Under World

Chapter 4

‘Mr Downey. Your sister said I’d find you here. Can I have a word?’

Arthur Downey was kneeling on a small mat, facing east, his face devout with concentration.

‘What? Oh, it’s you. Hang on.’

He rose slowly and shook off the soil from his hands.

‘Digging up some rhubarb roots for forcing,’ he explained. ‘You interested in gardening, Mr Boyle?’

Monty Boyle looked around the immaculately kept allotment and shook his head.

‘No time,’ he said. He manoeuvred himself till he was straight in front of the other and opened his jacket.

‘I’m surprised to see you here, Mr Boyle,’ said Downey. ‘After what was said in the Challenger yesterday.’

‘By Watmough, you mean? I can’t be held responsible for what an ex-policeman says.’

‘It’s you who’s been asking the questions round here. You should take note — there’s a lot who’d say anything for a free drink, and take it back for another.’

‘Is that so? Well, I promise you, I personally never write anything I can’t prove.’

It was true, but only in the way that most of Boyle’s pieces were true; i.e. there was just enough truth there to support a whole precarious edifice of speculation. Next Sunday’s episode was all set up but he needed a new startling revelation for the week afterwards.

‘So you think you can prove I’m a liar? Round here, you can get yourself thumped for saying things like that!’

Downey’s long face creased beneath an ill-fitting expression of belligerence.

‘What makes you say that, Mr Downey?’ asked Boyle, all injured innocence.

‘That article yesterday, it seemed to say that yon fellow Pickford couldn’t have been round Burrthorpe that afternoon. And I’m the one who saw his car. And it said I were a good friend of Billy’s, implying I might have been covering up for him.’

‘Like I said, I don’t write the articles, so I don’t know what Mr Watmough’s getting at. But it’s a question worth asking, Mr Downey. Would you have lied for your friend?’

The agony this question caused was written so clear on Downey’s face that even a journalist’s heart could not be untouched.

‘Look, no one’s saying you’re a liar, Mr Downey. You didn’t say you saw Pickford’s car, you said you glimpsed a blue car parked off the road that runs along the bottom of the ridge, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And it was quite close to the track down through the woods where the child’s bramble bucket was found.’

‘Yes.’

‘And this was the truth?’

A pause as if to check for traps.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘And I believe you. So, next question, Mr Downey. Is there anyone round here who drives, or used to drive, a blue car about the size of a Cortina?’

‘I can’t rightly say,’ said the deputy after another agony of concentration. ‘Probably plenty. But I can only think of one off-hand.’

‘Who’s that?’ asked Boyle.

‘You know him, I’ve seen you talking to him. Harold Satterthwaite.’

‘Oh yes. He’s been very helpful, Mr Satterthwaite.’

‘Has he? He’s all right, Harold, a bit rough but all right. Except for one thing. He never cared for Billy, and he likes young Colin even less.’

‘I gathered. What do you make of Colin Farr, Mr Downey?’

‘I don’t know. He’s not happy here, that’s a fact. Mebbe it’d be better if he took himself off again. Trouble seems to follow him. Like some people are always having bad luck. Have you noticed that? How bad luck seems to pick on the same folk all the time? But Colin’s Billy’s son and I’ll not hear a word against him.’

‘No?’ Boyle smiled. ‘Funny thing is, despite all his trouble, and with one or two notable exceptions, most people seem to be of your mind. The world seems to love Colin Farr. Even I find it hard to dislike the lad and all he’s done for me is throw me through a window!’

‘I’m finished here,’ said Downey. ‘You’re not going by the Club, are you?’

‘I can do. Will they be open?’

‘Soon enough. Hang on.’

He went into the small wooden shed and came out with a cauliflower and aerosol can. The cauliflower he handed to Boyle, saying, ‘Try that. Lovely flavour. You’ll be amazed,’ as he sprayed the aerosol round the edge of his vegetable patch.

‘Keep the animals off,’ he said. ‘There’s a wilderness out there but they still seem to prefer a bit of cultivation.’

Boyle looked around. ‘Wilderness’ was extreme, but certainly many of the neighbouring allotments were looking very neglected.

‘You should have seen it during the Strike,’ said Downey nostalgically. ‘Every inch packed with veg that year. We mounted pickets at night to make sure nothing went missing.’

‘I thought it was all brotherly love and community spirit during the Strike,’ said Boyle cynically.

‘Oh yes. We’re sent into this world to help each other, I sincerely believe that, Mr Boyle. But there’s always some who don’t want to be helped, and others who just want to help themselves. I’ll just lock up.’

Boyle went to his car and tossed the cauliflower on to the back seat. He also took the opportunity to run back and replace the full tape on his cassette recorder before Downey joined him. He switched if off temporarily. No point in recording the noise of his motor. In fact, probably little point in recording much more of Downey. But there might be others at the Club. Satterthwaite for instance, who owned a blue car and was always so keen to badmouth Billy Farr. It could be worth talking to Satterthwaite again. And Pedro Pedley, a very hard man to get anything quotable out of. How would he react to the idea floated in the Challenger that his daughter’s killer might still be on the loose? Unless, of course, it had been Billy Farr. But that would be a pity. A live killer was worth a much bigger spread than a dead one. That could be the way to prise open May and Colin Farr’s mouths. Hint at evidence emerging that … that what? The trouble was, no evidence was emerging, just rumour, innuendo, theory. None of which he objected to, but he had to have that pinch of truth which would act as leavening to all the rest.

‘Ready?’

Downey had come up quietly behind him.

‘Right. Hop in.’

As he started the engine, his car phone rang. It was a luxury Ogilby had conceded only after a string of vandalized public phones had delayed a terrific rape story which Boyle had stumbled upon a few months earlier.

It was the editor himself.

‘Monty, where are you?’

‘Burrthorpe.’

‘I thought so. Look, we’ve really stirred things up,’ said Ogilby gleefully. ‘Some victims’ rights lawyer threatening us with an injunction. A woman too, Pritchard, I think she was a big mouth during some of the Strike trials, so see if you can get a few quotes down there, the more sexist the better. I’m giving her a headline next Sunday, though I don’t expect it’ll be the one she wants. Also, the police are inquiring after you at ever decreasing intervals so we’ve certainly caught their interest too.’

‘Oh yes. Will you just keep telling them you can’t make contact at the moment?’

‘Naturally. Hot on a good dirty trail, are you?’

Boyle glanced at Downey who was busy trying to clean the earth from out of his fingernails.

‘Oh, yes, I shouldn’t be at all surprised,’ he said.