Death of an Innocent by Sally Spencer Page A

in an awkward silence for the two or three minutes it took the old woman to make the tea.
    Mrs Turner re-entered the room with three steaming mugs of tea on a battered tin tray. Woodend took a sip of his. It tasted heavily of tannin, and was strong enough to make bricks out of – which was just the way he liked it.
    â€˜You said you hadn’t spoken to Mr Dugdale for over forty years, Mr Turner,’ he said, when he’d taken a couple more sips of tea. ‘Is there any particular reason for that?’
    â€˜Aye, there’s plenty of reasons for it,’ the old farmer replied. ‘But none that I want to go readin’ about in a newspaper.’
    â€˜He was away from Whitebridge for a good few years, wasn’t he?’ Woodend said, trying another tack. ‘Do you have any idea where he went?’
    â€˜None at all – an’ I don’t care, neither. He should have stayed away for ever, if you want my opinion.’
    Woodend turned his attention to Mrs Turner. ‘Do you have any idea⎯’ he began.
    â€˜No, she does not,’ Jed Turner interrupted him – but not before Woodend had had time to read the flicker in the old woman’s eyes.
    â€˜So there’s really not much you can tell me about him, is there?’ Woodend asked.
    â€˜I can tell you that he’s a real bad bugger – allus was – an’ that if it turns out he was responsible for them killin’s up at that so-called farm of his, I wouldn’t be the least surprised.’
    â€˜A real bad bugger?’ Woodend repeated. ‘What exactly do you mean when you⎯?’
    â€˜I’ve said all I’m
goin’
to say on that particular matter,’ Turner snapped. He stood up, and placed his half-finished mug of tea on the stone mantelpiece with an air of finality. ‘So now, if you wouldn’t mind . . .’ he continued, gesturing towards the door.
    â€˜Let the lad finish his drink before you turn him out into the cold again,’ Mrs Turner said. ‘An’ while he’s doin’ that, you could make yourself useful an’ go an’ fetch some more logs for the fire.’
    Turner glanced down at the pile which already stood by the fireplace. ‘We’ve plenty of⎯’
    â€˜I know you of old, Jed Turner,’ his wife said with mock severity. ‘There might be plenty of wood for now, but later on – when we’re runnin’ low – you’ll be moanin’ that it’s too dark an’ miserable to go an’ fetch some more. So you’re better doin’ it now.’
    Turner gave Woodend an uncharacteristically friendly look – a look which said that even if Woodend didn’t have a real job, they were both still men and so both understood that when you were dealing with women it was easier just to do what they wanted, however unreasonable that might seem. Then he rose to his feet and headed for the door.
    Mrs Turner waited until her husband had closed the door behind him before saying, ‘We haven’t got long, so you’d best save time by bein’ straight with me right from the start.’
    â€˜Straight with you?’ Woodend repeated.
    â€˜You’re not really a reporter at all, are you?’
    Woodend looked into the woman’s faded, but still intelligent, eyes and decided there was no point in pretending any longer.
    He grinned. ‘Was I that obvious?’
    â€˜Well, you weren’t very good at it, if that’s what you mean. But even if you’d been able to carry it off better, it still wouldn’t have worked. As far as my Jed’s concerned, the world revolves around this farm – but I read the papers.’
    â€˜An’ you’ve seen my picture in them?’
    â€˜More than once. An’ my niece once pointed you out to me. She works in the police canteen in Whitebridge, an’ always speaks very highly of you. Says you’re not stuck