Stephen Booth - Dying to Sin

They were shown into a lounge by the care assistant, whose name badge said she was called Elaine. Mr Sutton had either been put in there on his own, or the other residents had been moved out somewhere else when they arrived. Whichever it was, they found the old man in splendid isolation, perched in one of those big chairs that only old people ever sat in. There were other, similar chairs ranged round the walls of the room, and a big television set stood in the corner, mercifully switched off a moment before. Many interviews conducted in people’s own homes resulted in conversations shouted over the noise of the telly. It was often a temptation to take someone down to the station just for the sake of being able to hear what they were saying.

‘Mr Sutton? I’m Detective Inspector Hitchens, and this is Detective Constable Cooper. From Edendale CID.’

Hitchens offered a view of his warrant card, as procedure recommended. But Sutton held out his hand instead to greet his visitors, and Hitchens was obliged to shake it. Cooper did the same, grasping a hand with paper-thin skin that trembled slightly in his palm. The old man smelled of soap, and his clothes were clean and neat, though the cardigan he was wearing no longer fit him so well as it once might have.

They sat on chairs either side of him, and Hitchens opened the conversation.

‘Mr Sutton, you are the former owner of Pity Wood Farm at Rakedale. Is that right?’

‘Aye. That’s where I live. Pity Wood.’

Hitchens shook his head. ‘That’s where you used to live. You sold the farm, didn’t you?’

‘I did. You’re right. I don’t remember who bought it.’

‘We know who bought it, Mr Sutton.’

‘Who was it? I can’t remember their name.’

‘Mr Goodwin, from Manchester.’

‘I don’t know him. It was all done through the estate agents and solicitors. You’ll have to ask them where he is.’

‘No, we want to ask you about Pity Wood Farm.’

‘Pity Wood, that’s where I live.’

‘You don’t live there any more. Don’t you remember?’

Sutton laughed — a dry, crackly laugh, with little humour in it, as if the DI was tormenting him with a feather in a sensitive spot.

‘I remember some things quite well. But I don’t recall this feller that bought the farm. What did you say his name was?’

‘Goodwin.’

‘I don’t know him.’

‘No sir — ’

The old man turned away from Hitchens and studied Cooper instead, his eyes glinting. ‘You’ll come to see me again, won’t you? I don’t get many visitors.’

Hitchens became impatient then, and made the mistake of putting his hand on Sutton’s sleeve to get his attention. The old man drew his arm away abruptly and stared at Hitchens in indignation.

‘Just a minute, young man. Take your hands off me, or I’ll get them to send for the police.’

‘Mr Sutton. We have to ask you some questions, I’m afraid, sir. There have been human remains found at Pity Wood this morning. The dead body of a woman. We need to know how this person ended up buried on your farm.’

‘Questions? Well, you can only try. Open the barn door, and you might find a cow.’

Hitchens opened his mouth, but shut it again quickly, as if he’d just found the cow and didn’t want it to escape.

They left Mr Sutton sitting in the lounge on his own, and found the care assistant who’d let them in to The Oaks.

‘I’m sorry if you didn’t have much luck, Inspector,’ she said. ‘Raymond has good days and bad days. You’d be surprised how much he can remember sometimes. His brain is still quite active. But other times, he gets a bit, well… confused, even distressed. It’s perfectly normal for his condition, but you can never quite tell what’s going to upset him. Memories, I suppose.’

‘If he has a good day, would it be possible to bring him out for a couple of hours?’ asked Hitchens. ‘We’d like him to come and see the farm.’

‘His old home? Oh, I’m sure Raymond would love that.’

‘I take it he’s physically fit enough?’

‘Oh, yes. He has no major health problems, considering his age. In fact, the doctor says Raymond is quite a tough old bird. He’ll probably still be around in ten years’ time, when all our other residents have gone. It must come from being a farmer, I suppose.’

‘And the wonderful care he gets here, I’m sure.’

‘Why, thank you, Inspector.’

Hitchens nodded, turning on his most charming smile. Cooper couldn’t help raising an eyebrow. Personally, he didn’t think Raymond Sutton would love a day out at Pity Wood Farm at all, but perhaps he was wrong about that, too.

‘Yes, if the weather is decent, we’ll put a wheelchair into the minibus and Colin will drive Raymond up to Rakedale to visit the farm. But you won’t tire him out, will you?’

‘Not at all. We’ll send him back as soon as he wants to come.’

‘Fine, Inspector. Can we give you a call when we think he’s ready?’

The DI produced his card and handed it over with a gesture almost like a small bow. Cooper felt like gagging. But then, he wasn’t the person the Hitchens charm was being aimed at.

‘Sir,’ said Cooper as they were leaving, ‘do you think Raymond Sutton knows who buried the body at the farm?’

‘Almost certainly.’

‘Could he be in danger? Might someone want to make sure that Mr Sutton doesn’t talk?’

‘They might. But how would they get to him in The Oaks? Their security is pretty good, and the staff know where every resident is twenty-four hours a day.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ said Cooper.

With a weary curse, Nikolai Dudzik tipped his yellow hard hat back from his eyes. ‘Look at these outbuildings. All the roof structures are rotten. Completely rotten. The whole lot will have to be stripped off, you know. We’re talking about a massive amount of new timber for the joists alone.’

Fry could see that Dudzik’s workmen had dug a network of trenches behind the barn for the new drainage and water supply. No pipes had gone in yet — they still lay in heaps at the edge of the field. But the trenches were half full of water, thanks to the rain that continued to fall intermittently on Pity Wood Farm. She could see that the clay must be non-porous. Further north, the limestone would let rain water through like a sieve. It was one of the few geological facts she’d learned since leaving Birmingham for the Peak District.

‘There must be some old drains over that way somewhere,’ said Dudzik, gesturing towards the tumble-down ruins of a cowshed. ‘We haven’t found them, and we’re not looking for them any more. God knows what state they’ll be in. They must be very, very old.’

Inside the outbuildings, someone had started chipping the old plaster off the walls. Layers of dust covered the floor, and the exposed stonework looked inexplicably damp.

‘If it was up to me, the whole thing would come down,’ said Dudzik. ‘Then we could start from scratch and do a proper job. But we have to retain the original features. Original features! Bits of old stone and rotten timbers. What’s the point? I ask you.’

Fry let him talk for a while longer. Then she thought of a question. ‘Why haven’t you dug up the old drains, did you say?’

Dudzik shrugged. ‘There’s no way of knowing where they are exactly. There are no records for these old places, no proper site maps, yes? And the drainage often goes off at odd angles, when it’s so old. It will be sections of clay pipe, you see — useless by now. Useless. Besides, there’s nothing in the new plans for that area. It’ll just be a bit of garden or a paddock, so what’s the point of us digging it up?’

‘And this area where Jamie Ward found the body — there wasn’t supposed to be a wall here at all?’