“I read that he was out on bail. I expect Marian’s told him about the call and let the police know?”
“She didn’t say. Do you think I should call her back?”
“Just leave it. I’ll get over to Brayford tomorrow and see if I can get a word with this Ann Bishop. If someone is muscling in on the act, she’d want to stop them. She was a friend of Kaminsky’s; she identified his body. Well, that’s where I’m going to start.”
***
Ralph had looked up Bishop in the phone book and fortunately
there was only one: Frederick Arthur. The address was Long Acre Farm, Brayford.
Having resisted getting a SatNav fitted in the Jag meant that he relied on local maps. Long Acre Farm was not marked. He spent a while driving around the narrow lanes and trying to make sense of the map in relation to the road signs. Eventually he stopped by a strip of land that sported two goals posts and called to a couple of lads who were kicking a ball about.
“Am I right for Long Acre Farm?” They stopped and stared at him. One of them muttered something to his friend.
“I’m looking for Mr. Bishop.”
“It’s up that rutted lane at the cross roads, mister; ‘bout a mile. Just follow those cow paddies,” the older boy shouted as he looked at the well-kept Jag.
Ralph thanked them and drove off; he wondered what it would be like to grow up in a small Devon village with little prospect of getting a job. He could see why most youngsters either moved on to the bigger towns or settled for working on a farm. He thought that if he were in their place he would have opted to work on a farm until he was old enough, then he would have joined the Navy.
He edged his way slowly down the rutted lane. Fortunately it was dry, and the cow dung was not as bad as the boy had predicted, otherwise it would only have been passable with a four wheel drive. There was no sign for Long Acre Farm, but he assumed the run down house with a few outhouses at the end of the track must be it. As he switched off the ignition and went to get out of the car, two sheep dogs ran up barking and running around. A burly man appeared from the side of the house; he held a shot gun.
“Wat you wan’. This ‘ere’s private property. No trespassers.”
Ralph had already got out of the car. The dogs sniffed at his shoes and trousers until they were satisfied, then they ran back and stood wagging their tales alongside their master.
“Mr. Bishop? I wondered if I could have a word with your daughter?” He had taken a chance that this was the place and that Ann Bishop was not the man’s wife. If he was wrong, then he was ready to dodge the first blast. He realised that he sounded a bit like someone in an amateur dramatics’ play. It was partly the effect of the surroundings and partly the shotgun cradled in the man’s arm that made Ralph feel unsettled.
“Who are you, police? She already identified that body. What now?”
Ralph thought it best not to get involved in a lengthy explanation while the gun was still pointed at him.
“Just a quick word, sir. One or two things to clear up.” He realised that impersonating a police officer was an offense, but he had not actually said anything specific.
“She’s inside. But you make it quick, an’ don’t you go upsettin’ ‘er. Bad enough she ‘ad to see the body.”
The man turned away and walked off towards one of the barns. Ralph could hear cattle complaining. He had probably gone to milk the buggers, Ralph thought as he picked his way through the cow dung and avoided stepping on a bunch of chickens that were so intent on scratching in what was left of the gravel that they ignored him.
Ralph walked quickly up the weed covered pathway that led to the farmhouse door. He saw a young woman standing just inside. She must have heard him speaking to her father and come to see who had the courage to face a loaded shot gun. He guessed that she was in her late teens. She reminded him of the hundreds if not thousands of young students that he had taught over the years. She was pretty, in a country way, thought Ralph. Fresh faced, strong features and long brown hair. She faced him with arms folded across her chest, her chin thrust up. It was what his colleagues referred to as ‘attitude’. Before he could open his mouth to say anything, she shouted at him.
“It’s about the photos. I knew that cow’d tell you; the bloody bitch.”
She turned and went into the house. He hesitated before he followed. Inside an awful smell assailed his nostrils; it was a mixture of boiled cabbage and wet dogs. What had once been pretty lace curtains were now grey and torn. They blocked out whatever light might have forced its way through the grime covered windows. Katie would freak out if she saw this, flashed through his mind. It looked as though the place had not been cleaned in months. A small fire smoldered in a large open fireplace and the white smoke came straight out into the room. A large, once white sink was full of unwashed dishes. Not house proud, Ralph noted. He decided to use a direct approach. Ann Bishop stood defiantly by the fireplace. He glanced around. Like father like daughter, he thought, and hoped that she did not have her own shotgun.
“Tell me about Daniel and the photos,” he said. Ralph was eager to get whatever information she had as quickly as possible, and then get out before her father came back.
“We broke up
