quietly, not looking at him. ‘Karen, run the item again from the beginning, would you, please? We need to know who they all are.’
Karen Dowell played about with the remote, brought up the current Midlands Today Barbie-and-Ken presentation team.
Man: ‘ With the hunt for the brutal killer of a Herefordshire farmer in its third day, a rural pressure group has been accusing police of failing the countryside.’
Woman: ‘ And, as Mandy Patel reports, the attack’s been spear-headed by the brother of the murdered man, who says West Mercia Police repeatedly ignored reports of intruders on their land.’
Familiar shots of the middle Wye Valley looking bare and wind-scoured. Patel’s voice describing how the mood in Herefordshire had swung from horror to rage, as the vision cut to an obvious protest meeting. Bunch of people at a raised table, draped in banners. Apart from Sollers Bull, Bliss recognized nobody.
Annie said to Karen, ‘Who’s the man in the red waistcoat?’
‘Can’t remember his name, ma’am, but I’m pretty sure he’s the county chairman-elect of the NFU. And the guy next to him…’
‘Is Lord Walford?’
Karen nodded.
Bliss said, ‘Who the fuck’s Lord Walford?’
‘Old Tory peer, boss. And Sollers Bull’s father-in-law.’
‘Also a former member of the police authority,’ Annie said, ‘Where’s this happening, exactly?’
Walls of light wood, spotlights from exposed rafters. Pine tables.
‘The restaurant at Sollers Bull’s farm shop,’ Karen said. ‘Out on the Leominster Road. My mum works there, part-time. Got to say I’ve been around here all my life, ma’am, but there’s quite a few people I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.’
‘Yes, well, me neither,’ Annie Howe said. ‘Which possibly lends credence to their claim that it’s a national movement.’
‘Freeze it,’ Bliss said. ‘ There – isn’t that one of those ageing boy racers from The Octane Show?’
‘Smiffy Gill,’ Terry Stagg said. ‘Lives just over in Wales.’
‘Just the kind of flash twat who’d throw his driving gloves into the ring for this shite,’ Bliss said.
Above the panel of nobs at the raised table, a sign, green on white, covered half the wall.
COUNTRYSIDE DEFIANCE
The camera pulling back from the sign, the reporter saying, in voice-over, ‘ The organizers insist this is not a spin-off from the Countryside Alliance but a new response to what they say is an urgent situation.’
‘Hold it there,’ Annie Howe said. ‘Man at the back, black hair, receding jawline. Tim… Tim somebody. Member of the police committee.’
‘Who’s he supporting?’ Bliss said.
‘Who indeed? Sorry, let it run, Karen.’
New voice, a woman, not local.
‘ This is not political, but it’s certainly a matter of…’
Now you saw her. Fortyish, short red hair, tailored suit.
‘… pride and tradition. This county, like every county in Britain, has its roots in agriculture, but in Herefordshire the roots are still close to the surface, not yet buried under tons of concrete .’
The caption said:
Rachel Wiseman-France.
Coordinator, Countryside Defiance.
Bliss made a note of it as the woman said: ‘ With the hunting ban and four-by-fours road-taxed to the hilt, people who live and work in the countryside already felt they were being systematically penalized. Now they not only fear for their livelihoods, but their very lives.’
The reporter’s voice came back: ‘ The brother of murdered farmer Mansel Bull is also talking of a climate of fear in the Welsh Border hills and is accusing West Mercia Police of turning a blind eye to rural crime.’
Sollers Bull was standing outside his restaurant between two flags, a Welsh dragon and a cross of St George.
‘ My brother’s death left us shattered. Not only the family, but the whole county. I’ve had dozens of phone calls, letters, emails from farmers and country dwellers, and most of them are saying the same thing.’
Sollers wore a dark suit, black tie. Spoke quietly, even hesitantly, letting a local accent leak through and stumbling over the odd word. No hint of the aggression he’d displayed to Bliss. No ear stud today.
‘ Only days before he was killed, my brother reported seeing strangers on our land, behaving in a suspicious manner. So he phoned the police. Who did not come out to investigate. ’
Sollers paused. No mention of migrants this time, Bliss noticed. He knew that any hint of racism and the BBC would never speak to him again.
‘… and even after the murder, I was appalled to be told by a senior officer that we could not have expected any more attention than we got.’
Annie Howe and Terry Stagg both glancing at Bliss. DCs Vaynor and Toft exchanging smiles, maybe even smirks. Bliss scowled.
‘What was I supposed to say? Yeh, I’m really sorry, we should’ve sent an ARU?’
Rachel Wiseman-France was back.
‘ The point is that some police divisions have special squads for dealing with gun and knife crime and offences in urban ethnic communities. But rural crimes, time after time, go undetected, because too many police have absolutely no knowledge of life outside the cities.’
Karen Dowell looked at Bliss, raising a despondent eyebrow, as shots appeared of uniformed police and SOCOs in Durex suits standing by a van at the entrance to Mansel Bull’s farm. The camera lingering for just an instant too bloody long on a full-length shot of Bliss pointing at something and smiling. God, he hadn’t noticed that first time round. Smiling at a murder scene. Bliss kept his eyes on the TV, knowing that every bastard in the CID room would be covertly observing his reactions.
What he saw next, as the picture cut back to the people in the restaurant, made him want to kick the screen in.
He turned away, nails digging into his palms, as Rachel Wiseman-France said, ‘ The last thing we want is to be accused of taking the law into our own hands. But are we really going to stand by and see our precious countryside turned into killing fields? ’
At a signal from Annie Howe, Karen cut the sound on the male presenter reading out a precis of the press statement put out by Elly Clatter about how West Mercia were fully committed to the policing of rural areas and nobody would rest until the killer of Mansel Bull was caught. Annie moved in front of the screen.
‘OK, you all know what we’ve said to the media. After what we’ve just seen, we all know it’s not going to be good enough, long-term. I have a meeting with the Chief Constable tomorrow, and I’d like to be able to tell him we’re moving towards a quick result on this. But… clearly we’re not.’
‘Killing fields?’ Bliss snarled. ‘Frigging killing fields? Who is that woman? Anybody know anything about this Countryside Defiance?’
Bliss looked at Karen Dowell, who shrugged.
‘Ask around, shall I, boss?’
‘There’s a new pressure-group formed every other week,’ Annie Howe said. ‘Probably latching onto this for their own political reasons, with the telegenic Mr Bull as a useful figure-head. However… they do seem to have the support of certain influential people in the county, which is obviously not going to make things any easier for us.’
Bliss looked at Annie, in her black Crown Court suit and her white silk shirt. His lover, now, unbelievably.
But his friend?
Later, in his office, Bliss showed Annie the letter posted to The Police, Hereford. ‘Gwyn Adamson’s inclined to think it’s a crank thing. I’m not sure.’
To the Detective investigating the Murder of Farmer Bull.
I cannot tell you who I am for personal reasons. While my girlfriend and I were parking at the entrance to a field last Friday night, we both saw a man covered with blood. He was coming towards us as I pulled in and when
