Part 17 (1/2)

'We'd like a word with you about Simon Tench. He was a vet. He treated your stock.'

'What about him?'

Rachel glanced at Steve who seemed to have frozen with fear. But then most people would if they found themselves on the wrong end of a shotgun barrel. 'Can we talk inside?'

Barty Carter hesitated again then he broke the shotgun barrel over his forearm, much to Rachel's relief. But she could see the pair of cartridges inside. The threat hadn't been an empty one. He began to walk towards the house and they followed him, Steve lagging behind, still shaken.

The house had seen better days. It was shabby and dirty and lacked a woman's touch. Old newspapers littered the floor and the scent of pig slurry hung in the air like a fog, probably brought indoors on the green wellingtons Carter was still wearing as he propped the shotgun up in the corner of the room before sitting down at a table, its surface invisible beneath layers of papers and empty lager tins.

Rachel picked up the shotgun, unloaded it expertly and put the cartridges in her pocket before looking around for somewhere to sit. But every available surface was covered in the detritus of Carter's existence so she decided to stand.

'Tell me about the row you had with Simon Tench.'

Carter stared at his hands. 'Nothing much to tell. It was a bad time for me. Wife had just left. She couldn't stand the country ... wanted to get back to London. Me, stubborn b.u.g.g.e.r that I am, was determined to stick it out.'

Rachel suddenly saw that Barty Carter was out of his depth. He had had a dream of rural life the unrealistic dream that lured so many in. And the dream had backfired, leaving him a pathetic sh.e.l.l of a man who lashed out at anyone or anything he perceived to be a threat. She almost felt sorry for him.

'My family have farmed for generations and it's a tough life even if you've grown up with it. Ever thought of cutting your losses and selling this place?'

He looked up at her, stunned. 'I don't know. I ... Look what's this all about?'

'Simon Tench was found murdered on Sunday morning.'

Carter's mouth fell open. As far as Rachel could see, he was genuinely surprised. But some people were good actors.

'I'm surprised you haven't heard about it,' Steve had found his courage again now that the shotgun was out of Carter's reach. 'It's been on the TV news and the papers have been full of it,' he added with a hint of menace.

'I don't get the papers and the telly's broke,' Carter replied, a faraway look in his eyes. 'How was he murdered?' He glanced at the shotgun. 'Look, I never ...'

'Tench was worried about your animals he threatened to report you.'

Carter s.h.i.+fted in his seat, as though trying to summon up some anger. 'b.l.o.o.d.y bureaucrats. Interfering ...'

'He would have helped if you'd let him.'

'Look, I don't know anything about this murder. It's got nothing to do with me. You can take my gun ... do tests. That'll prove it wasn't ...'

'Where were you on Sat.u.r.day night?'

'Sat.u.r.day night I was in Neston. Went for a drink.'

'Just the one?' Steve said with heavy sarcasm.

Carter didn't reply.

'Which pub was it? And is there anyone who can confirm your story?' Rachel asked gently.

Carter shrugged his shoulders. 'I went to the Cat and Fiddle near the castle. Some of the regulars know me.'

Rachel knew the Cat and Fiddle not Neston's most salubrious watering hole. If there were any questions to be asked in that particular establishment, she'd send someone else to do it.

'When did you last see Simon Tench?' she asked.

'Not since he came here that time.'

'And did he report you?'

'Some sort of inspector came round. I had to get rid of most of my stock. Just keep a few pigs now. I used to keep more ... and hens. Used to make my own black puddings sausages too.'

'But all that stopped.'

'Had to, didn't it? I just send the odd pig to the abattoir now. Nothing like it used to be.'

Rachel looked him in the eye. 'Black puddings. You need lots of blood for black puddings, don't you?'

'Yeah. But I'm not allowed to make anything here any more. Hygiene regulations. b.l.o.o.d.y bureaucrats. My pigs are okay. Nothing wrong with them.'

'Good company, pigs. What is it they say? Dogs look up to you, cats look down on you but pigs are equal.'

For the first time Rachel saw Barty Carter smile. 'Look, I'm sorry that vet's dead. I admit I lost my temper with him but I can seen now that he was only doing his job.' He looked her in the eye. 'That's my trouble, Detective Sergeant. I lose my temper from time to time. It's just since my wife left. I ...'

Rachel looked him in the eye. 'If you want my advice, I'd sell up. Cut your losses. In the meantime, muck out those pigs. Hose the whole shed down and give them fresh straw. There was one in there I was worried about so call the vet out if necessary it's better than losing all your stock. And if you don't, I'll report you to the RSPCA. Okay?'

Carter nodded, resigned. 'I promise. I'll get 'em sorted. It's just that ...'

'No excuses. Just do it. I'll be back to check. And I've got another bit of advice for you, when we come calling again or anyone else come to that leave your shotgun locked safely in its cabinet.'

'You were a bit soft of him,' said Steve as they got into the car.

Rachel sighed. 'I saw farming finish a lot of strong men in the foot and mouth outbreak men who turned their shotguns on themselves. Carter thought he could play at it ... but he was playing with fire and he got burned. I blame all these TV programmes. Start a new life in the country run a farm or a restaurant or a hotel and get away from it all. c.r.a.p. It's tougher than the city life they leave behind. And more isolated. My parents have nothing but contempt for the likes of Carter but ...'

'You feel sorry for him?' Steve allowed himself a sly grin. 'Never thought I'd see you turn soft, Sarge. But then he's not bad looking, is he?' he said before snuggling down in the pa.s.senger seat, enjoying the view of the rolling landscape as they sped back to Tradmouth.

Wesley Peterson wanted to make a search of Simon Tench's home, just to see if he'd kept any souvenirs of his school or university days. Any hint as to how he might have come into contact with Charles Marrick or Christopher Grisham. He'd studied their details and concluded that the three victims would all have been in the same academic year at whatever educational establishment or establishments they attended. Surely it couldn't be a coincidence.

If his instincts served him right, Simon Tench's academic career unlike Charles Marrick's would be an open book. And if they could find a link with Christopher Grisham as well, they would in Wesley's opinion be well on the way to catching their killer. He didn't put these optimistic thoughts into words of course. But he felt quietly confident.

He left his desk and walked to Gerry Heffernan's office, longing to share his thoughts. But as soon as he pushed the DCI's office door open, the telephone on the cluttered desk began to ring.

He stood there while Heffernan held a short conversation. From the greeting, he knew it was Colin Bowman on the other end of the line. This was news. As soon as Heffernan put the phone down, he signalled to Wesley to sit himself down.

'That was Colin. He's had the toxicology report on Simon Tench. It was hemlock again.'

Wesley flopped down in the visitor's chair. The news didn't surprise him. The scene of Tench's death was far too similar to that of Charles Marrick for the deaths to be unconnected. And the photographs of Christopher Grisham's corpse e-mailed down by Ches.h.i.+re police, suggested that his murder too, had been committed by the same perpetrator. It seemed that the killer had struck in Chester and had then travelled down to Devon to continue his gruesome work. He said as much to Heffernan.