‘And was there any doubt locally?’
‘It seems so, though probably not a lot. Billy Farr was well thought of, a quiet fellow and a bit of a loner, especially since his accident which left him too lame to work underground, but much respected. Most people were happy to accept that Pickford was responsible. It had all the marks of one of his killings – except that they never found the body. But two child killers in the same neck of the woods on the same day was unlikely, wouldn’t you say? And Watmough wasn’t averse to clearing up as many cases as he could in one triumphant swoop.’
‘And the few who didn’t accept this?’
‘Swift tells me that before Pickford died they got the usual rash of anonymous calls and notes, pointing in every possible direction from the vicar to the NUM. Afterwards there was only one, a note, printed in block capitals. It said, YOU GOT THE WRONG MAN FOR TRACEY. DON’T WORRY. WE WON’T.’
‘And how did Swift interpret this?’
‘Sergeants don’t interpret, they file, have you forgotten? But he recalled it on Boxing Day three months later when Billy Farr went missing and they found him at the foot of a sealed-off shaft in the old workings along the same ridge that Gratterley Wood stands on. Inquest brought in a verdict of accident. His wife said he’d gone out for a walk with his Jack Russell. There was no sign of the dog. Theory was that it had got into the old workings somehow and when Farr realized it was lost, he’d started looking down the old shaft, the cover was rotten, it broke, he slipped, and bingo! A day or two later there was another note arrived at the station. It said, CASE CLOSED.’
‘It’s a sick world,’ said Pascoe. ‘And this is why young Farr came back to Burrthorpe?’
‘That’s it. And he’s been a bloody nuisance ever since.’
‘To the police?’
‘To every bugger as far as I can make out. Perhaps not the kind of company an ambitious young policeman’s wife ought to be keeping.’
‘Thanks for the “young”, Alex,’ said Pascoe. ‘As for the rest, get knotted. But let’s keep in touch over this one, shall we?’
‘Take care, Peter,’ said Alex Wishart.
Pascoe replaced the phone. The clouds on his horizons were still just the size of a man’s hand. Only now the man seemed to have hands the size of Andy Dalziel’s.
Colin Farr awoke with a splitting head. The alarm clock by his narrow bed told him it was past eleven. He was on ‘afters’, the 1.0 P.M to 8.0 P.M shift. Last night he had started drinking as soon as he finished. There’d been some bother at the Club and he’d left. He couldn’t remember much after that but there was the aftertaste of greasy chips in his mouth which suggested he hadn’t come home to eat the supper his mother would have cooked for him.
Groaning, he rose, washed, dressed, and went downstairs to face the music.
His apologetic mood evaporated when he went into the kitchen and saw Arthur Downey there, sitting at the table drinking a mug of tea.
‘’Morning, Col,’ the deputy said, smiling rather uncertainly.
‘It’s you,’ said Farr. ‘Run out of tea, your sister?’
‘Colin, don’t be rude. After last night, you should be ashamed to show your face in this kitchen. I had to throw his supper out, Arthur.’
His mother was standing by the stove from which came a smell of rich meat pastry. May Farr was in her forties, a tall, good-looking woman whose face and body could have done with putting on a bit more weight, and the rather becoming dark shadows around her eyes had not been put there with a brush.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Farr sitting down.
Downey seemed ready to accept that the apology included him.
‘I just brought your mam some vegetables, Col,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to go to sea to get scurvy, do you?’
‘Don’t you? Mam, I hope you’re not making that pie for me. I couldn’t face owt more than a cup of tea and mebbe a sandwich.’
‘You missed your supper last night and I’ll not have you going to work on an empty stomach.’
‘They don’t need their meals regular like us old ones, May,’ said Downey. ‘I bet you often got dragged out of your bunk in the middle of the night when you were at sea, Col, and had to work all day with next to nowt.’
‘It weren’t the bloody Cutty Sark I were on!’ exclaimed Farr. ‘All right, Mam, I’ll have some, but not too much, mind.’
‘Don’t you miss it, the sea?’ said Downey. ‘I sometimes wish I’d given it a try when I were younger.’
‘You’re not old now, Arthur,’ said May Farr, bringing a flush of pleasure to the lanky man’s cheeks.
‘No, you ought to sign on as a cabin boy,’ said Farr. ‘Or better still, stow away.’
Downey laughed and finished his tea.
‘I’d best be off,’ he said. ‘See you down the hole, Col. Thanks for the tea, May.’
After the door closed behind him, May Farr said, ‘Right, my lad, before we go any further, I’ll not have you being rude to Arthur Downey or anyone else I care to invite into my house. Understood?’
‘The bugger’s always sniffing round here …’ protested her son.
‘You listen, Arthur were a good mate of your dad’s and he’s been good to me since … it happened. He’ll always be welcome in this house as long as I’m here, understand? Besides, he grows best veg in Burrthorpe on that allotment of his.’
She offered this lightening of tone by way of truce which Colin Farr was happy to accept.
‘Aye, it’s not many lasses round here who get bouquets of broccoli,’ he said slyly. ‘You best be careful else you’ll have folk talking.’
‘What do you mean?’ she said indignantly as she took the pie from the oven. ‘Has someone been saying something?’
Her son smiled sweetly.
‘There’s not many round here would dare say owt like that to me,’ he said with an easy confidence she found more dismaying than comforting.
She heaped the pie on to a plate which she set before him. As he ate, he asked casually, ‘Do you think you will get married again, Mam?’
‘How should I know? I’ve no one in mind, if that’s what you mean. But this is wrong way round. It’s me as should be asking you when you’re going to get wed and settle down.’
‘Me?’ he laughed. ‘Who would I marry when all the best ones are gone?’
