As he looked around he couldn’t see a single point of habitation – only rolling arable fields, hedgerows, the shimmering line of the river in the distance, and some pigs in a field so far away they looked like tiny pink cushions.
Off to their right, however, stood the stark, black iron and wooden carcass of the barn. It sported a large set of wooden doors that had been made out of what appeared to be spare bits of timber, nailed together with more gusto than accuracy. The whole edifice had a deserted, forlorn air, as if it felt ashamed of what had happened inside its dim interior.
Of course, the police had cordoned it off once the body had been discovered, rendering it unusable anyway. Now the sight of it, looking almost accusing and lonely, made Trudy feel suddenly depressed. Although she didn’t believe in the supernatural, exactly, it wouldn’t be hard to imagine that the ghost of David Finch was standing right there, unseen beside them, wondering at these two disparate people who had been tasked with uncovering the mystery of his death.
Would he feel confident, Trudy wondered sadly, or would he be scornful?
She shrugged off such silly fantasies, and glanced around at the empty fields instead. ‘No wonder nobody saw anything,’ Trudy said glumly, unknowingly echoing her companion’s previous thoughts. ‘Unless somebody was walking their dog here or something, who would have seen David coming up here?’
Clement nodded agreement. ‘The remoteness begs an obvious question though, doesn’t it? If he didn’t come here specifically to kill himself, why did he come here?’
‘To think?’ Trudy proffered tentatively. ‘Or to get some peace and quiet maybe? He and Ronnie would have played here as kids. Maybe he was seeking out somewhere where he’d once felt safe and happy. He must have known everyone in the village was wondering if he was a killer or not. That can’t have been easy for him.’
‘Possibly. Or maybe he arranged to meet someone here?’ Clement said, far more prosaically.
Trudy, in spite of the May sunshine, felt herself shiver with cold. ‘His killer, you mean?’
‘Not necessarily,’ Clement said, as always willing to play devil’s advocate. ‘He could have arranged to meet someone, but then they left, and someone else showed up. Somebody who was, maybe, keeping an eye on him, followed him at a distance, and then took the opportunity of the loneliness here to get rid of him.’
Trudy thought about that for a moment or two, then wrinkled her nose. ‘A bit far-fetched, isn’t it?’
Clement smiled. ‘Yes. But you shouldn’t shut off any avenue completely, no matter how far-fetched. Best to just keep it in mind, rather than get fixated on any one idea. Thinking you know what happened, when you really don’t, can get you into all sorts of trouble. As of right now, for instance, it seems to me more likely than not that the boy was murdered. But if I become too convinced of that, I might miss clues or dismiss witness testimonies that point towards suicide simply because I’ve become biased without realising it.’
‘OK, I’ll remember that,’ Trudy promised – and meant it. Working with Dr Ryder meant she was learning more than she ever had, even during her police training. ‘Well, we’d better go inside then,’ she added, a shade reluctantly. Although she was delighted to be working with her mentor again, and taking a break from taking burglary reports and passing lists of stolen goods around the pawn shops, she had to admit to feeling unhappy about the barn.
It was so quiet here. Even the skylarks had stopped singing now.
Clement, perhaps sensing her unease, hid a smile and brandished his raffish hazel stick. ‘After you!’
Trudy set off determinedly to the barn doors, which were standing slightly ajar. She thought the officer who’d cordoned off the area probably hadn’t been able to keep the doors shut. They looked warped and uncooperative. As she approached them, she glanced at the dried-mud entrance, and saw the arches cut into the ground. ‘The barn was regularly in use,’ she nodded at the tell-tale scrapings in the earth. ‘You can see where the doors opening and shutting cut a mark into the mud.’
‘It’s a working farm and a working barn,’ Clement agreed. ‘Doesn’t really help us much, does it?’
Trudy, running out of even the tiniest excuse to put off the inevitable, walked forward. Pulling one large door a little further open, she made enough room for them both to be able to slip inside, and took her first, long look at where David Finch had died.
The first thing that struck her was the musty scent and the delightful dancing motion of the dust-motes lingering in the air. Here, dried straw and the more sweet-smelling scent of dried hay competed with an even heavier musk. She knew the farm was a mixture of arable and animal, and she wondered if, at some point, potatoes had been stored here.
Right now, the back half of the barn was piled with the remnants of straw bales. A couple of threshing machines had been deposited along one long corrugated iron wall. Bags of what she presumed were fertiliser or weed killer were stacked like colourful large bricks just inside the entrance. Running along under the arched roofline were a series of rough-hewn wooden rafters. The main one, running more or less centrally, still had a length of rope left dangling from it.
‘After they cut him loose, they left most of the rope in situ I see,’ Clement said, going to stand under it and peering up. ‘From the police report I read, there was a lot of old rope lying around, and they’re pretty sure he – or someone – simply helped themselves to it. It wasn’t new or bought specifically for the purpose or anything like that.’
So that was one possible lead up the spout, Trudy thought wryly. After one quick look at the ominously dangling rope, she turned around to explore further. There were odd-looking implements
