Cold Blood by Jane Heafield (great books to read txt) 📕

he was certain they’d called all the displayed places, without joy. But just before he could remind her of this, she said, ‘I’ve known farm owners to rent out their places to tourists. They’re not officially hotels, but they’ll be advertised on local noticeboards and shop windows, and sometimes on social media. Which means they might not be listed in those pamphlets you looked through, or on this map.’

Bennet looked closely. The map showed him plenty of shacks and barns and farm buildings. But without knowing phone numbers, he didn’t have the time to visit each of these places, especially when there was no guarantee the crew hadn’t already checked into a hotel in Chesterfield, or even finished their documentary and headed home.

She ran a finger in a circle around a portion of the map to the east and north of the village. ‘All these nearest buildings here are on Ronald Crabtree’s farmland. He’s also got a residential ranch he built some years ago that people can rent. It was for his wife, but she died a few years back. I’m not sure where that is, but it’s a mile or two from his home.’

The Crabtree Bennet had seen in the village centre had looked a wreck, and now he knew why. He looked closely at the map. As well as the main L-shaped farmhouse and various shacks and sheds and large storage bins, there was a wooden barn, an open-sided, steel-framed building, a trio of rocket-shaped grain silos, and a corrugated metal building that looked like a half-sunken barrel on its side. He zoomed out, hoping to see this ranch she’d mentioned, but within a two-mile radius there were too many to scrutinise one at a time, especially when he had no idea if the ranch was a luxurious getaway or a dilapidated wreck.

‘One problem is that since he lost his wife, he’s become reclusive,’ Gemma said, ‘and I doubt he’d answer questions, at least not on the phone. The other is that Google Earth isn’t real time, so we can’t see if any of these buildings currently have a vehicle parked outside. You would have to take a trek, but it could be a big waste of time.’

‘I’m a police officer, Gemma. Ninety per cent of the leads I follow end up being a waste of time.’

25

About halfway along the track there from Benders Road, Bennet stopped at the PRIVATE. OUT. YOU. KEEP sign. The metal gate was chained shut, no code this time. But the chain was threaded through a large U-shaped nail hammered into the gatepost, and pressure from his Pathfinder easily yanked it free. Did a little more damage to the front of the vehicle though.

The new track disappeared over a small rise; beyond, the land slipped shallowly down and through a small wood. On the far side was Crabtree’s farmhouse. It was starting to get dark now, doubly so out here where artificial light was scarce. Bennet had hoped to get home in time to give Joe some good news about his mother and then accompany him and Patricia to the cinema. None of that optimism remained.

The first thing Liam noticed upon exiting the woods was that the large barn shown on Google Earth had gone. In its place was a giant oblong hole and the beginnings of foundations for another building. Parked nearby was a front loader tractor missing its boom attachment, various kinds of which were scattered around. As well as a standard bucket, there seemed to be a tool for every farm task imaginable – including a giant steel spike reminiscent of a weapon in the TV program Robot Wars. The other buildings remained, although the corrugated steel edifice was rusted and had old farm machinery parts blocking the large roller door.

There were two other vehicles, both parked by the red wooden farmhouse. Crabtree’s Land Rover, old and mud-plastered, and a family car that had no business out in the fields. It took another forty minutes bouncing across the uneven track to reach the farmhouse. Aware that an occupant at a window couldn’t have missed his arrival, Bennet exited his vehicle and waved. Nobody came to the door, so Liam strolled to the porch, where there was a wooden two-seater swing-bench, footstool and table with a magazine weighed down by a rock and an ashtray full of cigar butts.

Police training urged him to look in the living-room window before knocking on the door. He saw Crabtree in the living room with a lady in an old dressing gown, on an old armchair. Their backs were to Liam as they watched a black-and-white programme on TV. So who was this lady, if Crabtree had lost his wife? Liam rapped on the door.

‘Wait a minute,’ Crabtree’s gruff voice yelled. But it was almost three minutes before a shape appeared in the small window in the door. The old wood opened with a squeak from a draft excluder attached a little too low. Crabtree stood before him in grimy jeans and a blue pullover stiffened and crusted in places with thick splashes of ancient paint. The eyes were red and droopy, as if he’d been asleep. A sudden alertness in them at the sight of Liam said otherwise.

‘Come on in, lad. Come on.’

The old man grabbed his wrist to try to drag him inside, which instantly raised Bennet’s suspicions. He allowed himself to be led, but when Crabtree tried to shut the door behind them, Liam turned to look outside. A moment before the door shut, he caught sight of a young woman slipping out from beside the house and scuttling towards the family car that had no business out here. Only it did, and Liam could make a good guess what that business was, based on the woman’s short skirt and clearly young, smooth thighs.

Despite his urge to get Liam inside, Crabtree didn’t move from the narrow hallway. He stepped past Liam and shut the door to the living room. Before it