A Ghost at the Door (33 page)

‘What’s this man to you?’

‘He was a friend of my father. And I’m down here with his daughter. No one’s seen him for many months.’

‘Like you said, if your man was private. No crime in that.’

Harry sighed inside. This old bugger was going to take some breaking down. The son returned with the drinks, old man Farleigh’s whisky and half-pints for himself and Harry. He glanced at
the photo of Fat Finn and lingered on it, but a glance from his father warned him off. He placed the substantial amount of change in a pile near to Harry. Harry pushed it into no-man’s-land
between them, as if it were waiting for further business to be transacted.

Old man Farleigh picked up his glass, inspected the contents as though he might have been given a short measure. He looked across the rim of the glass at Harry, provocative, mean, then he downed
the whisky in a single gulp.

‘It’s very important,’ Harry pressed.

‘So’s my peace and quiet.’

‘Mr Farleigh, I’ve already apologized for disturbing you once. Where I come from, once is enough,’ Harry said, meeting the challenge but not raising his voice. ‘But since
you’ve already finished your drink I think the least I can do is get you another.’ Without taking his eyes from the other man he produced another £50 note from his wallet and laid
it on the pile of change. ‘Peter, would you mind getting your father another?’

The son didn’t move, waiting for the sign, like a collie. Then his father gave the slightest hint of a nod and the younger man disappeared once again.

‘We don’t much care for strangers sticking their noses into private business in these parts,’ the farmer muttered.

‘I understand. And, whatever your business with Mr Findlay, it will stay private so far as I’m concerned.’

‘I didn’t say I had any.’

‘You must have met him. He drinks here. Not the busiest of pubs in the world.’

The farmer stared. ‘Don’t take much notice of others.’

‘You own much of the land around these parts, so of course you do. I’ll bet you a half-pint to another fifty-pound note’ – he produced yet another and placed it on the
pile – ‘that you see everything that burrows or bleats or barks. This is your world, Mr Farleigh. So I’m not surprised you’re so protective of it. I don’t want to
disturb it.’

‘How do I know that? You could be anyone. A snooper, a . . .’

‘The police? Or Revenue and Customs come to dig away in your backyard? Someone from the council come to see if you’ve got the right planning approval for every little shed or stable,
a taxman come to see if your accounts have got more holes in them than your stock fence?’

The farmer’s stare was bitter. Harry looked around the bar and saw a copy of the
Daily Express
abandoned on a nearby table. He retrieved it and opened it at page five. His own
photo stared back at him above a lurid report. He pushed the newspaper into Far leigh’s hand.

‘You this bugger?’ the farmer said as he finished reading.

‘Arrested. Not charged. And, before you ask, I didn’t do it. But either way I’m not likely to be running off telling tales out of school, am I? All I want is to find out where
Mr Francis is.’

The son was back with more whisky. And more change. The pile of money was growing. Harry took yet another note from his wallet, making sure Farleigh could see that it was his last, and placed
that along with the rest. ‘For the next round, too.’

Still there was silence.

‘Look, Findlay Francis comes along, asks you for a very quiet place where he can hole up for a couple of months every year, do his work, visit his daughter in London, no questions asked
and, most importantly for him,no questions answered. I’m guessing you did a deal with him, in cash, like you’ve always done in these parts, and I’m pretty sure he would have been
generous. Paid for your silence. I understand your reluctance – it’s the decent thing to do – but let me assure you there’s nothing Mr Francis would like more than to speak
with me right now.’

‘And why’s that?’

‘Because I think something’s happened to him.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Why do you think he was hiding? Somebody didn’t like him very much.’

The son began to shift uncomfortably on his bench. ‘We don’t want no trouble,’ he bleated.

‘Trouble doesn’t wait for an invitation.’

‘But he said we wouldn’t—’

‘Shut your face, you little prick!’ the father spat.

The son’s face churned in pain as if he’d been physically slapped and retreated inside his skin.

The father leaned across the table towards Harry so that his words would be incapable of misinterpretation. Flecks of contempt swam in his eye. ‘You’re trouble, Mr Harry Jones, and I
don’t remember no one inviting you, either. So why don’t you crawl off back under whatever rock you calls home and leave us folk in peace.’

Harry had wasted his time. He sighed and reached out to scoop up the money on the table but Old Man Farleigh was ahead of him, his large farmer’s hand with its walnut knuckles and broken,
dirty nails smacking down possessively on the pile of change. ‘Let’s call it my consultancy fee, shall we?’

‘Let’s not. You haven’t given me anything.’

‘But I don’t suppose a chap in your position’s in much mind to go calling the police. I did warn you not to go sticking your nose into other folk’s business.’ He
smiled, coldly, then turned to his son. ‘You go get the pickup while I take a slash. I think our evening here’s done.’ He disappeared into the rear of the pub while his son, not
wanting to be left alone with Harry, scuttled out the other way.

Harry gave it thirty seconds, then followed the father. In many parts of the world they call such facilities rest rooms or comfort stations; this was neither. It was a bare, bleak room with
scratched paintwork and an old porcelain urinal that dominated one entire wall. A single stall with a crooked door was at one end next to a basin that appeared to have been recycled from a tip. The
place stank of stale urine, and the farmer stood at the urinal adding to the stench while scratching a new graffito with his thumbnail on the wall alongside a host of others. He stared in total
indifference at Harry.

‘I think we have unfinished business,’ Harry said quietly.

‘I have.’ The farmer went back to it.

‘Don’t let’s fall out, there’s no need.’

‘What’s that you say?’ Farleigh said, turning to Harry. He was still pissing. It streamed close to Harry’s shoes.

‘I wish you hadn’t done that.’

‘Who d’you think you are, the one-armed bandit?’ the farmer sneered. His words were slow, with a slight slur; the last whisky had done for him.

When he was finished he shook himself and zipped up his trousers. ‘You reckon you’re man enough for me, then?’

‘Oh, I think so,’ Harry said, taking a small step forward.

That was when the farmer took a swing at him, putting all his bulk behind the blow, but it was too well telegraphed. Harry swayed back just far enough for the clenched fist to miss. The farmer
swore and swung again with his other hand, a long looping hook that, when it missed, spun him round. Harry was now behind him. He shoved Farleigh face first against the wall, hooked his cast around
his neck and grabbed the middle finger of his left hand, wrenching it up over his shoulder and bending it back fiercely. The farmer screamed in shock and pain.

At that moment the door swung open and Peter stood, staring, hesitating.

‘Get him, you useless bastard!’ the father cried.

Yet still the son hesitated, looking at his father, then back over his shoulder to see if there were someone else he might summon to help. And Harry twisted the father’s finger once more.
It wouldn’t take much more to break it. In agony the father sank to his knees.

‘You sure we can’t do a deal here?’ Harry said. ‘You keep kneeling in your own piss much longer and those trousers of yours will be ruined. Not to mention your
finger.’ He gave it another savage jerk.

‘There – there
was
a man who looked a lot like the one you’re after,’ Old Man Farleigh gasped, his teeth gritted against the pain. ‘Wanted a place to
think, so he said.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Said he’d do the place up a bit. It needed work.’

‘What place?’

But Farleigh struggled, tried to release himself. Harry’s voice went cold as he leaned his weight on the finger and brought it to breaking point. ‘My trouble is, Mr Farleigh, I get
very impatient. It’s a fault, I know.’

It was Farleigh’s resistance rather than his finger that was broken. He gave a huge sob of despair and his body sagged in submission. Harry let him go. He fell sobbing to the floor, almost
into the filthy water.

‘The old keeper’s cottage,’ Peter whispered, aghast at the sight of his father. ‘We don’t have no keepers no more; no one ever goes up there, not in
years.’

‘So when did you last see him?’

‘Last September. When he usually arrived. Some times he’d borrow our old Land Rover. Carry his supplies, fresh gas canisters, that sort of thing. Then he’d pay for its annual
service. That’s always in September, once the harvest were done.’

‘And where is this keeper’s cottage?’

‘’Bout half a mile down the Burton Bradstock road, up in the old wood. Just past what’s left of the oak that got done by lightning a couple of years back.’

‘Then I shall go and visit him.’

‘He won’t be there.’

‘I just hope you’re right.’

The father straightened, clutching his hand in pain. ‘I think you bloody broke it.’

‘No, I didn’t. It’ll only feel like that for a couple of days. Believe me, if I’d wanted to break it you’d have known all about it.’

‘Dad, shall I call the police?’

‘Why not, after all?’ Harry interrupted. ‘We can meet them at the back of your farm. The way you like other people’s money I’m guessing – what? Holiday lets
without planning permission? A little illicit asbestos dumping or a bloody great hole filled with old tyres? Something like that. I’m up for it if you are.’

The father snarled and swore at him but kept his eyes lowered.

‘Keep the change. You’ll need it to clean yourself up,’ Harry said as he pushed past the son and disappeared out of the door.

They said goodnight at the top of the leaning stairs. The girls’ room was to the right, Harry’s to the far left. Abby threw her arms around Harry. ‘Thank
you,’ she breathed in his ear, kissing both cheeks.

‘For what?’

‘For being a very special sort of man. For taking care of that darling deer.’ A brave smile. ‘For whatever happens tomorrow.’

He had told them only some of what had taken place with the Farleighs, that they’d given him a few good clues they could follow up in the morning. He didn’t want to raise their
hopes, he had too many fears of what they might find.

‘And for taking care of us,’ Abby whispered, giving him a hug that squeezed the breath from him before heading for her bedroom.

It was Jemma’s turn, reaching up to kiss him, on the lips, the old elm floor creaking beneath her feet as she stretched. No words. Just a strange look. Then she, too, was gone.

Harry was woken from his bed of lumps by a noise. It was as dark as a coal seam in the room with only starlight for company, but he wasn’t alone; he heard the noise again.
A creaking joist from outside. Slowly the door opened, an inch, then more, casting a pale light onto the bedroom floor. He saw Jemma’s unmistakable profile. She crept in, on tiptoe, closed
the door behind her, shutting out the light once more and finding the edge of the bed by touch. She reached for his hand.

‘I saw a new side of you today, Harry,’ she said, her voice so low he daren’t breathe for fear of missing it. ‘I’m so used to chasing after you, trying to keep
pace, feeling so bloody miserable when I fail. But this afternoon, in that lane, you stopped for a while. To deal with the deer.’

‘Someone had to.’

‘It’s easier to love you when I don’t have to run.’

He nodded in the darkness. How often had he heard that before?

‘At times you seem to drag all the cares of the world behind you. It gets messy. That’s not easy for a girl to deal with.’

‘I’m sorry.’