Free Skin and Bones by Tom Bale

the
farm?'
    Sullivan met his eye, and nodded. 'I'm afraid so.'
    They reached the corner of the house. Wide lawns covered almost
an acre, leading on to a tennis court, a Victorian walled garden and
a small orchard. Beyond that, miles of open farmland: not a road
or a building in sight.
    Sullivan, gazing at the view, said, 'How long had you known the
Caplans?'
    'Oh, it must be at least six, seven years. Keith was a very capable
farmer. They were nice people. I counted them as friends, not just
employees.'
    The detective nodded thoughtfully. They walked on in silence. The
western side of the house had a ground-floor extension added in the
late nineteenth century, and it was here that one of the windows had
been smashed. A uniformed officer was standing guard on the path.
    'Is there much damage inside?'
    'Superficial. Cupboards and shelves emptied. I can't say whether
any valuables have been taken, but it seems unlikely.' Sullivan looked
to be fighting a smirk. 'He also took a dump on your dining-room
table.'
    George shuddered, then remembered what had occurred to him
during the phone call. 'Do you think this was premeditated, or done
on the spur of the moment?'
    'Why do you ask?'
    'The fact that he came here to steal my shotgun. How was he to
know the place was empty?' He glanced in the direction of the village.
'If we'd been at home, perhaps none of this would have happened.'
    'As far as we know he already had the pistol with him. He might
have blasted in here, killed the two of you and taken the shotgun
anyway.'
    It was an odd sort of consolation to offer someone. Sullivan took
the camera from his pocket and turned it over several times, pondering
something.
    'Right now, there's a lot we don't understand.' He glanced at the
uniform, who read his expression and turned away as if rebuked. There
was a whirring noise as the camera powered up.
    'I reckon you might be able to help us,' he went on. 'Take a look
at this.'
    He held up the camera for George to see. There was a tiny screen
on the back, no more than an inch or so square, but the image
displayed on it was perfectly clear. It was a man's head, taken at close
range but with part of it obscured, perhaps deliberately, by a sheet of
paper. Concealing a wound, George guessed. But there was enough
of the face visible for him to understand two things.
    The man was dead. And he was familiar.
    'That's Carl Forester.'
    Sullivan's eyes widened. 'Who is he?'
    'He used to work for me, some years ago. He helped out on the
farm.' Remembering something else, George felt the blood drain from
his face. Fortunately Sullivan had chosen that moment to switch the
camera off, and by the time he looked up George had recovered.
    He would have to tell the police at some point, of course. But not
now.
    'He lived locally, then?' Sullivan said.
    'Falcombe, I think. He had a very disruptive home life. Father's
long gone. Mother is an alcoholic. Carl himself was a bit of a tearaway,
I believe.'
    'So we'll find him in our records?'
    'I imagine so. Motoring convictions. Petty theft, perhaps.'
    'Any sex offences that you know of?'
    George felt dizzy again. 'What?'
    Sullivan shoved the camera back in his pocket and looked George
squarely in the eye. 'Mrs Caplan was raped before she died.'

Fourteen
    It was nearly two in the afternoon when Craig got home. He turned
into the cul-de-sac and saw Nina's Citroën on the driveway. He
remained in the car for a minute, not so much collecting his thoughts
as dispersing them. His preoccupations felt like steel cables, coiled so
tight they might suffocate him.
    While Abby rejoined her colleagues in the media tent, he had stood
in line at the grandly named Friends and Relatives Reception Centre.
Eventually he spoke to a community support officer, who by now had
been politely resisting demands for information for several hours and
could reel off official platitudes while simultaneously filling out forms
and keeping an alert eye on potential troublemakers further along