Ann Cleeves - Murder in My Backyard

“No,” Ramsay said absent-mindedly. “It’s not the sort of place you’d come across by chance. But Charlie Elliot turned up here, I wonder why? We’ll have to find out if he was friendly with the Greys.” He remembered the noise made by the farm dogs when he had disturbed them. It was impossible to think that a noisy motorbike could have gone up the track without the Greys being aware of it. It would be important to check if there was another way onto the hill.

“He can’t have brought all that stuff with him when he first came,” Hunter said. “He left the village in too much of a hurry. He must have gone back for it.”

“Perhaps,” Ramsay said. “ Or perhaps he had help. What do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Hunter said. “Not yet. But your Mary Raven can’t have killed Mrs. Parry. She was at that party in Newcastle by midnight on Saturday night.”

“But she could have killed Charlie,” Ramsay said, almost to himself. “He saw her in the churchyard.”

Hunter did not reply and hardly seemed to be listening. He was eager to get down to practicalities, to see the blood, to discover if the scene of crime team had found anything to work on. Ideas always made him impatient. Why was Ramsay standing there, rambling away to himself, when there was so much to do?

The inspector seemed suddenly to come to a decision.

“Look,” he said. “ You look after things here. I want to talk to the Greys. There’s something odd going on there. I’ll send Grey back to fetch you later.”

Hunter watched the Land Rover move over the hill and shook his head.

Promoted beyond his competence, he thought again, and turned with relish to the body in the barn.

Ramsay stood on the storm porch at Grey’s Farm and knocked on the door. He could see Robert Grey in the tractor shed, bent over the engine, but although the farmer must have seen the return of the Land Rover, he made no move to come into the house. Ramsay thought his feet were wet enough and refused to cross the muddy yard to fetch the man. The door was opened by the woman who had come into the yard when he had strayed into the drive by mistake. She was tall, attractive, rather grave. Her dark hair had a streak of grey along the centre parting. Behind her he saw a wide hall with uneven flags on the floor where eggs were stacked in trays.

“Yes?” she said, imperious, ready to send him away though she must have guessed who he was.

“I’m Inspector Ramsay,” he said. “Northumbria police. I’ll need to speak to you and your husband.”

“We’ll not be able to help you,” she said.

“A man was murdered on your land,” he said. “You can see it’s important that I talk to you.”

She opened the door wider to let him into the hall, then stood outside and called to her husband.

“Robert. Come here, please. The policeman wants to speak to you.”

It was the voice of a woman speaking to a child or an employee, not to an equal. Ramsay wondered what sort of relationship they had. He presumed that the farm had been inherited from her family and thought she might have married Grey to do the work. The man walked to join them. He was shorter than she was, slightly bow-legged. At the door he stopped and took off his boots.

“We’ll go into the kitchen,” she said. “ It’s the only warm room in the house.”

She must have been in the middle of baking. There were bowls and trays on the table and the smell of cooking in the air. On one chair there was a pile of unironed clothes, but the woman did not apologise for the mess.

“You’d better sit down,” she said.

“I won’t disturb you for long,” Ramsay said.

“Well,” she said. “You’ve done that already.”

He ignored her and turned to Grey.

“What time did you find the body?” he asked.

In his wife’s presence the man seemed even more awkward and inarticulate than he had before. It was not, Ramsay thought, that he was stupid. He had difficulty expressing himself as accurately as he wanted and that frustrated him.

“I don’t know,” Grey said. “ Not exactly. I went up the hill to see how much feed was left. In case there’s another cold spell. Quarter to twelve perhaps. It must have been about midday when I met you.”

“Yes,” Ramsay said. “When was the last time you went to the barn?”

Grey shrugged. “About a week ago,” he said. He turned to his wife. “That would be right, wouldn’t it, Celia? It was about a week ago.”

“I can’t remember,” she said indifferently.

“You’ve not been up there since Charlie went missing?”

“No,” Grey said. “Certainly not since then.”

“Was Charlie Elliot a good friend of yours?”

“Not exactly a friend. I’d met him in the Castle, of course. He bought me a few drinks.”

“Did he know you well enough to ask you a favour?”

“I don’t understand,” Grey said. “What sort of favour?”

“Did he ask you if he could camp out in your barn?”

“Of course not,” Grey said. “I wouldn’t have allowed that. He was wanted for murder.”

“What were you doing on Monday evening?”

“I was in the Castle,” Grey said. “Having a few drinks.”

“Where were you, Mrs. Grey?”

“I was here,” she said.

“Did you hear anything unusual?” he asked. She shook her head.

“If Charlie Elliot had come through your farmyard you would surely have heard,” he said.

“Not necessarily,” she said.

“But what about the dogs? Wouldn’t a stranger coming into the yard have disturbed them?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “I don’t know. Perhaps I was busy and didn’t hear them. Or perhaps Charlie got onto the hill through the fields without coming past the house.”

“Oh,” Ramsay said. “He certainly came past the house. I stopped the Land Rover on the way down and there’s a motorcycle track quite clear in the mud.”

She said nothing.

Ramsay turned again to Robert Grey. “Where were you on Saturday night?” he asked. “ On the evening of Mrs. Parry’s death.”

But before Grey could reply, Celia interrupted.

“He wasn’t here,” she said. “His mother lives in Penrith and she’s been ill for a while. He went to the hospital to visit her. You can phone his sister if you like. She’ll confirm it.”

“And where were you, Mrs. Grey?”

“I was here,” she said, then added bitterly, “I’m always here.”

She got up to take scones out of the oven and to shake them onto a wire cooling tray.

“How well did you know Mrs. Parry?” Ramsay asked. The question was directed at them both, but again Celia answered.

“Quite well,” Celia said. “ We were both on the committee of the WI. She was a good woman. I liked her.”

“Everyone seems to have liked her,” Ramsay said, “but she was stabbed to death. Have you any idea why?”

For the first time Celia Grey’s composure seemed shaken. “ No,” she said. “ Of course not. Unless it had anything to do with the development on Tower meadow.”

“Have you never considered any of your land for building, Mr. Grey?”

And this time Grey did answer, stammering in his attempt to get the words out.

“I’d sell nothing to that bastard Henshaw,” he said. “Nothing.” He got to his feet. “ Look, I’m busy. I’ve a lot to do. I’ll be in the shed if you want me.”

When Grey left the room, Celia turned back to the oven. She lifted a fruitcake onto the table and put a skewer into the centre, then replaced it at the bottom of the oven. Ramsay might not have been there.

“I wanted to talk to your son,” he said, “but I expect he’s still at school.”