Stephen Booth - Dying to Sin

‘East European?’

‘Probably. I couldn’t be sure. A few of those builders came in here on Thursday, chattering away to each other. He sounded like them.’

‘Can you describe him? Age? Height? How was he dressed?’

‘Hold on, that’s too many questions all at once. I suppose he’d be about twenty-five or twenty-six, not above average height. Oh, and I do remember he was wearing a sort of black padded coat. You know, you see asylum seekers wearing them when they get pulled off the EuroStar.’

‘And you didn’t find anything else out about him?’ asked Cooper, sure that the landlord must have tried.

Dain wiped an imaginary spill off the bar counter with his cloth. ‘Close-mouthed, he was. I’d go so far as to say ignorant. I can’t do with folk like that, who come in here and don’t know how to make conversation. They take offence if you ask them an innocent question or two.’

‘Funny, that,’ said Cooper.

‘Bloody man. He never mentioned to me that his mother was still alive,’ said Fry when Cooper reported on his visit to the Dog Inn.

‘He probably thought she wouldn’t want to talk to you.’

‘Well, why — ? Oh, never mind. It sounds as though you did well, Ben.’

‘Thanks,’ said Cooper, knowing that he hadn’t yet learned how to keep the note of surprise out of his voice on the rare occasion that she said something complimentary to him. ‘It’s a shame Mrs Dain didn’t have any photographs she could show me. I might try to make time to call at the heritage centre and see what they’ve got.’

‘Put it on your list,’ said Fry.

‘What’s next, then?’

Fry smiled. ‘I think I’d like to have a chat with your PC Palfreyman.’

‘Ex-PC.’

‘Whatever. Do you fancy a trip out?’

‘He’ll be absolutely delighted to see us,’ said Cooper.

David Palfreyman emerged from his kitchen to answer the door. Although he was in the house, he was still wearing his floppy hat. When a man wore a hat all the time, it usually meant that he was completely bald. But Cooper knew that Palfreyman still had some hair. Perhaps it was all those years of wearing a helmet that made his head feel naked.

‘Do you live on your own, Mr Palfreyman?’ said Cooper. ‘I never thought to ask you last time.’

‘I’m divorced. You know what it’s like — they can only stand the job for so long.’

‘Of course. It happens a lot.’

Cooper refrained from saying that he thought what police officers’ partners couldn’t stand wasn’t the job, it was coming second to the job. If he ever got married himself, he’d make sure it didn’t happen. Not to the point of divorce, anyway.

‘So no woman in the house, then?’

Palfreyman looked at Fry. ‘Not until now.’

When they were seated in the lounge, Fry stepped in and took over the conversation.

‘Mr Palfreyman, DC Cooper tells me you know pretty much everything and everyone in Rakedale.’

The ex-bobby’s eyes flickered sideways to Cooper. ‘Yes, pretty much. What do you want to know?’

‘We need to know everything about the Sutton brothers at Pity Wood Farm,’ said Fry.

‘Of course you do. I’ve watched the news and read the papers. Two unidentified bodies now, isn’t it? Unless there have been more since the last news bulletin …?’ He raised an enquiring eyebrow at Fry. ‘But, of course, you came here to get information, not to provide it.’

‘You must have visited Pity Wood Farm occasionally when you were on the force.’

‘Yes, a few times. Courtesy calls, that’s all. I don’t suppose you do that any more? No, I thought not. You wait until a crime has been reported before you meet the law-abiding public. And then it’s already too late to form a proper relationship.’

‘We didn’t come here for a critique of modern policing methods,’ said Fry.

Palfreyman sighed. ‘My views are of no interest to you. I understand, Sergeant. I’m just an irrelevant old dinosaur. I can’t possibly know anything about policing now that I’m retired.’

‘Pity Wood Farm …?’ said Fry.

‘I was never called to an incident there. I never heard of any other officers attending an incident either. There were certainly no missing persons reports during my time. None made from the farm, none that led to enquiries at the farm. But you must know that; you’ll have checked.’

‘Of course. But during your courtesy visits, did you meet any of the itinerant workers employed there? Did you have any reason to wonder what had happened to any of them?’

‘You’re presumably thinking of the women? You don’t say so, but it’s obvious. Your theory is that one of the workers was killed during her employment there and buried on the farm. No — two of them?’ Palfreyman’s eyes twinkled. ‘Interesting theory. Two murders, both of which went undetected. And three years apart, if the media have it right.’

‘Approximately,’ said Fry, through audibly gritted teeth.

‘Careful, Sergeant, you’re almost revealing information. Not quite, but it was confirmation.’

Cooper could sense that Fry was likely to stop playing the game soon. She wasn’t long on patience, and Palfreyman was pushing her close to the limit. The ex-bobby wouldn’t like it if he saw her other side.

‘I can’t remember whether you asked me how long ago I retired,’ he said, in a more conciliatory tone. Perhaps he, too, was able to recognize that look in Fry’s eye. ‘I’ll tell you anyway — I hit my thirty just over four years ago. Celebrations all round, kind words from the chief, a bunch of the lads getting pissed at the pub. And then I was out of the door, with my pension in my pocket. And no one ever thought of Dave Palfreyman again. I was history as soon as I handed in my warrant card.’

‘Your point is …?’

‘I wasn’t in the job when your murders happened, Sergeant. If they were murders. Do you have direct evidence?’

‘You’re not my DI,’ said Fry.

‘No.’

‘Well, stop talking to me as if you are.’

Palfreyman inclined his head. ‘I apologize. Sergeant.’

An uneasy silence developed. Cooper shifted uncomfortably in his chair, desperately wanting to say something to break the silence, but afraid of wrecking Fry’s strategy. Presuming she had a strategy. But she could keep silent as long as she needed to, and it was Palfreyman who broke the mood.

‘You went to see the Brindleys over at Shaw Farm yesterday, didn’t you?’ he said.

‘Very observant. You know them?’

Palfreyman nodded. ‘Yes, I know them. Alex and Jo. They have two teenage kids, Chrissie and Evan. The parents are kind of snobbish, academically speaking.’

‘They’re a bit fussy who their children mix with?’

‘Fussy? Any kid who wants to visit their house has to take an entrance exam. Stand-offish, the Brindleys are. Stuck up. You probably noticed.’

Fry didn’t smile. ‘You seem to know a lot more about them than they do about you.’

Palfreyman shrugged. ‘That’s the way it is. That’s the way I like it, if the truth be known.’

‘They’re not local people, are they? I mean, they haven’t been in Rakedale very long?’

‘I know what you mean.’ Palfreyman eased himself into his armchair, like an old dog settled into its basket. ‘Well, they’ve lived in the village since they were married. And the oldest kid, Evan, is eighteen. So they must have been here twenty years or so. Not very long, as Rakedale goes.’

‘Twenty years?’

‘As a family, that is.’

He looked at her expectantly, inviting her to ask the next question. No, that wasn’t what she was getting from his expression. He was challenging her. Challenging her to ask the right questions, if she wanted the answers.