Free A Dirty Death by Rebecca Tope Page B

intrusion: when she saw his uniform, she removed the headphones and sighed audibly.
    Once again the questions were put, the replies noted. The couple repeatedly hesitated, each waiting for the other to answer – not from politeness so much as caution, it seemed to Den. When an answer did eventually come, the other partner would often disagree, especially over matters of fact. Tim said they had lived in the village for four years; Sarah said five. Tim said he worked as a consultant to a software firm; she saidhe was a self-employed computer games salesman. They did agree that she worked as a hardware designer specialising in sound reproduction. They barely knew the Grimsdales or the Beardons, but were good friends of the Mabberleys, on the next farm along from Redstone. They could think of no earthly connection between the two deaths, and they had no feelings about Guy or Isaac, except that they knew Guy had made himself unpopular with the likes of the Wing Commander. This caused another disagreement: Tim found it rather amusing, while Sarah thought it was unkind to tease the poor old chap. They’d both been in bed until about seven-thirty the previous morning, and could only provide each other as alibi. The atmosphere in the house was brittle and Den was relieved to conclude his interview.
    By this time he was hungry, and he called at the Ring o’ Bells pub for some lunch. Maggie Dansett, the landlady, made a big production of cutting a round of ham sandwiches. She leant over the bar towards him as he ate, more than ready for a gossip. ‘That Guy Beardon, he were a proper tartar to they chillun of his’n,’ she confided. ‘And worse to poor old Sam. You’ll have heard, I reckon, what a tongue ’e had on’n? Sharp as fish hooks and festered near as bad, too, I’d say. Now poor old Isaac, who never hurt so much as a fly. What a thing! You police people trawling all overthe village, ’tis a bad business and no mistake. Folks is axing, who’ll be the third? There’s always a third, everyone knows that. Sooner you catch the bugger as did for poor Isaac, the sooner us’ll sleep at night.’
    Den smiled deprecatingly and finished his sandwich. He hadn’t intended to interview Mrs Dansett and her stream of consciousness was disconcerting. As far as he could tell she hadn’t said anything worth writing down, except for the reference to Guy’s ill-treatment of Sam. It went without saying that Sam had to be everybody’s first choice when it came to wondering who – if anybody – had pushed Guy into the slurry.
    Scanning the list he’d made first thing that morning, he realised he had seen all the main players; all those whom he considered most likely to be of assistance, having observed them closely at Guy’s funeral. Hetty Taplow came next, and her house was a mile away, in a row of workers’ cottages set close to the road, and comprising a tiny settlement all of its own. It was in the opposite direction to Redstone and the Mabberleys’, and he hesitated as to which course to take first. The decision came readily: Hetty was another Mrs Dansett – a gossip who knew everything and nothing. No hard facts, little but second-hand tales and wild suppositions, spiced with tight-lipped judgements. Hetty could wait.
    He turned right out of the pub’s small car park and followed the winding lane past Redstone’s roadside entrance. Half a mile further on he turned left into another farm driveway.
    The approach was lined with stately horse chestnut trees, heavy with their white flowers. To his left, towards Redstone, lay a dense wood of oak and beech and ash: Jonathan Mabberley’s greatest asset. There had been talk, a year or two back, of the National Trust taking it over as a safeguard against the magnificent trees ever being destroyed. But Jonathan had resisted, giving every assurance that there was no threat to the trees from him.
    The house was of an old colonial style, improved and extended until it straggled over