hoped, it would all be sewn up by bedtime. If Hillcock’s clothes revealed traces of O’Farrell’s blood and if Speedwell’s did not, Den thought they’d have more than enough to launch a prosecution against Hillcock.
But perhaps he was being unduly precipitate. There were still a host of unanswered questions. If Hillcock had dragged his victim into the barn, why was he then so horrified at its discovery? Had it been simply good acting, for the benefit of Deirdre Watson and the police? Deirdre Watson didn’t look like someone who’d be easily fooled. And if Sean had dragged himself into the barn, why would he do that? Why hide away like that, instead of trying to reach the big house and summon help? Had he staggered away in terror of further assault? Perhaps he hadn’t understood how severe his injuries were. After all, his arms and legs still presumably worked at that point, and his head was undamaged. It hadn’t looked as if any bones were broken. Perhaps he’d been so terrified – or even enraged – that the pain was secondary to the fear or his desire to hit back.
The geography of the farm buildings was extremely complicated, and Den had difficulty in remembering how they all connected up. Could the barn have been a short cut of some sort? To a telephone in the office perhaps, or a first aid box.That struck him as a highly persuasive theory, and he made a note of it.
And where had the murderer gone, though, immediately after the attack was over? Had he waited to see what his victim would do, or had he flung down his weapon and run in the opposite direction, hoping to establish some sort of alibi for himself? Had he been cool and calculating, or distraught at what he’d done?
Danny Hemsley swept into the room as if there wasn’t a second to spare, his head thrust forward on his thick neck. ‘Cooper!’ he shot out. ‘Where the hell have you been? We’ve got a million things to do this morning. Forensics have hardly scratched the surface yet, and you know what farms are like – shit all over everything.’ He eyed the open file. ‘Reading the exercise in minimalism they’ve produced so far, eh?’
Den leant against the desk, taking his weight on his knuckles. ‘Looks okay to me,’ he said. ‘Chap’s attacked in the yard and staggers, or is dragged, bleeding into the barn, where he dies. And the pathologist says it was done with a farm or garden implement with three prongs, which is exactly what they’ve found.’
‘I know. They phoned. There was no need for you to be at the PM. Wasting time when you could have been questioning the Dunsworthy people.’
Den didn’t try to argue. Hemsley’s habit was to panic at the outset of an investigation, to want everything done at once, full reports submitted before breakfast. Den had printed out his own lengthy findings from the hours following the first summons to Dunsworthy, and left them on the DI’s desk the previous evening, before finally getting home at nine-thirty. His own conscience was crystal clear where reports were concerned. ‘Is Hillcock still here?’ he asked.
‘Too right he is. Not a happy badger, either.’ Den and the others had long ago given up trying to decide whether Danny knew the difference between badgers and bunnies or whether he just thought he was being funny. ‘He says he did not kill his herdsman, and that he can’t provide any witnesses to where he was between one-fifteen and three-fifteen p.m. Full stop.’
‘He only needs to account for the hour between two and three,’ Den said. ‘O’Farrell was alive at two, his wife saw him – and the Watson woman arrived just after three and was chatting to him before they started the milking.’
Hemsley nodded impatiently. ‘Whatever. He says he had lunch alone in his house, having taken a sandwich and some fruit up to the old granny at one o’clock. The milk recorder got there about half past two and he had a quick word with her in the yard before she went intothe
But perhaps he was being unduly precipitate. There were still a host of unanswered questions. If Hillcock had dragged his victim into the barn, why was he then so horrified at its discovery? Had it been simply good acting, for the benefit of Deirdre Watson and the police? Deirdre Watson didn’t look like someone who’d be easily fooled. And if Sean had dragged himself into the barn, why would he do that? Why hide away like that, instead of trying to reach the big house and summon help? Had he staggered away in terror of further assault? Perhaps he hadn’t understood how severe his injuries were. After all, his arms and legs still presumably worked at that point, and his head was undamaged. It hadn’t looked as if any bones were broken. Perhaps he’d been so terrified – or even enraged – that the pain was secondary to the fear or his desire to hit back.
The geography of the farm buildings was extremely complicated, and Den had difficulty in remembering how they all connected up. Could the barn have been a short cut of some sort? To a telephone in the office perhaps, or a first aid box.That struck him as a highly persuasive theory, and he made a note of it.
And where had the murderer gone, though, immediately after the attack was over? Had he waited to see what his victim would do, or had he flung down his weapon and run in the opposite direction, hoping to establish some sort of alibi for himself? Had he been cool and calculating, or distraught at what he’d done?
Danny Hemsley swept into the room as if there wasn’t a second to spare, his head thrust forward on his thick neck. ‘Cooper!’ he shot out. ‘Where the hell have you been? We’ve got a million things to do this morning. Forensics have hardly scratched the surface yet, and you know what farms are like – shit all over everything.’ He eyed the open file. ‘Reading the exercise in minimalism they’ve produced so far, eh?’
Den leant against the desk, taking his weight on his knuckles. ‘Looks okay to me,’ he said. ‘Chap’s attacked in the yard and staggers, or is dragged, bleeding into the barn, where he dies. And the pathologist says it was done with a farm or garden implement with three prongs, which is exactly what they’ve found.’
‘I know. They phoned. There was no need for you to be at the PM. Wasting time when you could have been questioning the Dunsworthy people.’
Den didn’t try to argue. Hemsley’s habit was to panic at the outset of an investigation, to want everything done at once, full reports submitted before breakfast. Den had printed out his own lengthy findings from the hours following the first summons to Dunsworthy, and left them on the DI’s desk the previous evening, before finally getting home at nine-thirty. His own conscience was crystal clear where reports were concerned. ‘Is Hillcock still here?’ he asked.
‘Too right he is. Not a happy badger, either.’ Den and the others had long ago given up trying to decide whether Danny knew the difference between badgers and bunnies or whether he just thought he was being funny. ‘He says he did not kill his herdsman, and that he can’t provide any witnesses to where he was between one-fifteen and three-fifteen p.m. Full stop.’
‘He only needs to account for the hour between two and three,’ Den said. ‘O’Farrell was alive at two, his wife saw him – and the Watson woman arrived just after three and was chatting to him before they started the milking.’
Hemsley nodded impatiently. ‘Whatever. He says he had lunch alone in his house, having taken a sandwich and some fruit up to the old granny at one o’clock. The milk recorder got there about half past two and he had a quick word with her in the yard before she went intothe
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