Free According to the Evidence by Bernard Knight

rest.’
    Crippen gave an almost imperceptible nod to his sergeant, and Nichols took up the questioning. ‘I gather you weren’t all that keen on Tom Littleman becoming a partner in the machinery business?’
    Mostyn shook his leonine head. ‘It was alright for him to come here as a mechanic on a wage. I grant you, he knew his stuff where engines were concerned, but he started going downhill as a worker. The boys were daft to cut him into a share of the business. I warned them against him, but they would have their way.’
    â€˜Why were you so against him, Mr Evans?’
    The old farmer considered this slowly. He rubbed his hands together and then stroked his bristly chin. ‘There was something about him from the first. He was an outsider, see, from up in England somewhere. Never fitted in here, always seemed to hold himself apart from us.’
    â€˜I don’t quite follow you, Mr Evans,’ said Crippen. ‘Did he cause any trouble?’
    Again there was a pause, but shorter this time.
    â€˜Only when his boozing started to interfere with his work. By then, it was none of my business – I’d given the place over to Aubrey and Jeff – but I warned them! We lost some customers over it, and we’ve got plenty of competitors. Not delivering on time is a serious business. These days since the horses went, a farmer without a tractor is worse than losing the use of his legs!’
    John Nichols was busy writing in his notebook, though more formal statements would have to be taken from everyone later.
    The detective inspector brought the questioning around to more immediate matters. ‘You know, of course, that Littleman was strangled and then an attempt made to cover it up?’
    The older man nodded. ‘Must have been somebody from his past – or his present! God knows what he was up to in Brecon after he left here every day.’
    â€˜And you’ve no idea what that might have been? Did he ever let drop anything to you about his private life?’
    â€˜Naw, did he hell!’ exclaimed Mostyn contemptuously. ‘Tight-mouthed bugger, he was!’
    The rest of the interview was barren of anything useful, and soon the father went back to the kitchen for another cup of tea and to discuss his interrogation with Aubrey and the others.
    Arthur Crippen stared out of the small parlour window across the muddy yard to the large milking parlour and the cow pen alongside it.
    â€˜Like the woman, I reckon our Mostyn could tell us a bit more if he had a mind to,’ he said ruminatively.
    Nichols nodded. ‘I got the same impression. Think this Littleman was making a nuisance of himself with the two wives?’
    His superior shrugged. ‘It bears keeping in mind. We’ll be having another go at them later on. Now where’s that damned kid Shane. He’s the last one, until we start visiting the neighbours, wherever they are.’
    As if in answer to his question, he saw a red David Brown Cropmaster drive into the yard, pulling a filthy muck spreader. The tractor itself was not much better, caked in mud and manure. It stopped near the cattle pen and the driver vaulted off, a lanky youth in soiled dungarees with a woollen bob-cap on his head.
    â€˜Here he is. Better late than never,’ grunted Crippen.
    There was a short delay, obviously caused by Betsan forbidding the boy to enter the parlour in such a state. When he put his head around the door and hesitantly entered, he was in a check shirt and brown trousers, with only socks on his feet, his muddy boots having been confiscated.
    He sat nervously on the chair between the two police officers, his narrow, wary face regarding them suspiciously. He had an untidy shock of mousy hair hanging over his ears and neck. John Nichols, a former military policeman, grinned to himself when he thought of the National Service haircut that Shane would soon have to endure.
    â€˜You’re waiting for your