A Nice Place to Die (9 page)

George even told Bert the girl's name: Jess Miller. She came from a bad family, he said; her brother had a motorbike and he was one of the worst of the thugs who caused so much trouble in the village, it would be no surprise to anyone if he'd been in jail. Word had it, too, that he had something to do with the Reverend Baker's murder.

Bert shook his head in disbelief. He protested to George that Mark was a good boy; he wouldn't be interested in going with a cheap girl like that. Why would he? But then, Bert asked himself, where is he now?

‘There's not so many young girls in the village to catch his eye,' George said. ‘It's not like it was in our day. So many of the young'uns have moved away. Nothing for them round here these days, Bert.'

After George left him, Bert phoned the rugby club. He asked for Mark. The secretary went to look for him but then he came back and said Mark hadn't been with the lads after the match, and he hadn't come in the bar for a drink.

Bert asked himself, what could he possibly be doing out at this time of night when anyone who worked around farming would have to get up early in the morning?

Bert felt depressed and scared. He didn't know what to say to the boy, or even how to start a conversation with him. Mark's mother should be here, this was her business. Joyce should have brought the boy up better, she should be at home looking after him instead of spending her evenings out wasting her time with a gaggle of boring middle-aged women frittering away a few hours on rubbish. This business with Mark was her fault, and now the whole future of the farm, the traditional Pearson way of life, was at risk. Bert thought, I wish she'd come home. I wish she'd come home and tell me what to say to him, she'd know what to say, how to explain to Mark why he must never see this girl of his again. I wish she was here instead of me.

Bert was afraid. He was afraid that when confronted, Mark would walk away from him and go to this girl and never come back. He was afraid that he could lose his son because he hadn't got the words to explain. He couldn't explain to himself, he simply knew by instinct that the incomers were his enemies, people who were out to destroy a rural way of life they could never be part of. Even if they tried to fit in, they couldn't. They used the country like some kind of theme park to enjoy, but they didn't understand that their being there at all destroyed what they claimed a right to share. They didn't even know what they were doing.

Bert knew he was in danger of becoming maudlin. It used to take a few drinks to make him like that, but now it just happened. It seemed to be all he could do these days when he faced something that demanded action.

He was about to give up on tackling Mark and go to bed when he heard the boy come in. Bert could smell him as soon as he opened the back door, reeking of the smell of the girl's cheap scent. He wanted to hit his son. He felt bereft, knowing he was old and it didn't matter what he said. He'd lost the boy already, he was losing his way of life; the farm would be lost. He'd already lost Joyce. There was no point in going through the motions with Mark. He found himself weeping.

‘What are you doing up, Dad?' Mark asked. Bert could tell the lad had expected him to be in bed and, seeing his father's self-pitying tears, thought he was having one of his bad turns.

Bert ignored Mark's question. He wanted to say that a son of his should smell of good wholesome beer on a Saturday night, he should be ashamed to come home reeking of a tart. But of course he couldn't say that. He said nothing.

‘Dad, what's up?' Mark sounded concerned now.

Bert shook his head. ‘Nothing,' he said, ‘nothing's up. I hear you had a good game today, son.'

‘You should've seen the second try,' Mark said. ‘That was really something.'

Bert heaved himself out of the chair. He was afraid that if he didn't get out of the room he might do something stupid like pleading.

‘Dad?' Mark was puzzled.

‘Mum'll be back soon,' Bert said. He didn't know why he said that.

There was an awkward silence.

Why can't I ask him about the girl? Bert thought. He said, ‘I'm off to bed.'

‘Goodnight, Dad,' Mark said.

Bert had one more try at talking to the boy.

‘Tomorrow we'd better start on the fences along the lane,' he said. ‘We've got to do something to stop that scum from the housing estate getting in and scaring the stock.' He could hear his voice shaking with the emotion he couldn't express. He hoped Mark didn't notice.

Mark was surprised. It was years since Bert had talked about the farm like this. He thought, something's happened. What can have happened?

But he was tired; it was too much trouble to question his Dad. ‘Sure,' he said. ‘Goodnight.'

In bed, Bert lay on his back listening to the sounds of the old house settling in the dark. He heard Mark go to his room. It was a windy night. Then came a sharp shower of rain, driven against the windowpane, drowning all other sounds. Shortly after that had passed, Joyce came in. Her efforts to be quiet were ridiculously noisy.

For some reason, she did not go to the spare room. She came into his bedroom as though she still belonged there.

Bert turned over as though in his sleep.

‘Bert,' she whispered. ‘Are you awake, Bert?'

He did not speak.

She went away.

He wondered, has she heard something too? Has one of those women told her about this girl of Mark's?

In the morning he was up early as usual, creeping out of bed and dressing as quietly as he could so as not to disturb anyone. Mark wouldn't get up to start the milking for another hour or so. Mark would deal with the stock, too; he was used enough now to his father not leaving the house to help in the mornings.

It would be another two hours or more before it began to get light. Bert listened to the cattle stirring in the barton and the soft sound of their breathing in the dark shed. He could smell their breath, too, sweet with the scent of hay.

He would have liked to linger a while in the darkness close to the peaceful beasts. But there was no time to waste. For once he had a sense of purpose and he was not going to be deflected.

Bert took the pickup and drove down to the village. He couldn't do this from the house. He didn't want anyone to know what he was going to do.

He parked on the edge of the village green, where there was a telephone box outside the post office. He did not get out of the pickup at once, but sat looking at the outline of the familiar stone buildings which had always been part of the fabric of his life. For several minutes he was puzzled that he could see so clearly at that time of the morning. Clearly, but as though looking down into the depths of water and seeing the world reflected there.

Of course, it was the colourless light of the full moon shining on a frosted scene. On the Green, the Christmas tree sparkled in this white light, its dark branches glittering with real ice. He thought, it looks as though it's taken root this year, as though it's part of the scenery.

The dancing coloured lights on the tree were turned off. The season of goodwill, he thought. What kind of goodwill survived in the village now? He remembered the carol concerts his mother had taken him to when he was a kid, how they'd done the rounds of the village houses singing on the doorsteps. The old women had come out to greet them with their plates of hot mince pies and a glass of home-made wine or sloe gin to keep out the cold.

That was a long time ago; probably people stayed at home and watched television these days.

I never took Mark carol-singing, he thought, I should have taken him like my mum took me. I wonder if he ever went with Joyce. Probably not, she was too busy.

He asked himself, is this a good idea? Should I do it? And then he thought of Mark and the girl from Catcombe Mead and he knew that he had to do it, even though he had nothing to go on except fear and the desire to believe that the Millers had to be got rid of.

That lad has caused a lot of grief round here, Bert told himself, and it's time someone put a stop to it. Once the police start looking, they're bound to find something to use against him.

He got out of the pickup and walked slowly across the deserted patch of crisp grass to the telephone box. There were empty beer cans and broken bottles on the plinth of the War Memorial, and he began to hurry, eager to get on with what he was about to do. It was still early and there was no one about to see him. He had the telephone number he needed written down on a piece of paper in his pocket.

He dialled the number of the constabulary headquarters in the county town, Haverton. The police station in Old Catcombe had closed more than five years before.

‘I've information,' he said.

Bert could imagine the bored young cop reluctant to answer the phone at all so close to the end of his night shift.

‘Name and address?' the policeman asked, plainly wanting to be rid of the caller.

Bert ignored the question. ‘It's about a murder you're looking into,' he said, ‘the vicar from Old Catcombe who was beaten to death on the new housing estate. I've a name for you, the one that did it. You get someone out to Catcombe Mead to question a kid with a motorbike, name of Miller. He's the one you want.'

He put the phone down.

Let those Miller scum prove it wasn't their lad if they can, Bert told himself, I don't care if he did it or not, that's the type as would do a thing like that. Mark's a decent boy. I'd like to see the cheap whore as can keep a hold on my son Mark when she's next best thing to a murderer.

ELEVEN

D
etective Chief Inspector Rachel Moody found the note about an anonymous tip-off fingering the murderer of Tim Baker on her desk when she got to work in the morning. The constable on the night desk had left it there before he went home at the end of his shift. He hadn't dared ignore the anonymous tip-off in case it was important, but he was in a hurry to go home, he didn't want to get involved. He knew that there wouldn't be anyone in CID for an hour or so to follow up the information. Best leave it to them. The vicar's murder was an ongoing case, a few hours wouldn't make any difference.

So he'd written ‘Re: Vicar's murder in Forester Close, Catcombe Mead. Man who wouldn't give name says to question youth with motorcycle called Miller. Electoral roll has an Alan Miller at Two Forester Close. Son Kevin on file. Cautions for misdemeanours including theft, drunk and disorderly, and ABH.'

The constable had done the routine checks quickly, not wishing to appear unwilling. There, he thought, at least CID can give me credit for doing the preliminaries for them.

The anonymous tip-off came as no surprise to Rachel Moody. She and Sergeant Reid had made their door-to-door inquiries and questioned anyone who might have seen anything, but no one had anything to add to the bald facts. It was a scenario which often triggered tip-offs like this from members of the public afraid to be identified. Maybe whoever left this message thought they were helping police inquiries, but it didn't really add much to what they already knew or suspected. What Rachel Moody needed was concrete evidence, preferably a witness.

There had only been one suspect, as far as the police investigation was concerned: Kevin Miller. Among others, perhaps, but neither the DCI nor Jack Reid had any doubt that it was Kevin Miller who had actually killed the young vicar.

This anonymous call was proof that the police were not alone in suspecting Kevin. But, Rachel Moody told herself, it's not evidence, it doesn't take us anywhere.

Even so this tip-off was at least an excuse for a new lead to revitalize the investigation. Was it coincidence that it was Donna Miller, mother of Kevin, who had called the ambulance? Had she seen her son attack the vicar? The DCI remembered the woman's face afterwards, a frightened fat woman's face where fear was mixed with a kind of cowed defiance.

When Jack gets in, Rachel thought, it could be worth another try at talking to the Millers, and Donna in particular.

But for the moment Rachel Moody was tempted to push the constable's note under a pile of report forms she should already have filled in. She was frustrated by the lack of progress in her investigation into Tim Baker's murder and it seemed to her that the anonymous tip-off would be another dead end. Already the Chief Super was showing signs of impatience at her failure to make an arrest. The way things are going, Rachel thought, the top priority at present is to keep the Superintendent sweet. Another unproductive interview with Kevin Miller isn't going to help.

She told herself that she would try to get round to the Millers later. First the mound of paperwork on her desk demanded attention. The boss had already mentioned that she was falling behind. And she was not at her best that morning. She had had to change her bedclothes twice because of night sweats, and then a programme on breakfast television about women's sufferings during the menopause had made her even more depressed about what she was facing.

Things were hard enough for women climbing the career ladder in the police force, why did Nature have to hit them with this particular handicap just at the moment they could least pretend it wasn't happening?

Then DCI Moody saw her boss walk into his office and slam the door. The Chief Superintendent, too, was plainly in a bad mood.

Moody knew the boss would be looking for her. He must have heard by now that late yesterday the case against a villain they'd been trying to nail for months had been dismissed in court when a witness changed his evidence. Looking for a scapegoat, the Superintendent was bound to blame her as the officer in charge of the case.

The anonymous tip-off about Kevin Miller would at least take her out of the office for a few hours. She'd be best off out of the building.