‘I also found the Leckies’ killers,’ I said, as Neesham pushed past me.
Neesham hesitated.
‘Get in,’ he said.
He pulled out of the station car park, onto the high street, and flicked a switch on the dashboard. His siren wailed into life.We hurtled down the hill towards the railway crossing, past the Fireman’s Arms. Neesham took the crossing without slowing down, testing the suspension on the car. He sped up the high street, towards the cinema. He gunned the powerful engine and shoppers crossing the road had to step lively as we sped past.
‘The War Ag’s taking Streatfield’s farm,’ he said. ‘He’s got himself holed up in the house with a shotgun, threatening to kill anyone who cares to get close.’
Arthur Streatfield had a failing farm on the Newick road, between me and Eric. He’d been letting it go to the dogs since his sons were killed in the Great War. Three sons on the same day. A suicidal attack the day before the Somme. Turned out later it was designed solely as a diversion. Went down in regimental history as ‘the day that Sussex died’.
‘I thought that was the War Ag, not you lot,’ I said.
‘How’s your place?’ Neesham asked. ‘Ready for the inspection?’
I didn’t answer.
He took the s-bend carved through sandstone outcrops, under the footbridge that let the owners of The Rocks estate cross the road to their pleasure gardens without having to interact with the rest of us.
‘I had an irate call last night from the barracks at Maresfield,’ he said. ‘Someone encouraged their MPs to snatch a couple of civvies.’
‘Kate Davidson’s boys,’ I said. ‘They killed the Leckies. They wanted them out of the cottage. They’d already tried violence, but they weren’t getting things their way.’
‘So you thought you’d step in and play detective.’
‘They’d still be at large if it wasn’t for me.’
We shot down the straight, heading out of town, hemmed in by mossy stone walls. I looked left as we passed the turn-off to my farm.
‘It wasn’t them,’ he said.
‘How do you know?’
‘They’ve got an alibi,’ he said. ‘We know where they were when the killings took place.’
‘And you believe them?’
‘I believe my own eyes,’ he said. ‘They were at the station. First day of training for the local defence volunteers, along with every other man in Uckfield. Apart from you, I might add.’
Churchill had put out a call for able-bodied men to sign up at their local police station. No planning. No infrastructure. No weapons. Give the masses something to do.
‘Doesn’t sound like their cup of tea,’ I said.
‘They were first in line.’
Neesham killed the siren as we bumped along the rutted track to Streatfield’s farm. Three police cars circled the abandoned well in the middle of the yard. Each car had a police constable sheltering behind it. Each constable had a shotgun. Like a Bogart film. One of the constables
had a bloody handkerchief pressed to his face.
‘This is going to be a mess,’ Neesham said. ‘Stay in the car.’ He got out and hurried around the back of the car, keeping low.
A shotgun barrel protruded from an upstairs window of the farmhouse. Streatfield, presumably. He’d be drunk, which meant his aim would be useless.
I got out of the car, slamming the door behind me. I wanted Streatfield’s attention, wanted him to see it was me, not a police constable.
‘Streatfield?’ I shouted. ‘I’m coming in. If you shoot me, we’re going to have words.’
‘Cook!’ Neesham shouted. ‘Get back in that car!’ I ignored him and strode across the overgrown yard. The last time I’dbeen here had been to borrow a harrow, when I’d got back from the North-West Frontier, and I’d been putting everything I had into keeping my farm afloat. Streatfield had been the only one willing to lend me his kit. One of the problems with farming. Everyone needs the same machines at the same time, so it’s hard to share them. Streatfield had given up, so his tools were always available.
