They reach the end of the village; the houses and residents reducing in number now, more spread out. There’s no longer any broken pavements to walk on, so they stroll down the side of the narrow country lane, keeping as close to the left as possible. There’s even grass growing in the middle of it. Detective Williams says there’s another mile to go before the turning to the farm. They must now walk in single file toavoid oncoming traffic. Not that there’s a lot. A car every now and then. A tractor turning into a nearby field.
Slow, plodding footsteps sound behind him.
Stephen turns and glances over his right shoulder, spying a person following them about fifty yards behind. The person has a flat cap on, so he assumes it’s a man, but it’s difficult to tell for sure.
Is this the same person who’d been watching him in the village earlier? There’s no dog with him, so perhaps not.
Stephen focuses his attention on the road ahead, continuing, but those warning bells are ringing again. Louder than ever.
He turns again, but the person behind him is no longer there. It makes no sense because there are no turnings they could have taken to get off the road and, unless they threw themselves into a hedgerow, there’s nowhere to hide. Is he imagining things again? The hairs on the back of his neck tickle as he faces the right direction. Detective Williams doesn’t seem to have noticed he’s lagging. Stephen keeps his head down, his arms brushing against the hedgerows and the stinging nettles and brambles that are growing out into the road. The sound of an engine sounds ahead and he and the detective move in sync, pressing against the sides to give the vehicle plenty of space as it passes wide and slow.
‘Not much further now,’ says the detective.
Stephen looks behind him, back along the road towards the village where they’ve walked from. There’s no sign of his secret follower.
The sign to the farm is nestled behind a thick bush, but the detective sees it just in time to stop from walking past it.Pen-Y-Bryn. Stephen wonders what it means in English.
It’s a short walk up the track towards the farmyard. Along the way, they pass several fields filled with pigs of varying sizes and breeds. It appears that Diane is the owner of a pig farm. The closer they get, the more Stephen's nostrils twitch with an overwhelming stench of manure.
‘Delightful,’ says the detective, screwing his nose up.
‘It’s certainly an … interesting smell,’ says Stephen.
The detective smirks as he heads towards the main farmhouse. Stephen takes a quick scan of the yard, noting the five separate barns surrounding it. It’s a big area. Stephen can’t imagine that Diane manages the farm by herself. She must have farmhands or helpers or whatever it is that they‘re called. He wonders how many pigs she has on the farm at any one given time. Hundreds, perhaps. How does one keep track of so many?
‘Can I help you?’ A woman’s voice interrupts his thoughts.
Stephen turns and spies a mature woman striding towards them, carrying a shovel. While her manner doesn’t appear threatening, she’s clearly confused about who they areand why they’re on her land. Stephen expects she doesn’t get a lot of strangers visiting the farm. This is a village where everyone knows everyone, apart from the detective who clearly hasn’t done much socialising since he’s lived here. Not that he can blame him, but he does appear to know where both Diane Bevan and Frank Hammel live, so that’s a plus.
‘Are you Diane Bevan?’ asks Stephen.
‘Depends.'
‘I’m sorry?’ he asks with a stutter. ‘Either you are Diane Bevan or you’re not. It's a pretty simple question.'
The woman raises her eyebrows at him, just as the detective steps forwards and joins the conversation. ’I'm sorry about my friend here.’
‘I didn’t know you had any friends, Mr Williams, but that’s quite all right. So,isthere something I can help you with?’
Chapter 28
GRAHAM
Graham does a quick head to toe scan of the farmer who’s roughly a decade younger than him, attractive and wearing green wellington boots, a scruffy-looking wax jacket and a pair of old jeans, her dark blonde hair messy and loose around her shoulders. He recognises her from the village meeting, but she’d barely said a word and hadn’t introduced herself either.
‘I didn’t realise you knew who I was,’ says Graham.
‘A lot of people know who you are. You live at Rosemore Cottage. You’re a retired detective, right?’
‘That’s right, ma’am.’
‘My dad was a cop.’
Graham doesn't respond. It isn't one of those instances where ‘Ah, that’s nice’ is considered the correct response. More like, ‘I’m sorry’ because Graham knows all too well the reality of having a father as a cop. His own father had been one and he’d barely had a relationship with the man. He’d always been too busy, too tired or too stressed to spend quality time with Graham. There was always a darkness behind his eyes that told a story not everyone could - or should - read. Being a police officer meant making difficult choices, seeing things that most people would have a breakdown over. It wasone of the reasons why Graham had never married or had children of his own.
And now, it’s too late for any of that. He made his choice many years ago.
It also strikes Graham as strange that Diane’s father was a cop. He assumed that the farmers around here all worked in the family business, never stepping foot outside it to continue the legacy for future generations.
