Rainstone Fall by Peter Helton

Yeah, just what I need,’ he grumbled over his shoulder.
    I followed him through a wide corridor, its floor darkly tiled and cluttered with boots and wellies, into a big, cold, dysfunctional kitchen.
    ‘Private secretary is what I need, actually.’ His sweeping arm gesture invited me to appreciate the chaos of paperwork on the table, the chairs and the floor. An old-fashioned electric typewriter and a big-buttoned calculator stood half-buried amongst the papers, books and booklets, lists, maps and notepads. Adding to the chaos were the teetering piles of dinner plates and other crockery waiting to be washed everywhere and the stacks of used pots and pans. Some of those had also found space on the chairs and floor. More than anything he needed a housekeeper. It was my turn to sniff: there was more than a hint of decay here and someone had been hitting the bottle.
    ‘You any good with paperwork? Perhaps you could investigate this little lot for me. It’s certainly criminal. Thought up by the evil geniuses in Brussels, I’ve no doubt. Care for a drink? Hope you don’t mind if I do,’ he said when I shook my head. ‘Not that I really give a shit. About anything much.’ He picked up a bottle of supermarket gin from under the table and poured himself a generous measure into a glass blind with grime. Then he waggled the bottle towards me in a way that was meant to be tempting.
    ‘No thanks, really, I’m driving.’
    ‘No shit. I thought you came in a biplane. You look like a barnstorming stunt pilot in that get-up.’ He let himself drop heavily on to the only chair that wasn’t covered in paperwork or dirty kitchenware. ‘Siddown, make some space for yourself and call me Jack ’cause that’s my name. Jack Fryer. Small fry. Cheers.’ He raised his glass in salute. Here was a man who had been drinking steadily for hours and handled it with a depressing and frightening tautness that balanced precariously on top of a barely suppressed rage.
    I carefully cleared a chair for myself and gestured at the papers festooning the table. ‘So, what’s all this?’ I asked. Anyone can make a mistake.
    ‘This is called a SUBSIDY APPLICATION FORM,’ he said in capital letters. ‘The new subsidy, of course.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘Do you, fuck! But hey, let me enlighten you. Used to be that we received payments based on the number of animals we reared. Aha? Made sense? No more. From now on subsidies will be based on number of acres farmed, no matter how many animals on them. What could be simpler? Suicide, that’s what. Let me show you. These,’ he flung them in the air one by one, ‘are the ex . . . plana . . . tory . . . booklets. Two, three, five . . . about ten of them. And then there are the maps. And the lists. Every acre needs to be registered with the Rural Payments Agency and they manage to miss half of your fields off the lists and if you call their fucking helpline you get some twelve-year-old twit telling you the payments have been put back by three months. The bank’s already said they won’t play ball any more which means I could easily lose the farm. And even if I don’t, the new subsidies will amount to only half of what we used to get which means we’ll no longer make any profit at all. I don’t know why I bother with this fucking crap. If I had the money I’d sue the minister for agriculture for destroying my livelihood. And driving me to drink. Are you sorry you asked yet?’
    ‘No, not at all.’
    ‘Well, that makes you a right weirdo. So what do you want? If you can’t calculate acreage or repair dishwashers then you’re no fucking use to me at all.’ He waved a hand at the piles of furry dishes in and around the sink.
    ‘You can wash these things by hand, you know?’
    ‘Bollocks. I tried it once. It can’t be done. Did you say private investigator? What might you be investigating on my farm?’
    Botulism, I nearly said, looking at spoons stuck in half-eaten tins of food, but asked about my