Richard Williams, more crucial to the investigation, remained on a slab at the morgue. His body was not to be released for a few more days.
***
Wendy, a little the worse for wear, left her hotel at eight in the morning. She had slept well but woken with a throbbing headache, although not throbbing enough to deter her from a good English breakfast of two eggs, three bacon rashers and a couple of sausages, washed down with two cups of tea.
Christy Nichols’ home address – Farm Cottage, Underbarrow, Cumbria. It lay five miles to the west of where she was staying. It took Wendy twenty-five minutes to drive there. A small village, it consisted of no more than fifty cottages, most of them of a stone construction. A public house stood at the main crossroads.
Wendy had to admit it was a pretty place, somewhere she could live, although she realised the climate in winter would be savage – not conducive to someone with arthritis. She had felt the pain more since venturing north, and while it was only a couple of degrees colder, it made a difference. South, a long way south where the sun shone every day, was where she was heading if the opportunity arose.
Farm Cottage, she found out from a local woman standing on a corner waiting for the bus, was up a narrow, winding lane heading away from the village. ‘Don’t go up there,’ the woman had said.
Wendy had asked why – the answer confusing, unintelligible. She would have pursued the matter, but the bus appeared, and the woman was gone. As she climbed the slight incline towards Farm Cottage, she could see an old farm house and no perceivable activity. She did not want to go in, just to observe. Ten minutes later, a woman with an old dog at her side appeared at the front of the house.
Wendy stayed for a few hours walking around the area. It was a walker’s paradise, and she did not look out of place, apart from her stopping every few minutes for a rest. As lunchtime was approaching, she decided to return to the public house she had seen on her way up. An open fire was blazing inside, even though it was not bitterly cold outside.
‘Gives it a cosy feeling,’ the landlord said when she asked.
‘What do you have to eat?’
‘Typical pub lunches. My wife’s steak and kidney, or maybe mushroom, if you prefer.’
‘Steak and kidney for me. A pint of your best local bitter, as well.’
‘These days, it’s not local.’
‘Your best, anyway.’
‘Ten minutes for the pie, the beer straight away.’
Wendy noticed the pub was virtually empty, like pubs up and down the country. The local point of personal interaction supplanted by the world of instant communications and streaming movies on the internet. She missed the old days in many ways. A computer baffled her, a smartphone seemed only useful for making phone calls, the occasional SMS, and as for email, it was fine, but she could see little point in it. The police report she would usually write in long hand, and then ask Bridget to type up, the only cost a little bit of gossip. A small price to pay for such a valued service.
‘What brings you up here?’ the landlord asked. He was a red-faced man with an extended belly. She instinctively liked him.
‘I was on business in Carlisle. I just thought I’d take the opportunity to check out the Lake District.’
‘What do you reckon?’ he asked. He had joined her with a pint of beer as well. Wendy could see from his appearance that he often had his beefy hand clasped around a pint of beer.
‘Very pretty. The winters must be tough up here?’
‘Can be. Last year was not so bad. Something to do with global warming, I assume.’
‘Probably,’ Wendy said.
‘Are you a hiker?’
‘I used to be.’
‘Not now?’ he asked. Wendy noticed that he had poured himself another beer, bought another for her. ‘On the house,’ he said as he put the two beers down on the bar.
‘Thanks. Arthritis, unfortunately.’
‘I’ve got a bit myself. It’s a nuisance, but that’s how it is.’
‘I had a stroll up near Farm Cottage.’
‘It’s grim up there.’
‘It seemed pretty enough.’
‘Did you see anyone?’
‘Just a woman and an old dog.’
‘Sad story.’ Wendy put her glass of beer down and took off her jacket. The fire in the corner too warm for her.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Bill Nichols, a strange character, used to come in here occasionally.’
‘What about him.’
‘Believed in corporal punishment, taking a strap to the kids if they played up.’
‘Is that allowed?’
‘No, of course not. But it could never be proved. His kids always supported him. Attractive children they were.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘I’ve no idea. They disappeared a few years back. The son sometimes comes back to see the mother. The daughter, not seen her since. Pretty young thing, she was.’
‘What were the children’s names?’ Wendy asked.
‘Terry, the son. The daughter, Christine, Christy. No, it was Christy. They never said much; fear of a leathering from their father, I suppose.’
‘Where’s the father now?’
‘Dead. Accident, they said.’
‘How?’ She had resumed her drinking.
‘He was more a subsistence farmer. Always believed the old-fashioned ways were the best. He would have used a horse and plough if he could have.’
‘Did he?’
‘No, but he would have. No profit margin if you don’t rely on mechanised farm equipment. He had to use a tractor occasionally. Mind you, he kept a lot of cattle up there, as well.’
‘So how did he die?’
‘Strange story. He believed in preparing his
