The Hanging Wood

CHAPTER SEVEN

Begin at the beginning. The first person to see was the father of Callum Hinds. Tactful handling was vital any time, but all the more so given his latest bereavement. She rang Lane End Farm to arrange an appointment; to progress the review in line with the ACC’s timescale, she couldn’t leave the grunt work to admin staff. Hinds’ wife Deirdre listened in silence as Hannah explained she was looking into Callum Hinds’ disappearance, not his sister’s death.

‘Routine, I suppose?’ she said at last. ‘That’s what the police always say on telly, isn’t it?’

She sounded numb. Shock, more than grief, Hannah supposed. Orla was not her own flesh and blood, but the discovery of her stepdaughter’s corpse buried in grain was enough to stun the sturdiest soul. When Hannah asked for a word with Mike Hinds, his wife said he was out in the fields, too far away to be summoned to the phone.

When Hannah expressed surprise, Deirdre Hinds’ patience frayed.

‘This is a working farm, Detective Chief Inspector. Life goes on, there is no choice. We have livestock to look after. This sunshine is too precious for Mike to waste after the rotten spring we had. Anyroad, he’s not the type of man to sit inside and feel sorry for himself.’

But she agreed that her husband would make himself available at the back end of the afternoon — ‘Might as well get it over with’ — and Hannah rang off before she had time for second thoughts.

Hannah was determined to lead the key interviews herself. One compensation of being shunted into cold case work — Lauren had sidelined her after a major prosecution turned sour — was the chance to work as a proper detective again, rather than sinking forever into the quicksand of management. Whenever the chance to escape bureaucracy and desk work came her way, she grabbed it. She was so much keener on meeting witnesses than targets.

Better not take Maggie, lest old antagonisms between Hinds and Mr Eyre complicated the discussion. She’d bring Greg Wharf along. Mike Hinds might be one of those old-fashioned blokes who didn’t take women police officers seriously. Pick one maverick to deal with another.

Her next call was to Kit Payne. She made it as far as his PA, who insisted he was in conference, and couldn’t be disturbed, but booked her in for the following day — ‘Only an hour, mind. He has an important meeting with a delegation from the Bulgarian Holiday Home Association.’

In between lunch and an interview for the force blog about the previous evening’s award ceremony, she tried ringing Daniel, but his phone was on voicemail. Oh well. At least she had a date with Mario Pinardi.

‘How could you do that to your own brother?’

Orla’s voice jangled in Aslan’s brain. He’d roamed the country lanes hour after hour, losing track of time. His shoes were pinching his toes. Tomorrow, he’d have blisters, but so what? Anything to put off the moment when he came face-to-face with Michael Hinds.

Of course, he should have been kinder to Orla, but now it was too late. He’d never done regrets, and now wasn’t a good time to start. Once she’d come back to his squalid bedsit, and he’d shocked her by offering to share a joint the moment they stepped through the door. She made it clear she wanted to talk, to reminisce about her childhood with Callum, and the days leading up to his disappearance. He was sure she’d dreamt that he was Callum, come back to find her — it was her very own fairy tale. She’d detected a resemblance, something in the shape of his head, and the way he walked, not to mention the almond colour of his eyes. The line between fantasy and reality was hard to draw.

It didn’t help that she was pissed. When she took off her headscarf, he saw her bald head for the first time. Her features were pretty, but the smooth scalp turned him off. He gave her a can of beer, while he had a smoke. When he dropped a few hints about his past, she didn’t seem to take it in. He’d assumed she would be happy, but instead she was bemused. They talked for a while, but when she sat herself down on the side of his bed and asked for a cuddle — for comfort, she said, that was all — he drew away. She must have seen the distaste in his eyes, for a tear trickled down her cheek. This infuriated him, and when he’d said something cruel, her face twisted in pain. She jumped up and ran off down the stairs. Of course, he didn’t follow.

What was it about women? The easier he found it to attract them, the sooner he wanted them out of his sight. His mother had doted on him, had given everything she could and asked him for nothing in return, but a heart attack had taken her away from him at a stupidly young age, while he was on board a ship in the Adriatic. At her funeral he’d wept, but no woman since had stirred his emotions.

A muck spreader thundered down the narrow lane towards him and he pressed against a hedge to allow it to pass. For a nanosecond, he understood the strange impulse that had caused Orla to take her own life. How easy to leap under the heavy wheels at the last moment, and put an end to everything. A cop-out, yes, but at least he’d be rid of his baggage for good. No more complications, no more crushed expectations.

How long had he dreamt of making his way back to Lane End Farm? Across three continents, and for as long as he could remember, yet now he saw the fields in the distance, he felt a chill that the sun’s warm rays could not dispel.

His nerve ends jangled, pins and needles pricked his fingertips. He patted the butterfly knife in his pocket, but for once it didn’t give him the warmth of reassurance. He wasn’t spoiling for a fight. But he was afraid.

DS Mario Pinardi was tall, dark and handsome. Unfortunately, as far as his female admirers in Cumbria Constabulary were concerned, he was also married, to a stunningly lovely lady, a fellow Scot of Italian descent. Hannah’s best friend, Terri, had met Mario at a Cumbria Constabulary charity dance years ago, and still asked after him, but she was wasting her time. Photographs of Alessandra Pinardi, along with young Roberto, Davide and Claudio, festooned the walls of Mario’s cubbyhole in the police station in Keswick. His family-man image might have been tedious if he were not such good company. Hannah liked him enough to push to one side the sneaking suspicion that he was in the same mould as Will Durston. Insufficiently driven to make a first-rate detective. She was prejudiced by her apprenticeship with Ben Kind. The job came before your private life, was Ben’s creed. Mind you, Ben had messed up his own private life, and hers was going down the pan as well. Mario was wiser than both of them.

‘Horrible way to go, drowning in grain,’ he said. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’

Hannah and Greg shook their heads, and he grinned. ‘Good decision, it’s out of a machine and tastes like weasel pee.’

‘Any words of wisdom from the pathologist?’

‘Orla cracked her head on the side of the tower on her way down. Nasty gash, the blow probably knocked her unconscious. Otherwise, she might have been able to climb back up.’

‘If she wanted to,’ Greg said.

‘True, but the deputy coroner is a softie. If she can find a way of turning this into an accident, rather than suicide, she will. Easier for the family to bear, especially the father. Bad enough to find your one remaining child lying dead in a heap of grain. Worse if you torment yourself over whether you could have done anything to persuade her not to jump.’

‘You’re sure she did jump?’

‘If anyone wanted to do away with her on a farm, there are plenty of easier murder methods. You couldn’t drag an unwilling victim all the way up to the top of a grain silo.’

‘Might someone have talked her into making the climb?’ Greg asked.

‘To take a look at the interesting grain? I don’t think so. She’d been boozing, there were empty cans on the passenger seat of her car. God knows what was in her mind, but she wanted to climb that tower. The only reasonable assumption is, she intended to jump.’

‘She grew up on the farm,’ Hannah said. ‘If she had suicidal thoughts, she’d know there was no guarantee that she’d die. The cavalry might have ridden to the rescue. In the shape of her father, or his labourers.’

‘If they saw her go up there, or heard her yelling for someone to drag her out. If not …’ Mario made a throat-slitting gesture.

‘Might have been a cry for help,’ Hannah said. ‘People weren’t taking her seriously. She wanted Callum’s case reopened, nobody was listening …’

Mario winced. ‘Do you really want to go there, Hannah? I heard about those calls she put in to you and your team. Let’s not encourage the IPCC to get excited, eh? When those guys go off on a wild goose chase, you never know how long it will last, or where it will lead. Keep it simple, that’s my recommendation.’

He meant to be supportive, but her stomach wrenched with frustration. If she’d wanted an easy life, she wouldn’t have joined the police in the first place.

‘Orla didn’t give us enough to enable us to take any action. She was unhappy, and she’d had too much to drink …’

Greg said, ‘You don’t haul yourself up a grain tower just to enjoy the view from the top.’

‘Her father says she and her brother used to love playing in the grain,’ Mario said. ‘Once the silo was built, he put it out of bounds. Maybe she was reliving childhood memories. The mind can play strange games.’

He said it as though he’d read the phrase in a book. Hard to imagine sensible, uxorious Mario allowing his own mind to play games. Yet his theory was persuasive, if obsessing over Callum meant Orla wanted to relive their shared past. ‘How is the father? You’d think he’d be prostrate, but when I rang the farm, he was out working as usual.’

‘That’s farmers for you,’ Mario said. ‘On duty twenty-four/seven; it’s not so much a job as a way of life. Doesn’t mean Hinds isn’t gutted. But he’d never show weakness. Strong man, very proud. We offered him a leaflet about bereavement counselling, and he ripped it up without a word.’

‘Didn’t he realise Orla had come to the farm?’

‘He says not, it came as a total surprise. And nobody seems to have seen her climb into the silo.’

‘Do we believe that?’

‘Lane End isn’t swarming with workers, like most dairy farms these days. Hinds has cut back on headcount to keep turning a profit. His labourers are Polish, and they were scattered far and wide over two hundred acres. Given the path she took from the rear of the farm to the silo, it might have been more surprising if somebody had spotted her.’

‘Unless they were looking out for her?’ Greg suggested.

‘Nobody seems to have had the faintest idea she meant to come to the farm. The pathologist thinks the time of death was not long after she dived into the grain. We’ll know more once the PM is completed.’

‘The gash on the head,’ Greg said. ‘Any chance it might have been inflicted by someone else?’

‘There are blood traces on the inside of the tower, where we believe she banged her head,’ Mario said. ‘Indications are that the impact was severe enough to knock her out, and when she came round, she was up to her waist in grain and unable to free herself. It would have been dark inside, and the noise would have prevented her from attracting attention. The next load probably buried her. The one after that would have been fatal.’

‘Open-and-shut case?’ Greg asked.

‘Trust me, she killed herself. That’s the reality of what happened; whether she changed her mind when she recovered consciousness is academic. We don’t need to overelaborate, it’s simple. Same as your cold case, I guess.’

‘We’ll see,’ Hannah said. ‘I want to ask Michael Hinds if he still thinks his brother killed his son.’

‘Better wear your body armour, then.’

‘You think so?’

‘I’m sure so. Orla tried to persuade him that Philip didn’t murder the boy, and their conversation turned into a furious row.’ He lowered his eyes, as if struggling to comprehend why some families could never be happy. ‘Pity — that was the last time she and her father ever spoke to each other.’

Until now, Aslan had always found it easy to take decisions. Go there, say this, pretend to do that. Perhaps the secret was that none of it seemed to matter. Once he’d arrived at the Lakes, decisions became harder to take. In the past he’d scoffed at ditherers, people who were afraid to act. But did they hesitate simply because they cared too much?

Outside Lane End Farm, he’d encountered a couple of labourers who had sneaked out for a crafty smoke. The men exchanged a few words in a foreign language, and wandered back into the farmyard. Maybe they thought he was an undercover snooper from the Border Agency, checking up on migrant workers. If only they knew his own visa was phoney, bearing a made-up name, and that his knees were knocking with apprehension.

So far he hadn’t caught sight of Mike Hinds. He knew what the man looked like, he’d memorised his appearance thanks to Orla. A sentimentalist, she’d kept dog-eared photographs of her parents as well as Callum, and she’d shown them to Aslan over a drink in a bar. For once, he hadn’t needed to fake interest.

No matter how many times he rehearsed what he might say when they came face-to-face, it never sounded right.

You don’t know me, but …

I know this will come as a shock …

Sorry to disturb you, but we need to talk …

Please don’t slam the door in my face, please …

Shit, he was no good at this. He hated his own weakness. People who knew him would never believe it; everyone thought he was brash, so why had confidence deserted him, when he needed it most?

He heard a car with a quiet engine, coming down the lane. Even before he set eyes on it, instinct told him the police were coming. Surely they could not be on to him?

His stomach felt queasy. This was all too difficult. He wanted to run away and hide.

Hannah smelt the farm before she set eyes on it. She had the sunroof open, making the most of the weather. Sitting behind her, Greg had spread notes about the Callum Hinds case over the back seat and was studying them in uncharacteristic silence. The lane traipsed around a forbidding hawthorn hedge, and petered out in a tight turning space. North of the lane, woodland stretched towards the slopes of the fells. The caravan park was masked by trees. Lane End might have been in the middle of nowhere, rather than five minutes’ drive from the centre of Keswick.

Crumbling stone pillars guarded a dirt track leading to the stone farmhouse. Ugly single-storey extensions had been added on either side of the building, as if to remind visitors that this was a workplace, not the setting for some rural idyll. No front garden, just an open space where a mud-spattered estate car and a couple of farm vehicles were parked.

As Hannah reversed in the turning space, she caught sight of someone in her rear-view mirror. A tall man with a thick mass of hair and a beard, standing next to one of the stone pillars. He wore a T-shirt and shorts, and she’d have assumed he was one of the myriad walkers who swarmed over the Lake District, if he’d had a rucksack on his back. But there was no rucksack. As the car swung round, the man stared at them, before turning on his heel. Within moments, he rounded the hawthorn hedge and vanished from sight.

‘What do you suppose he was up to?’ Hannah asked.

‘I’ve heard of trainspotters.’ Greg shrugged. ‘But farmyard spotters?’

The only greenery this side of the fields was the thick ivy curtain around the entrance porch. A cobbled yard separated the house from a slurry tank, a straggle of steel-framed sheds and a two-storey L-shaped brick outbuilding. Two swarthy labourers watched from behind a tractor as the two detectives got out of the car. They muttered to each other in a language that Hannah recognised as Polish. You heard it spoken a lot in the Lake District nowadays; the place was a magnet for people who wanted work and didn’t expect to be paid the earth. She caught the word policja, and for a moment she thought they were about to come up and buttonhole her. But one of the men put a restraining hand on his companion’s wrist, as if he’d had second thoughts. Before Hannah could approach them, they hurried off towards the sheds.

‘Ever get the feeling that people are avoiding you?’ Hannah said as she locked the car.

‘All the time,’ Greg murmured. ‘Cold Comfort Farm, eh? They’re not exactly rolling out the red carpet.’

‘Maggie has a favourite phrase,’ Hannah said. ‘Every farm is unique. Each has its own design, but more than that. Each has a distinct personality.’

‘Yeah, well, what does that make Lane End?’ he asked. ‘A surly recluse?’

A muck spreader roared in the distance as they rang the doorbell. Deirdre Hinds kept them waiting a whole minute before she opened up. In her early forties, she was short and squat and carrying too much weight. Her cheeks were pasty, and her eyes red-rimmed. Distress due to her stepdaughter’s death? Her hands were covered in flour, and she didn’t offer to shake.

‘Inspector Scarlett, is it? He’ll be somewhere around the yard. You’ll have to excuse me, I’m busy baking.’

The door banged shut in their faces before they could utter a word.

‘Charming,’ Greg said. ‘And there was I, hoping she’d offer us a traditional farmhouse tea.’

‘Wonder what she made of Orla?’ Hannah said as they headed for the yard.

‘She doesn’t look like a wicked stepmother to me. Downtrodden, yes. I bet her old man wasn’t happy that she arranged this meeting.’

Hannah pointed to the top of the silver tower, visible in the distance above the roof of the barn. ‘That must be the silo where Orla died.’

Greg made a face. ‘I can think of better places to finish up.’

‘What would be your choice, then?’

‘Easy.’ He smirked. ‘A nightclub, surrounded by lap dancers. Expiring happily at the age of ninety-seven.’

‘In your dreams.’

‘You did ask, ma’am.’

Insidious, how working alongside someone changed your attitude towards them, for better or worse. She’d heard a good deal about Greg before he joined her team, most of it bad. Lauren Self loathed him, which explained his banishment to Cold Cases. Yet although he had an ego the size of Blackpool Tower, she’d begun to warm to him. In her head, Ben Kind growled, ‘For Christ’s sake, don’t get soft in your old age.’ Good advice. Given an inch, Greg would take a mile.

Their path took them towards a tall building with a corrugated roof. Inside stood a fearsome metal contraption with a conveyor belt and a huge circular saw with teeth sharper than a shark’s. On the ground at the far end of the machine was a big sack filled with poplar logs.

‘DIY wood cutter,’ Greg said. ‘Naughty, naughty. Bet he makes sure it’s out of sight when the health and safety people come round to inspect. Lethal, by the look of it. If Orla Payne wanted a quick exit, she could have squatted on the conveyor and switched on the saw.’

‘Nasty way to go.’

‘Hey, a few nanoseconds of agony, and it’s done. As compared to — what?’ He pretended to squirm. ‘Trapped in a pile of grain, waiting for the loader to dump the next batch. Think about it. Knowing the stuff will suffocate you, and able to do bugger all to save yourself.’

Hannah swallowed. ‘Point taken.’

The barn loomed before them. Stone steps led up to the haylofts; calves squealed in the bays below. A spade and scythe leant against one wall. At the sound of unfamiliar voices, a broad-shouldered man in a faded black T-shirt and grubby jeans came out of the nearest bay. Hair grey and close-cropped, face weather-beaten, arms muscular. A line of sweat gleamed on his brow. He considered them rather as he might weigh up cats caught in a hen coop.

‘Mr Hinds? My name is Detective Chief Inspector Scarlett, and I head the Cold Case Review Team. This is DS Greg Wharf. Thanks very much for sparing us a few minutes.’

‘My time is money.’

Mike Hinds had a strong local accent, which he seemed to be laying on with a trowel, as if he liked to play the horny-handed son of toil. But there was more to him than that; he’d spent a year studying natural sciences at Cambridge before giving up and going back to the family farm. Bloody-minded, yes, but intelligent.

‘We understand that, Mr Hinds.’

‘Then hopefully you won’t cost me more than a few quid, Chief Inspector. I’ve already spent a long time talking to your people about Orla.’

He stood on the cobbles, legs wide apart, hands thrust deep into his pockets. His sceptical tone made her rank sound like proof of declining standards, as if she’d been promoted because she was a thirty-something woman, not a proper detective. Hannah ground her teeth, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of provoking her temper.

‘We’d like to ask you a few questions about Callum’s disappearance.’

‘When my wife told me you wanted to talk about my son, I thought she must have got her wires crossed.’ Hannah guessed Deirdre had felt the rough edge of his tongue. ‘What has Callum got to do with this? He died twenty years ago.’

Were his eyes glistening? Could be the sunlight, rather than tears.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Hinds, I understand this is a difficult time for you.’

‘Oh, you understand, do you?’ He took a stride forward, and for an instant, she thought he meant to grab hold of her and wrap his meaty fingers around her throat. ‘A boy dead, twenty years back, and now his sister? You’ve got dead children of your own, have you? Do you really feel my pain?’

Hannah remembered the unborn child she had lost. Don’t go there. He didn’t know; he was a wounded animal, lashing out in a confusion of grief, rage and self-defence.

‘Might be easier if we went inside, Mr Hinds,’ Greg said. ‘This doesn’t need to take long.’

All of a sudden, her DS had morphed into Mr Nice Guy, affable as a saloon bar chum. It was like watching an alien bodysnatcher assume the appearance of a harmless human being. But Hinds wasn’t shifting.

‘Don’t worry, Sergeant. It definitely won’t take long, you can bet on that.’

‘Orla contacted the Cold Case Review Team this week,’ Hannah said. ‘She wanted us to look afresh at what happened to her brother.’

Mike Hinds flexed his muscles. Habit, or a warning sign? ‘She knew bloody well what happened.’

‘She discussed the case with a variety of people after coming back to this area. It’s clear she wasn’t satisfied that her uncle was responsible for Callum’s disappearance.’

‘She didn’t have a clue,’ Hinds said. ‘As a kid, she preferred fairy tales to reality, and she never got them out of her system. Things got worse once the booze started to rot her brain. Just like it rotted her mother’s.’

‘Niamh didn’t believe Philip killed Callum either, did she?’

‘Her state of mind depended on how pissed she was. After Callum went missing, she was in … what do you call it?’ He glared. ‘Denial?’

‘Philip didn’t leave a suicide note, or any confession. There is no proof he harmed a hair on your son’s head.’

‘Hanged himself, didn’t he? What better evidence do you want?’

‘He’d been interviewed by the police, he must have been scared witless. A man with learning difficulties, under intolerable pressure, who had never learnt effective coping skills.’

‘He was pathetic. So fucking weak.’

Mike Hinds spat out the words, and Hannah saw in his eyes that nothing, in his book, was more contemptible than weakness. He must have despised Philip for as long as he could remember.

Greg said, ‘After the divorce, Niamh made it hard for you to see Callum. Women do that sometimes, don’t they? The law’s in their favour, and they use it to their advantage. Driven by some sort of thirst for revenge.’

‘She was a mean bitch.’

Greg nodded towards the barn. ‘Couldn’t hack it, I suppose. Farm life doesn’t suit everyone, eh?’

‘Farmers marry farmers’ daughters, it’s the best way, but I met an Irish girl with big tits at a club in Carlisle and let myself get carried away. Biggest mistake of my life.’

‘Often let yourself get carried away, do you?’

‘Not by women,’ Hinds said. ‘Least, not for a long while.’

He fixed his eyes on Hannah. She was wearing a cream trouser suit and open-neck blouse. Lauren had issued fresh ‘standards of expectation’ a month back, as part of her campaign to smarten up the force’s image, and as a DCI, Hannah was expected to take a lead when it came to dress code. In the age of austerity, the emphasis was on looking sober and businesslike — no earrings for men, no tattoos likely to offend, no violently coloured hair. And certainly, nothing too revealing. Hinds didn’t look impressed.

‘You did better second time around,’ Greg said.

‘Deirdre? Yeah, she’s not quite such a pain in the arse as Niamh.’

Don’t go overboard with the compliments, Hannah thought. Spare a thought for what it’s like for a woman, trying to make a life with you. But she kept her mouth shut. Greg was doing fine, talking man to man.

‘You got to know her before Callum went missing?’

‘She was only young at the time. Training to be a farm secretary; we met at an NFU do. Her dad had a sheep farm, a few miles this side of the Scottish border. Thankless task — poor sod went bankrupt six months before cancer got him. Deirdre was one of five, the baby of a family that didn’t have two pennies to rub together.’

‘Until you provided a roof over her head?’

‘We didn’t live together until we’d been courting for eighteen months. Things were different in them days, and I bided my time. Once bitten, you know?’ Greg said with feeling, ‘I do know.’

‘Deirdre would come over here to visit, then go back home. Bit by bit, she started staying the night.’

‘How did Niamh react?’

Hinds snorted. ‘She got wind I was seeing Deirdre, not that it was any of her business after she’d run off with Kit Payne.’

‘I bet it didn’t stop her grabbing her pound of flesh in the divorce settlement.’

‘You’re not wrong. She tried to say it wasn’t good for Callum, hanging around here.’

Greg chuckled. ‘When you might be occupied with your girlfriend?’

‘He caught us at it once, admitted.’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘Nah, we were on the sofa in the back room.’ Hinds had his eyes on Hannah. The idea of shocking her appealed to him, she thought; he couldn’t resist the temptation to talk. ‘I couldn’t wait to get her upstairs, and we suddenly realised he was watching us through the window.’

‘Bloody hell.’ Greg sounded almost admiring. Hannah realised, not for the first time, that she was very glad not to be a man. Talk about basic instincts. ‘What happened?’

‘Told his sister, the daft sod, and of course she opened her trap to Niamh. I think he’d guessed what he was going to see, but there you go. He wanted an eyeful, and by Christ, he got it. She was a bonny lass, Deirdre, before she started eating too much chocolate cake. Anyroad, that’s teenage lads for you.’

Greg nodded. ‘Yet Niamh reacted badly?’

‘Too fucking right. Hypocritical cow — she was the one who started shagging a businessman whilst she was still married to me. Talk about one law for the rich.’

‘How did she get to know Kit Payne?’

‘I’ve known old man Madsen and his family all my life. Bryan’s stand-offish, doesn’t care to mix with riff-raff like me, but Gareth’s not so bad.’

‘You were students together, weren’t you?’

‘For a year, that’s all. I couldn’t stick the place. Full of posh folk who talked through their arses. They made me sick, but Gareth had a whale of a time. He loves being cock of the walk. Anyroad, he introduced Niamh and me to Payne. I would never have guessed she’d fall for Payne — he’s as ugly as sin. But she hated being a farmer’s wife, and he lent a shoulder for her to cry on.’

‘Money talks, eh?’

‘Yeah, when she broke the news she was running off with Keswick’s answer to Quasimodo, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.’

‘And she used the incident with Deirdre as an excuse to prevent Callum visiting you?’

Hinds’ face darkened. ‘There was no cause for her to take it out on the boy. To stop him from seeing his dad was pure malice.’

‘He kept your surname. That says a lot.’

‘He was made of sterner stuff than Orla, she just wanted everything to be happy ever after. Niamh liked to have things her way; why do you think the kids were given Irish names? I wanted Callum to be christened Eric, after my dad, but she wouldn’t hear of it. But she couldn’t watch over the boy twenty-four hours a day. She and Payne only lived across the field; no way could she stop us seeing each other every now and then.’

Greg nodded. ‘When was the last time you saw your son?’

Hinds frowned. ‘You’ll have read my statement?’

‘At the time Callum disappeared, you said you hadn’t seen him for some time. But was that right? Niamh is dead now, it can’t make any difference.’

‘If it makes no difference, why ask?’

‘We need to be clear about Callum’s movements in the period leading up to his disappearance. The more accurate our information, the better our chance of making sense of what Orla was saying.’

The farmer kicked at a pebble, and sent it skittering across the cobbles. ‘So what if he did come and see me? Where does that get you?’

‘It’s simply a question of building an accurate picture of his movements.’ Greg’s tone was so soothing, Hannah half-expected him to start crooning a lullaby. ‘Did he come here before he visited your brother?’

Hinds scowled. ‘If that’s in your mind, think again. All right, the last time I saw him was the night before he disappeared.’

Well, well, a result. This was what Hannah liked about cold case work. Sometimes, just sometimes, you unearthed treasure trove. Important evidence that had lain buried for years.

Greg’s expression didn’t flicker. He was too smart to give away the excitement he must be feeling. ‘What happened?’

‘I used to make my own beer in those days, and Callum slipped over here after Niamh gave him his tea. He told her he had a headache, and wanted a breath of fresh air. As soon as the coast was clear, he scooted over and we knocked back a few glasses of home brew. He loved the stuff, it had a bit of body to it. Not like the bat’s piss you get served nowadays.’

‘He was only fourteen,’ Hannah said.

Shit, why did I open my big mouth? She should have bitten her tongue. Greg gave her a pained look, and no wonder, after he’d got on to the witness’s wavelength. She edged backwards, in tacit apology.

‘So what? His mother may have been a drunk, but I’m not. It’s all about knowing your limits. He came to no harm with me.’

‘Deirdre wasn’t around?’ Greg asked.

‘After that time he saw her starkers, she made a point of checking when Callum was likely to show up. Not that she’s easily embarrassed, but she drew the line at having a teenage lad gawping at her knockers.’

‘Yeah, well, that’s women for you.’ Hannah felt she had become invisible. If it was punishment for her indiscretion, she could scarcely complain. They were like two mates, bad-mouthing the opposite sex over a pint. ‘Did he tell you he was going to see Philip the following day?’

‘Never mentioned it.’

‘Did Niamh object to him seeing your brother?’

‘Not on your nelly. Shows what sort of a mother she was, uh? Refused to let him visit his own father, yet happy for him to call on an oddball with a brain like mashed potato. Always had a soft spot for Philip, reckoned I was too hard on him.’

‘So what did you and Callum talk about?’

‘Usual sort of stuff. England’s crap batting in the Test match. Carlisle United’s prospects for promotion.’

‘Bonding, eh?’

‘Whatever you like to call it. Father-and-son stuff.’ Hinds glared. He was angry about life’s unfairness, Hannah thought, far more than their intrusion. ‘The boy had his whole life in front of him. He’d had time to forget school and start enjoying his summer holiday. No wonder he was excited.’

‘Excited?’

‘Yeah. It’s how I remember him. Pleased with life. And himself.’

Hannah couldn’t contain herself any longer. ‘Any particular reason why he would be excited?’

Hinds glared at her. ‘Such as?’

‘Was it about a girl?’ Greg asked. ‘He’d met a teenager on the caravan site.’

‘That was a load of bollocks, for a start,’ Hinds said. ‘The girl’s father tried to say that Callum was spying on her. Chances are, she made the whole thing up. Who knows? Maybe she’d led Callum on, and then got cold feet and was afraid of her dad going ballistic.’

‘Did he have a girlfriend?’

A shake of the head. ‘He was only fourteen.’

‘I had girlfriends before I was fourteen.’

‘Look, he was interested in girls, yes, but I told him there was no hurry.’

‘And did he take your advice?’

‘What are you getting at?’ Hinds’ face reddened under the sunburn. ‘My boy was no peeping Tom.’

‘Despite watching his father at it with his lady friend on the sofa?’

‘A young lad’s natural curiosity. You can’t read anything into it.’

‘The girl’s story makes him sound like a voyeur.’

‘The little cow lied.’ Hinds balled his fists, struggling to control his temper. ‘It’s what women do. Just like my bloody stupid wife, when she told me you’d not bother me for more than ten minutes. Come on, I’ve answered your questions fair and square. Time’s up.’

He waved beefy hands at them, indicating the way back out of the farm. He might have been shooing animals through a gate.

‘Had Orla discovered something about Callum?’ Hannah asked. ‘Did she mention it to you the last time you were together?’

‘I said all I’ve got to say about my daughter yesterday.’

‘Finding her like that must have been a terrible experience, Mr Hinds. We only want-’

‘Didn’t you hear me?’ he yelled.

‘Take it easy, eh?’ Greg said.

For answer, Hinds bent and lifted up the scythe. ‘Get off my fucking land.’

‘Mr Hinds.’ Hannah’s voice sounded thin in the silence. ‘You have been cooperative so far. Please don’t do anything you will regret.’

The farmer’s face had blackened with fury. With the scythe in his right hand, he advanced towards them. He’d come to within two or three strides of Greg. Five yards further back, Hannah froze.

Stomach churning, she exchanged glances with her DS. He gave her the faintest nod and mouthed: Run for it.

No way was she abandoning him. She shook her head.

Sunlight flashed on the curve of the blade. Hannah fought the instinct to retch with fear. The wrong move now …

‘All right, Mr Hinds.’ Greg must be wetting himself, though you’d never guess from his relaxed tone. The scythe was within striking distance of his neck. ‘Thanks for speaking to us.’

‘You should never have come here,’ Hinds muttered.

Hannah heard the door of the farmhouse open. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Deirdre Hinds. She stood on the doorstep, shaking with fear. Not knowing what her husband might do.

He took another pace towards Greg, who raised his hands to shoulder height. Whether to calm the man down or for self-protection, Hannah couldn’t tell.

‘Mike!’ Deirdre screamed. ‘Put it down!’

‘Piss off back inside,’ he shouted back. ‘This is nothing to do with you.’

‘Mike, this won’t solve anything! What do you think Orla would have said, if she’d seen you like this?’

The farmer stopped in his tracks. In a swift and smooth movement, Greg jumped forward, seized the man’s wrist, and twisted it. Hinds let out a cry of pain and dropped the scythe. Greg kicked it over the cobbles, out of reach.

Hinds spat at Greg. The DS wiped his face, gave Hinds’ wrist a final jerk, and dropped it. Turning on his heel, he strode back to join Hannah and they both hurried off towards the drive.

‘You shouldn’t have done that, you scumbag,’ Hinds roared. ‘Next time, I’ll be ready for you.’

They strode past the farmhouse. Deirdre stood motionless on the doorstep, hands clasped as if in prayer.

‘I’d get him to a doctor double quick, love, if I were you,’ Greg muttered over his shoulder. ‘A psychiatrist is what he needs. I’ve heard of people with anger management issues, but your old man’s a powder keg, waiting to explode.’

‘Do you really think I don’t know what he’s like?’ she hissed.

Hannah glanced back at the cobbled yard. Mike Hinds winced as he rubbed his injured wrist. Shit. If Greg had fractured it, they had a problem on their hands. Next stop, the IPCC.

‘If you need help, dial 999. We can have backup here in minutes. Support is available, trust me.’

‘Trust you?’ Bitterness made Deirdre Hinds’ voice grate. ‘Ask the police for help? Don’t you think you’ve helped enough for one fucking day?’

And she ran towards her husband.