‘Uh, an old jacket I picked up from the market.’
‘It stinks.’
‘Yeah, well …’
He turned and walked away without another word, his shoulders hunched forwards, like the weight of the world was pressing down on them.
I watched him walk out of the yard, then dropped the bucket I was holding and ran into the house with Barney right on my heels. Dad didn’t want me to find out answers, so I was going to look for them myself. He was lying when he said the village council didn’t keep a written record of what happened in the village over the years. I'd seen him writing in a massive, leather-bound book several times. He just didn’t know that I’d watched him.
I needed to find it.
Chapter 30
STEPHEN
‘What do you make of that?' asks the detective while they walk back along the track towards the road. Their next destination is Blackberry Farm, home of Frank Hammel.
‘She seemed quite helpful at first,’ replies Stephen. He trips over a pothole, his feet not quite reacting in time, and quickly rights himself. ‘But she did clam up rather fast when you asked about Sophia Hammel. We also confirmed we were correct in our guess that the hanging scarecrow is a new tradition, which started after Sophia’s disappearance.’
‘That’s true,’ replies the detective. ‘The pig heart inside the scarecrow is obviously meant to represent the lives lost over the years, or just perhaps a way of honouring the dead, but it’s a bit of a dead end now.’
‘Yes, the whole scarecrow and pig heart thing does seem to have thrown us off a bit.’
‘I think we now need to focus on Sophia’s possible disappearance,’ says the detective.
‘Agreed.’
Once they reach the main road, they turn and walk back into the village. Stephen’s feet are already beginning to ache and he’s in dire need of a drink of water and a sit down, but now they have a solid lead, a strong trail of breadcrumbsto follow, he’s like a dog with a bone. He’s unwilling to let it go until he gets to the good stuff hidden inside.
The Blackberry Farm sign is engraved crudely with the name, in dire need of being freshened up. Clearly the wear and tear of the elements has caused degradation over the years. Perhaps a new one altogether would be more beneficial. Potholes litter the track leading to the farm; mostly filled with rainwater.
Stephen and the detective side-step the various holes and muddy areas, keeping to the left. It’s another half a mile or so up to the farm itself, but there are various outbuildings, barns and stables in the fields surrounding the main farmyard. He often wonders how places like this are still going.
Out here, in the middle of Wales, he’s noticed life moves at a much slower pace. Everything is less complicated and busy. Phone signal is almost non-existent, and traffic jams consist of sheep or cows being herded by a farmer and his dog, or a tractor turning in the narrow lane, blocking the way for cars. They either have to wait for the obstacle to move or find another way around, and that involves travelling for miles in a different direction.
By the time they arrive at the farm gate where another wooden sign tells them they are at the correct place, Stephen’s shoes are covered in mud and sweat is beading on his forehead. Again. In fact, he doesn't feel all that well. Maybethe long walk hadn’t been such a good idea. Does he have a fever? Or is he merely sweating from the exertion?
He wipes his forehead with the cuff of his jacket and unbolts the gate. A black and white dog rushes towards them, barking. It has tufts of grey around its eyes and muzzle. Stephen freezes, sliding the bolt back across, making sure there’s a solid barrier between him and the animal. He isn’t afraid of dogs, but he knows a warning when he hears one. Hopefully, the dog’s barking will alert its owner.
The detective, on the other hand, takes a step away from the gate.
‘You afraid of dogs, Detective?’ asks Stephen with an eyebrow raise.
‘On the contrary. I'm afraid of dogbites.'
They don’t have to wait long before a gruff male voice from a nearby barn shouts, ‘Hey! Barney, shut your racket!’
A man walks out of the barn wearing an old, checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks to be in his late fifties, a similar age to the detective. His tanned skin is covered in deep set wrinkles, having clearly seen many years of hard labour working on the farm.
‘Who are you?’ he asks, catching sight of Stephen first, but then his eyes focus on the detective on the other side of the gate and he nods. ‘Ah, Mr Williams. I did wonder if you’d be paying me a visit at some point.’
‘We’re here to ask you about your daughter, Sophia,’ replies the detective. Stephen is taken back by his abruptness. With Diane, the detective had beaten around the bush a little, gauging her reaction before jumping in at the deep end, but with Frank Hammel, he seems to have taken the opposite approach.
Stephen’s expecting some sort of aggressive reaction from Mr Hammel, or at least a standoffish one, but he doesn’t expect the man to chuckle.
‘Now, why on earth would you want to know about Sophia?’ Mr Hammel glances down at the dog who is still barking. ‘Quiet, Barney!’ The dog stops and wags his tail instead.
‘We’ve been led to believe that she disappeared ten years ago. Is that true?’ asks the detective, increasing the pressure.
