Cold in the Earth Page 12

  ‘Remind me,’ he muttered to the officer on his left, ‘what was it about being a uniform that made me go for the CID?’

  The man, breathless himself, grinned mockingly. ‘Not hard enough, eh? I’m telling you, this lot’s frigging amateurs. All they’ve thrown is tatties and there’s not one on their backside in the road. I’ve seen worse at a Women’s Guild outing.’

  With a final push they cleared the road-end. The crowd gave a last, despairing heave, then as the waiting cars swept by a groan went up. There was the sound of sobbing, but the pressure on the police line eased.

  The gate was shut across the farm drive and in front of it a man and a woman stood, his arm around her shoulders, blocking the way. The leading police car stopped and four officers, one female, jumped out. A conversation ensued; the crowd, their view of the proceedings blocked by the dark blue phalanx, surged restlessly forward and again were forced back.

  At last the woman, breaking down in tears, stepped aside, violently shrugging off the policewoman’s attempt at comfort. Her husband put up no more than a token struggle and as the police restrained him, gave up. The gate was opened for the vehicles, then shut behind them, and he turned away, head down, broken.

  The second line of police moved back to block access to the gate and with that secured the order came for the front row to stand down. As the police broke ranks the crowd, subdued now, pushed sullenly past them. Many of the women were in tears; a young man, fair-haired and fresh-complexioned, his face contorted with rage and grief, lunged towards MacNee, drawing back his fist, but an older man restrained him.

  ‘Don’t sully your fists, laddie. Scum like them isn’t worth it.’

  MacNee, tensed for evasive action, dropped his eyes. It was a dirty business, this whole thing. It really got to him and he was a townie. What must someone like Marjory be feeling now? He could see her, a tall figure in a belted trench-coat, standing beside one of the cars at the back.

  A group of women had reached the farmer’s wife by now and she was the centre of a huddle of concern as they tried to coax her away. Suddenly the sound of sheep bleating in alarm filled the air and the mood of the crowd, which had been dispersing hopelessly, turned ugly.

  ‘Proud of what you’ve done?’ a man’s voice yelled. ‘No guts, no decency.’

  All at once the situation was tense again. Unbidden, the police immediately drew closer together, but these were law-abiding citizens, unused to confrontation with the forces of order they had respected all their lives. They looked about them uncertainly and the moment passed.

  Just then, as he was heaving a sigh of relief, MacNee noticed that the farmer’s wife, with her friends, had drawn level with Fleming, saw too with dismay that they obviously recognised her.

  ‘Marjory Fleming, I can’t believe you’re standing here, letting them do that.’ Her voice was shrill.

  MacNee began shouldering his way to her side and heard her say quietly, ‘I’m sorry, Susie, I’ve no alternative. It’s my job.’

  ‘Get a better job then,’ another woman shouted. ‘If you all resigned, they couldn’t do this to us, could they?’

  ‘Rather have the army instead, would you?’ The bulky figure of Conrad Mason, made even more intimidating by the uniform, loomed up out of the crowd. He was scowling. ‘Move along now, madam, you’re causing an obstruction.’

  Drunken football hooligans seldom fancied their chances when Mason flexed his muscles; the women, exchanging uneasy glances, did as they were told and he turned away, satisfied. But as the farmer’s wife drew level with Fleming she turned to look at her stonily, then very deliberately spat straight in her face.

  MacNee was there in two strides but Fleming’s hand shot out, restraining him with an iron grip. ‘Leave it, Tam.’ She stood impassively, the spit trickling down her cheek until the women had passed, her jawline and her shoulders rigid, her hands clenched so that the knuckles showed white. Then she took out a handkerchief, wiped it carefully away and without speaking turned to get back into her car.

  MacNee caught her arm. ‘You’re a professional, Marjory,’ he said, the roughness of his tone concealing his concern. ‘You’ve been spat at before.’

  ‘Not by someone who’s had coffee at my kitchen table,’ she said dully.

  ‘Och, don’t take it to heart. She’s not herself, that’s all. She’ll be round to say her “sorry” in the morning.’

  ‘I won’t be holding my breath.’ Fleming opened the car door, then, as he made to follow her in, said, ‘No, Tam. I’ve got to handle this on my own. It’s my job and I wanted it.’

  ‘Away and have a chat to Bill on the phone,’ he urged.

  She looked at him stonily. ‘You’re joking, of course,’ she said, climbed in and drove away.

  In the gathering dusk, Laura might almost have missed the Chapelton sign, if it hadn’t been for the police car parked across the entrance and the pitiless illumination of arc-lamps which silhouetted a group of buildings against the skyline. She caught her breath; here she was seeing the harsh reality of foot-and-mouth, hinted at before by the greasy smuts on her windscreen, the oily, acrid smell and the wreathing black smoke of pyres which she’d noticed on her journey north.

  She had formulated no particular plan in taking the narrow road up over the moors beyond Glenluce where Max had said the farm was situated. After a long drive up from London, with the early darkness of a Scottish winter evening, nowhere booked to stay and more hope than expectation of even locating Chapelton, this wasn’t exactly a rational thing to do. But she had felt all day that she was retracing Dizzy’s steps and there was a sort of romance about that which had gripped her, even as an inner voice howled: What do you think you’re doing? Latching on to someone else’s adolescent rebellion to compensate for your own low-key, conventional life?

  Well, she’d located the farm, and it was obviously in a state of siege. Was Max inside there, she wondered, presiding over a macabre slaughter of his father’s treasured cattle? And if so, would it seem some sort of symbolic catharsis as the lives sacrificed atoned for his own losses – his mother, his home? Perhaps, even, the loss of a father’s love?

  Anyway, driving aimlessly on in drizzling rain and growing darkness wasn’t constructive. She’d noticed the lights of a small hotel just outside the last village she’d gone through; that would do for the night, might even if it was half-way decent prove quite a good base for research for her article.

  She’d been considering that on the way up; she needed to talk not only to farmers who were clearly suffering what could only be called bereavement but to people working in the infrastructure of small businesses – shops, restaurants, little hotels like that one – who were dependent on tourism in countryside which had been officially declared closed, without any hope of the compensation for lack of livelihood which would be available to the farmers.

  There was a passing-place at a point where the road was a little bit wider too. She turned the car and set off back down the road she had come. As she turned a corner, a big black bird rose, startled, from where it had been tearing at some unidentifiable road-kill and flapped off towards a Forestry Commission plantation, dark against the sky.

  ‘Light thickens, and the crow

  Makes wing to the rooky wood,’

  Laura found herself muttering. That was Macbeth, wasn’t it – the Scottish Play, you were supposed to call it to avert bad luck. And the speech went on to say something about ‘night’s black agents’. She shuddered involuntarily; not a pleasant thought, out here in the wilds where you might almost be the only person on the planet.

  But in fact, there were the lights of the hotel ahead, and she turned into the car park, suddenly bone-weary. She got out, fetched her suitcase and walked towards the building, then hesitated on the doorstep. There was a dispirited air about the place, indefinably depressing; perhaps it would be better to look for somewhere else? But she was very tired, and after all she needn’t commit herself for more than one night. She open
ed the door and went in.

  The woman who appeared in answer to Laura’s tentative ping on the bell looked even more exhausted than Laura felt, heavy-eyed and with a tiny muscle jumping above dark brown eyes which looked too big for her thin face. She seemed surprised, as if the request for a room was unusual, but yes, she certainly had one available.

  ‘I hope this’ll suit.’ She was looking anxious as she unlocked the door to a room at the back of the house. ‘The two biggest rooms are taken.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ Laura said soothingly, then, as she saw the simply furnished room with its cheerful curtains and bedspread, added, ‘This is lovely – very comfortable.’

  The woman’s tired face lit up with an unexpectedly sweet smile. ‘I’m awful glad you like it. It makes a real difference.’

  There was an unspoken suggestion that not all guests were as appreciative. Not an easy job, running a hotel!

  ‘Yes, lovely,’ Laura repeated. ‘And that’s the bathroom?’

  ‘Just a shower-room.’ The anxious look reappeared. ‘I’m sorry, I know a lot of folk like a bath, but we’ve not a lot of space, you see—’

  ‘Don’t worry. That’s fine, honestly. And I’ll be able to have supper here?’

  ‘Yes. Well, it’s nothing grand, just two choices. But the fish van was round today and I’ve some real nice fish that were out there swimming around this time yesterday.’

  Laura laughed. ‘That sounds wonderful. And I can get a drink in the bar?’

  ‘Yes. Er, yes, of course. My – my husband does that. It’ll be open at six. Probably. And the meal’s at seven.’

  Laura noted the nervous hesitation but said only, ‘That’s fine. I’ll have plenty of time to have a shower and change. Thanks very much, Mrs—?’

  ‘Oh, Lisa. Lisa Thomson.’ She looked down at her watch with a harassed, White Rabbit expression. ‘Sorry, I’ll need to be getting on. There’s the bairns’ tea, you see—’

  ‘Of course. Don’t let me keep you.’

  Laura unpacked, her mind on the woman who had just left. People’s lives always intrigued her and there was a lot of harsh experience written on Lisa Thomson’s face. It had a look that reminded her of the women she had known in New York: what sort of man was the husband, when talking about him made Lisa so nervous?

  Still, she would have plenty of time to find out and, it struck her, Lisa and her husband were just the sort of people she needed to talk to for her research. Even if they had three rooms let tonight, she doubted if that was the norm, and it must be a real struggle to keep an enterprise like this afloat. There would be bar trade too, of course, and that would be a good way for her to meet the locals. Feelings must be running high just now; she suspected that it must be hard for a government whose major concern was all too obviously their urban power-base to convince a rural population that it wasn’t either cavalier or incompetent.

  How long, she wondered suddenly, had the Thomsons been running this place? It was the nearest pub to Chapelton and it was hard to imagine that Dizzy wouldn’t have been a regular. Certainly, it was a long time ago and Dizzy had been there for a very short time, but she had the sort of personality that made people remember her. It was exciting to think that here might be another source of information. She might even have made friends, kept in touch . . .

  It was unlikely, sure. But Laura went to have her shower in a mood of defiant optimism.

  The meal was surprisingly good, the ambience distinctly less so. The orange tablecloths with their cream napkins were a brave attempt but clearly the money had run out when it came to the cost of curtaining the extensive windows round three sides of the room. There were orange pelmets across the top but the strips of matching fabric down the sides of the windows were only for show. It let such heat as there was escape and it was somehow unnerving the way the darkness outside seemed to encroach on the room, making it feel bleak and unwelcoming.

  Its only other occupant was a large, florid woman at a table next to the only radiator. She was unwisely arrayed in a series of layers and scarves which only added to her bulk and she had cold, pale green eyes; she nodded stiffly and unsmilingly in response to Laura’s ‘Good evening’ as she passed on the way to her table.

  Fortunately Laura had thought of putting on a few layers herself – a thick black mohair tunic over a white silky polo-neck – but she wished she’d brought a book. It was disconcerting, eating in a chilly silence broken only by the clink of cutlery on plates and a short fit of coughing by her companion, except when that lady was complaining to Lisa Thomson about aspects of her meal which weren’t perfect and the service which was undeniably slow – although considering that Lisa was obviously cooking as well, it was unsurprising. Laura found herself childishly raising her voice as she handed back her plate with thanks, so that her praise for what had incurred the other’s condemnation should be clearly and, she hoped, irritatingly heard.

  The bar, when she had looked through the glass doors earlier, had been empty. Summoning Mr Thomson to perform his barman’s duties might get her off on the wrong foot, she thought, and anyway there might possibly be more people to talk to in here later. When she left the dining-room, having received only the stoniest of stares in response to ‘Good night’, she went back to the bar.

  It still wasn’t busy. In fact, there was only one customer, a weather-beaten old boy with a growth of grey stubble and rheumy blue eyes, sitting at the bar with an almost empty pint mug and an empty shot glass in front of him. Laura smiled at him as she took her seat on one of the bar stools; he greeted her with, ‘Aye, aye,’ said with a nod and a wink. At least the natives were friendly.

  She wasn’t so sure about the man behind the bar. He was of middle height, harsh-featured, with a shock of red hair and an expression which would make Gordon Brown in one of his more professionally dour moments seem positively vivacious. In his mid-thirties, Laura guessed, but beginning to run to seed with a sagging jawline and an incipient beer-gut. One arm seemed to sag awkwardly and he didn’t use it to prepare the vodka and tonic she ordered.

  ‘Could you put it on my bill, please? Oh, and one for yourself?’

  ‘Thanks.’ That was very nearly a smile. He put a glass to the whisky optic and uninvited poured himself a double; Laura looked at him sharply. His eyes were dull, the whites muddy, and she realised this was certainly not the first drink of the day. That explained poor Lisa’s anxiety, at least partially.

  The sound of a glass being set down in a marked manner called her attention to her neighbour. The faded eyes had a hopeful expression and his ingratiating smile was so broad that she could, in the unlikely event that she should wish to, have counted the yellowed stumps in his gum, like memorial stones marking a battle lost to age and decay.

  She said gravely, ‘Could I offer you a drink?’

  ‘Aye, could you!’ The ancient cackled with pleasure. ‘Nip ’n’ a chaser, Scott.’

  A pint of beer and another whisky – a single this time – was set in front of him; the whisky vanished in one gulp, chased by a deep swallow of beer and followed by a satisfied smacking of the lips.

  Laura prepared to capitalise on her investment. ‘Do you live near here?’

  The good news was that he was more than willing to chat to her and he had plenty to say. The bad news was that she could barely understand a word of it. She listened with a glazed expression, nodding sagely in what she hoped were the right places, while behind the bar Thomson watched with sardonic amusement.

  Her elderly friend was making short work of his pint. Laura was just considering how to disengage herself before she became responsible for a refill when she heard someone open the door to the bar. She had her back to it; not wanting to turn and stare, she didn’t realise who it was until a familiar voice spoke.

  ‘Good God, Laura!’ Max Mason said blankly. ‘What in the hell are you doing here?’

  She spun round, feeling her cheeks turn crimson in embarrassment. What a fool she was! The neares
t pub to Chapelton – she’d thought about that in connection with Dizzy but not Max. Now he’d think she was pursuing him and she’d been caught on the back foot again. She could only say feebly, ‘Goodness, Max!’

  Under the interested eyes of the other two men he pecked her on both cheeks. She could almost see him preening.

  ‘Hey, hey! This is some surprise! I always knew I was a babe magnet but this sort of pulling power is awesome!’

  ‘Don’t get the wrong idea,’ she said tartly. ‘I’m researching an article on the effects of foot-and-mouth and up here I thought I could kill two birds with one stone and do a bit of digging about my sister as well.’

  ‘Sure, sure.’ His tone was mocking. From the jauntiness of his body-language and the brightness of his eyes it was clear he was on some sort of high. ‘But come on, it’s good to see you. Let’s hack into a bottle of something.’ He leaned his elbows on the bar. ‘Got up to speed with wine yet, Scott? Or are you still more comfortable with cattle cake?’

  Laura had thought Thomson’s expression dour before; now it was so black that she was afraid he might turn violent. He said nothing, though, merely producing a couple of glasses and a bottle of red wine and opening it when Max had approved it with a careless nod.

  ‘He was our stockman at the farm when I left,’ Max said, taking the bottle and glasses over to a table in the farthest corner of the bar. ‘Had some sort of accident a couple of years ago, his wife said.’

  Laura followed him, making a note of the information. If Thomson had been at Chapelton when Max left he must have been there with Dizzy, though she’d better put in some practice at getting blood out of stones before she progressed to pumping him for information.

  ‘There’s foot-and-mouth at the farm, did you know?’ Max was pouring out the wine, hardly expecting an answer; not wanting to admit to her reconnaissance, Laura said non-committally, ‘I’m so sorry – that’s awful.’