a court notice. Maybe they had just come to check what he had that was worth selling. Good luck to them, then. There was precious little. But they weren’t bailiffs, after all, just the police again. The first face he saw he recognized immediately, and it reminded him that there were vitally important things he ought to have done, but hadn’t. He had watched the police cars and vans go backwards and forwards across his land, cursing each one as they went, yet desperate to know what they were doing up on the moor, to hear what they had found out about the woman who had died. He longed for someone to tell him what was going on. Yet now these policemen had arrived, he didn’t know what to do, except to tell them he had nothing to say. ‘Detective Constable Cooper and Detective Constable Weenink, Mr Leach. We just need a few words, that’s all. We won’t keep you from your work long. We know how busy you farmers always are.’ r The one who spoke tried a smile. Leach refused to be impressed. ‘Cut the crap. I see enough of it rounc here.’ ‘If that’s the way you want it.’ Leach looked at the other one, the big one in the leather jacket, and felt a small measure of his old confi dence starting to return. ‘What have they sent you tw( for? Ranger scared to come here any more, is he’ Thought he needed to send in the heavy mob? Yot won’t get anything out of me, anyway.’ ‘We’re collecting information about vehicles seer in this area on Sunday,’ said Weenink, staring at the farmer. ‘Are you now? But they’ve asked me about thi; before.’ ‘We’re following up a report on a van that wa; noticed leaving your farm entrance between two an( three o’clock that day. Was that your van?’ ‘Does it look as though I’ve got a van? A Land Rover but that’s knackered. Otherwise it’s a tractor or the bad of a cow if I want to get about.’ ‘Does that mean I can put you down as “does no own a van”?’ ‘If you like.’ ‘The witness said it was a white van, but not ver clean. Probably a Ford Transit.’ ‘Lots of those about.’ ‘Do you recall seeing this van?’ asked Cooper. ‘Di( it belong to a visitor to the farm?’ ‘I don’t get many visitors here.’ ‘But that afternoon you did, didn’t you?’
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‘Not that I remember.’ ‘Could it have been a sales rep? An agricultural engineer? Something like that?’ ‘Can’t afford to speak to either of ‘em at the moment.’ ‘A parcel delivery?’ ‘You’re joking.’ ‘Do you know anybody with a van of that description?’ ‘Listen, let me help you out. It would likely have been some bugger who’d got lost and decided to use my land to turn round on. Or maybe he’d stopped to have his sandwiches with his van blocking my gateway. That’s happened before, too. Police’ll never do anything about it, obviously. Too bloody busy, aren’t you?’ ‘I’m sure if you phoned the station, they would send somebody out when they had a car available.’ Leach began to cough. He was wishing the policemen would go away; his lungs were responding as if he had an allergic reaction. He was too tired to argue with them. Besides, they didn’t look as though they would put up with absolutely anything, the way the Ranger did. ‘Do you get joyriders up here?’ said Cooper. ‘It’s a quiet spot. They like to abandon vehicles somewhere and set fire to them.’ Leach followed the detective’s gaze. He was looking at the scorched shell of the pick-up on the hard-standing near the big shed. ‘A bit of an accident,’ said Leach. ‘I’ll get a few spares off it when I get round to it.’ ‘This white van …’ said Weenink. Leach shrugged. ‘I’d like to help, but ‘
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‘What about your two sons?’ asked Cooper. ‘What about them?’ ‘Were they at home on Sunday? They might
