The Healers

Chapter Six

They were at Laverock Farm until mid-afternoon, mostly hanging about, waiting for the experts to finish, for reinforcements from the Otterbridge team. Then Ramsay sent Hunter back to Mittingford to supervise the setting up of the incident room. Hunter, at least, knew how he liked things.

“I’ll go to talk to the neighbour,” Ramsay said. “Richardson. The one whose lad had a go at Ernie Bowles in the pub. We’ll need someone to manage the livestock until a sale can be arranged. Besides, I’m interested to meet the boy.”

Hunter nodded but he thought Ramsay was wasting his time. He had Sean Slater down for the murder. There was something odd about him; the glazed expression, the way he looked at the girl, the improbable alibi. He was on the point of betting Ramsay a tenner that they’d have Slater for it in the end, but thought better of it. You could never tell how he’d take things like that.

The Richardson farm straddled the lane, with the house on one side, a large open barn on the other and lots of mud on the road between. To the south of the house the land fell away to low fields and a burn. Beyond that there was hill and heather moorland. Next to the barn a row of outhouses had been converted into neat cottages,

each with its own small front garden. In one a middle-aged couple were sitting, eating a late picnic lunch, drinking red wine. They took no notice of Ramsay.

The farmhouse was in full sunlight. The door was wide open. Ramsay knocked and when there was no reply called in. A woman hurried out of one of the inside doors and into the hall. She was perhaps fifty, smartly dressed in a rather unconventional way with a brightly striped loose-weave skirt and jacket. She collected items as she moved a large handbag retrieved from the bottom of the stairs was slung across her shoulder and shoes were stepped into, almost without stopping. She gave the impression of relentless energy and enthusiasm. She had not been aware of Ramsay’s presence and when she saw him she stopped briefly in her tracks.

“You’ll want my husband,” she said breathlessly, assuming, he supposed, that he was a vet or a food rep. “Round the back in the kitchen. If you’re quick you might even get a cup of tea.”

And she was gone. He stood on the step and watched while she got into her new Fiesta and drove away.

He walked around the outside of the house. The windows were low and he could see into a large living room with a chintz sofa and chairs, a grand piano. It was very different from Laverock Farm. The kitchen door was at the side of the house, slightly open. There were two pairs of Wellingtons on the step and inside people were talking. He tapped on the door.

“Yes?” said an impatient voice, with a strong local accent. “What is it?”

Ramsay pushed open the door.

The speaker was a squat bull terrier of a man with wild grey hair and bushy eyebrows. He sat in a wicker basket chair cupping a mug of tea in his hand. As he moved the wicker creaked. A younger man stood by the table leaning against it. The kitchen looked as if it had come out of a magazine for townies aspiring to country living. The red quarry tile floor matched the red Aga. There were earthenware crocks, gleaming pans, drying herbs. The men in their stockinged feet and overalls seemed strangely out of place.

“Mr. Richardson?” Ramsay said.

The older man stood up and looked at him. “Aye. And who the hell are you?” It was, Ramsay felt, his standard greeting. He introduced himself.

“You’ll be here about Ernie Bowles. You’d best come in then.”

“You know about Mr. Bowles?”

“You don’t think you could keep a thing like that quiet. Your chaps turned away the post van this morning and the postman came straight on here. It’ll be all over the county by now.”

“Yes,” Ramsay said. “I suppose it will.”

“How can I help you then?”

“I’m worried about Bowles’s stock,” Ramsay said.

“I don’t know why. He never bothered much.”

“Someone needs to look after things. I was wondering if you could come to an arrangement with his solicitor. It shouldn’t take me long to find out who that is.”

“No need for that,” Richardson said. “It’s Johnny Wright in Mittingford. I should know. I’ve had enough solicitor’s letters from him.” He paused. “You can leave it to me. I’ll keep an eye on things until the place goes up for sale.” And it occurred to Ramsay that Richardson had already thought things through, that he was considering Laverock Farm for himself. And then, sensing the younger man’s interest, he thought: No, he intends buying it for his son.

“What were the solicitor’s letters about?” Ramsay asked.

“Planning matters,” Richardson said shortly.

“What sort of planning matters?”

“We were trying to make a living,” Richardson said. “Not easy for farmers at the moment.”

There was a silence which Ramsay did not fill and he felt forced to continue.

“My wife’s always taken in a few guests for bed and breakfast. She was in catering before we married. It’s what she knows. She didn’t make much but she enjoyed it. Said it was keeping her hand in, like.” He spoke of his wife with a mixture of awe, admiration and incomprehension. “It was her idea to expand that side of the business. The first year we had a few campers and caravanners on the bottom field. Then we decided to convert some of the outhouses into holiday cottages. She saw to all that. She talked to the architects, worked out a business plan, got the finance. A couple of months ago we got an award from the Tourist Board. She’s planning to expand again, talking about opening a restaurant. That’s where she’s off to today. To talk to the bank manager.”

“And Mr. Bowles objected to all these plans?”

“Cissie started it. Said she didn’t want strangers trespassing all over her land. Ernie just took over when she died.”

“But you went ahead all the same?”

“Of course. He had no real grounds for objection. There was no way our guests could stray over to Laverock Farm. It was just spite.” He walked stiffly to the table to pour more tea, turned to Ramsay and asked grudgingly:

“Do you want a cup?”

Ramsay shook his head.

“And then he had the bloody nerve to tell me that he was going into the same line of business himself.”

“In what way?”

“You know he’s got those hippies living there?”

“Yes.”

“Apparently that was only the start. He said he’d decided to open up Laverock Farm for a weekend for one of those festivals. You know, the

New Age things that they show on the television. Convoys of travellers descending on an area doing God knows what damage. Loud music all night. Drugs. And no way of knowing when they’re going to move on or where they’re going to end up next.” He paused for breath.

“When was this festival going to take place?”

“June,” Bowles said. “The summer solstice.”

“Was he serious?”

“No!” Peter Richardson interrupted with a sneer. “It was just a wind up.”

“How was I to know?” the father demanded angrily. “That man was capable of anything.”

“You objected to the plan? Formally?”

“Of course I bloody objected. We run a classy operation, up market Sue sees to that. I didn’t want my punters frightened off by a load of drug-crazed morons.”

“Yes,” Ramsay said. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Richardson was almost shouting. “It’s only the holiday side of the business that’s stopped us from going bankrupt.” He stopped abruptly.

Ramsay turned to Peter, the son, who had been watching the exchange with an amused detachment. He seemed untroubled by the prospect of bankruptcy or perhaps his father had made the threat so many times that he no longer believed it. He was full of himself. Ramsay could see that. Too cocky by half. If he’d been brought up on an inner city estate he’d have been a delinquent, a stealer of flash cars, the sort of lad who didn’t mind a prison sentence because it gave him the reputation for being hard. Here in the country Ramsay suspected he would have the same reputation, but with less effort. He’d be a heavy drinker, known for screwing his suppliers for the best possible deal, a jack the lad to be rather admired.

“Is that what your argument with Mr. Bowles was about?” Ramsay asked.

“What do you mean?” Peter Richardson spoke insolently.

“I understand there was a fight in a Mittingford pub.”

“That?” The boy laughed. “That wasn’t a fight. He’d have been in hospital if he tried to mess with me. He tripped, that was all. I wouldn’t waste my time on him.”

“But there was an argument. What was that about?”

“He needed teaching a lesson,” Peter said, contradicting himself. “He was a mucky old sod.”

Ramsay saw his father flash him a look of warning but he took no notice.

“So you decided to teach him a lesson,” Ramsay said. “Why that night?”

“He was annoying my girl. She didn’t like it and I wasn’t going to stand for it. Sexual harassment, that’s what it was. Leering across the bar at her, suggesting all sorts. It’s an offence these days, isn’t it? I was doing your job for you, that’s all.”

“You didn’t have any other occasions to teach him a lesson?” Ramsay asked. His voice was dangerously quiet.

At last the boy seemed to recognize the need for caution.

“No!” he said. “I’ve told you. He wasn’t worth bothering about. I just kept out of his way.”

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Bowles?”

Peter Richardson shook his head. “Don’t know. Probably not since that time in the pub.” He gave a little triumphant laugh. “He probably kept out of my way after that.”

Ramsay turned to the father. “And you, Mr. Richardson?”

“I’ve not seen him to speak to since he was up here with that plan for the New Age festival. I’d only lose my temper. I’ve passed him sometimes in the lane when he was driving that Land-Rover of his…”

“Did you see the Land-Rover this weekend?”

Richardson shook his head.

“You didn’t notice any strange cars on the land?”

“Not ‘specially. But this time of the year lots of people come out from town for a ride in the country. That’s why Sue thinks she could make a go of a restaurant.”

Sue, it seemed, was some kind of oracle.

“What about a blue Transit van, early Sunday morning, coming from the Mittingford direction?”

“No.” He turned to his son. “You were out shooting yesterday morning. Did you see anything?”

“No.” But the reply was automatic. He could not be bothered to remember.

“Where were you shooting?” Ramsay asked.

“On our land. Nowhere near a footpath. No law against that, is there?”

“Could you have seen the road from where you were?”

“No.”

“What about Laverock Farm?”

“Yeah, I was over that way. I had a view down on the farm.”

“Did you see anyone about?”

“Only that hippy couple. They walked down the track and on to the road. They started walking towards town, hitching.”

“Did anyone give them a lift?”

“Not that I saw.”

They would be on their way into Mittingford to have lunch with their friends. That part of the story fitted in.

“Have you had any dealings with Miss Jackman and Mr. Slater?” he asked the older man.

“The travellers? No. He came round asking for work when he first arrived but I told him we had nothing. Not that I’d have taken him on anyway.”

“Why?”

Richardson seemed not to think that worth answering.

“You didn’t ever meet them socially?”

“No. They seem an unfriendly pair. Keep themselves to themselves.”

That, Ramsay thought, was hardly surprising.

“You see the lad about, though. Walking. All times of day and night. I don’t think he’s quite all right in the head.” He paused, before adding reluctantly, “Never caused any bother, though. Keeps to the footpaths.”

“Did you see him on your land over the weekend?”

There was a pause. “I can’t remember,” Richardson said at last. “He’s around so often that I don’t notice him any more, if you know what I mean. You take him for granted.”