Peter Helton - Rainstone Fall

‘Still on two wheels, then?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I’m beginning to get a taste for it. But it’s not always practical.’ I blew on my superheated tea. ‘But then neither is any of this stuff.’

‘No, but it nourishes the soul.’

I had to agree. Something went wrong with car design after the 1960s. Too many buttons, for a start. I looked about me. ‘Talking of poor souls, is my DS still around?’

‘Most of it went for scrap, along with other useless crap I had hanging around.’

‘Do I owe you?’

‘I made a few pennies on engine bits, so no, we’re quits.’

‘That’s good, because I’ve a favour to ask.’

‘You surprise me.’

‘Do you remember, a few years ago, you went on this trip down some wild Welsh river in a snazzy motorized dinghy with your then girlfriend?’

‘I haven’t got Alzheimer’s yet,’ he bristled.

‘And she fell out the boat and it took you half an hour to notice and when you finally went back to pull her out she dumped you?’

‘Your point being?’

‘Still got the boat?’

He scratched his scarred scalp with oil-blackened nails. ‘Now there’s a good question. I know where I’ve got the engine — never mislaid an engine yet — but the inflatable. . It’ll be somewhere, sure, but it might have,’ he made a sweeping gesture at the farmhouse and the endless outbuildings, ‘some stuff on top of it, if you know what I mean.’

I knew exactly what he meant, since I used the same filing system at Mill House.

‘What you want it for, messing about on the river? Just remember what happened with Sally, is all I say.’

‘She did marry you in the end.’

He sniffed. ‘Yeah, but she still mentions it.’

‘I need it for a job. A tricky one.’

‘I won’t ask then. When d’you want it for?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘There’s a surprise. I’m busy now, but I’ll see what I can do later,’ he promised.

Leaving the matter in Jake’s oil-stained hands I rode back towards Bath. The rain had returned in the shape of a depressing drizzle that rendered me half blind trying to peer through the goggles and slowly soaking me, making me seriously consider such stylistic horrors as rainproof trousers. Before I could skid too far down that dangerous road to sartorial oblivion a sudden impulse made me go past my turn-off for home and rumble on through the misty afternoon to the Lam Valley.

Needham hadn’t bothered pulling me in again because, as he had hinted when he came to inspect my pantry, the latest thinking was that just possibly I might have nothing to do with the killing and it had all been some weird coincidence that Albert Barrington had exhaled his soul in the back of my car. But even at my age I still had some problems believing in a random universe where all was coincidence and meaning a matter of personal choice. I sensed method behind all this. Unfortunately it wasn’t my own. At the moment my own style of detection resembled blind man’s buff more than any methodical investigation, but then I was just a little distracted by other events. I didn’t believe in the joyrider theory of how the DS had landed in Lam Valley. Whoever had nicked my car that night hadn’t gone very far in it. It was perhaps less than ten minutes’ careful drive from Larkhall to Blackfield’s meadow, or a five-minute drive at the kind of speed that makes you crash through a five-bar gate and carry on another forty yards up the hill. Not much joy, anyway. Someone had found my keys where I had dropped them that night in my inebriated state or, much more likely, had swiped them off the table at the Rosie while I was away from it, checking out Mr Lane’s reading material.

There was now no evidence left that my DS and the late Mr Barrington had ever met in the dank little meadow. Even the smashed five bar gate had been completely cleared away and replaced with a lot of nothingness. As I came up to it I slowed and stopped. The sudden fall in exhaust noise allowed me to catch a similar noise behind me, like an unwholesome echo. I looked swiftly around and just caught the top of a motorcycle helmet disappear over the rise as someone frantically turned their bike around and hared back in the direction from which I’d come. I heard the bike’s engine accelerate away fast. If I didn’t catch him last time then I wouldn’t catch him this time. The memory of missing Jack Fryer’s enormous tractor by a couple of inches as I screamed round the bend was still fresh enough in my mind not to need refreshing.

The Norton’s noise made a handful of sheep bolt from where they’d been grazing near the lane as I grabbed a handful of throttle and accelerated away. I crossed by the little bridge and turned towards Spring Farm. This time I found the gates closed but I could see light behind the kitchen window. I leaned the bike against the fence and opened the gate. Unfortunately, between me and the front door of the farmhouse stood a large, dark, wet dog who seemed to be as mesmerized by my every move as I was by his. Where had he suddenly come from? He was huge and he sniffed in my direction. Why did people always let monsters like this run around, free to eat harmless visitors? And why had I yet to see a farm with a doorbell? And why was I so scared of dogs? I made a tentative step forward. The dog barked and ran straight at me. His rank smell travelled before him. I stopped and stood, petrified, while the huge wet thing sniffed my boots, my legs, then stuck his snout firmly into my crutch. What was all that doggy sniffing supposed to be for anyway? What if he decided he didn’t like the smell of me? What if he decided he liked it lots and lots?

A face appeared briefly at the window. A few moments later the door opened and Brian, the farm worker, filled the frame. ‘What are you doing standing in the middle of the yard?’ There was genuine puzzlement in his voice.

I didn’t take my eyes off the dog. ‘I’ve come to have a word with the farmer. Mr Fryer.’

‘Yeah, I know that’s his name, no need to remind me. You’d better come in then.’ He stepped aside to let Fryer squeeze out of the low door.

‘What is it, Brian?’

‘It’s that pri vate in ves ti ga tor again.’ I had never noticed my job had that many syllables before.

‘So it is,’ he confirmed. ‘What are you doing here again?’

‘I’d. . just like a quick word, that’s all.’

‘Well, I don’t really mind the rain but wouldn’t you feel more comfortable inside?’ he asked. By now he must have had little doubt as to what had rooted me to the spot but he made me spell it out for him.

‘You couldn’t call off your dog first, could you?’

‘Call him off? Just push him away, the soft bastard’s not going to bite you, he’s the most useless guard dog on the planet. I’d be better off with one of my chickens patrolling the place.’

‘What’s his name?’ Being on sniffing terms I thought we ought to be introduced.

‘Grot. Though I’m not sure he knows it.’ He disappeared inside, followed by the farmhand. I walked forward, closely shadowed by the dog who did in fact wag his tail now and tried to jump up at me. ‘Make sure the dog stays outside!’ Fryer called.

‘Sorry, Grot,’ I apologized as I squeezed the door shut behind me.

The kitchen, which I’d last seen in the grip of form-filling depression, had normalized to the point where the floor was no longer covered in dirty pots and pans and the big table in the centre was merely cluttered with mugs, newspapers and a crate of gnarled quinces exuding the most delectable perfume. Fryer himself looked less dishevelled and had shaved sometime during the last twenty-four hours. Brian stood by the sink and Fryer on the other side of the table. Both held chipped mugs and began sipping what looked and smelled suspiciously like instant soup. No wholesome stews bubbling on the Aga in this household. No one offered me a mug, so I couldn’t tell them just how revolting I found the stuff. And how much I’d appreciate some.