03-Savage Moon (12 page)

By the time the road led into Tintwhistle, Jon had noted several Land Rover Defenders passing them by, their wheel arches caked with mud, some with cages on the back for livestock or sheep dogs. As they passed a pub called The Shepherd's Rest, he noticed a road sign informing him that the A6024 was open.

The valley began to steepen and fir trees closed in on both sides, dimming the interior of the car. Then the road rose more sharply and suddenly they emerged from the trees. On his left the edge of the moor loomed over him, rising up so dramatically that almost all his view of the sky on that side of the car vanished. He looked at the long grass on its plunging slopes, broken by clumps of bracken, swathes of purple heather and gnarled branches of gorse. Behind the bushes he glimpsed the occasional white fleece of a sheep.

At the turning for the A6024 the road rose more steeply still. Dropping into a lower gear, Jon noticed the landscape was dominated by a coarse brownish grass, not a single tree in sight. Apart from scar-like grooves cut by small streams, the only break in the monotony of the moor was the drystone walls. He looked again at the undulating contours of the land. Jesus, it resembled the bunched muscles of an enormous animal, ready to rise up at any moment and shake itself free of the tiresome little constructions of rock built across its back. This, Jon realised, was a place that merely tolerated man: in no way had it been tamed by his presence.

They finally reached the summit of the moor. Towering above him was a radio mast, struts of wire leading off at diagonal angles down to the ground. Glancing in his rear view mirror he saw the plains of Cheshire and Lancashire framed there for an instant. As he crossed the plateau he was aware of the strength of the wind as it buffeted his car. Before long the road started its descent and a sign announced 13
% gradient. Use low gear
!

The road curled round, giving a bird's-eye view of sheep- dotted fields, dense patches of woodland and darkly glistening reservoirs. Nestled at the head of the valley was the village of Holme. He'd stopped there for lunch with Alice once. As in many of the places on this side of the moors, the local people had been weavers before the industrial revolution swept their cottage industry into the cold and imposing mills. He remembered the tea-room pamphlet informing him that this region was where the Luddites smashed the shearing frames that threatened their way of life.

They hadn't descended far when Clegg's vehicle began to indicate left; it then slowed at the entrance to a narrow lane. A boulder was carved with the words
Far Gethen Farm
.

Jon followed Clegg on to a rough road that twisted down towards a cluster of stone buildings just visible in the distance. After a couple of minutes the road turned sharply to the left, entering a courtyard made up of a ramshackle assortment of barns with a large farmhouse at the end. Heavy slabs of moss- covered stone made up its roof and small windows were set far back into the thick walls, giving the house a beady-eyed appearance.

The courtyard was littered with dirty straw and oily puddles. Jon opened his car door. The smell of manure mixed with sharper chemical notes hit him. A chorus of bleats was coming from the barn to his side. Looking for a relatively clean patch of ground, Jon placed his feet on the bumpy surface. Immediately he noticed a row of dead rats neatly lined up by a mound of broken tiles. A cat with half-closed eyes observed him from the top of the pile. My work, its expression said. By the tiles was a row of white plastic containers. Jon peered at the labels. Twenty-five litres of formaldehyde liquid. That's the sharp tang in the air then, Jon thought, as memories of the first autopsies he'd witnessed made an unwelcome return.

As Adam picked his way across to the front door of the farmhouse, Jon continued to look around. By a red McConnel tractor with an aluminium trailer attached to the back was a line of sharpened stake posts and rolls of wire. He made his way over to where he could hear the sheep bleating. The corner barns were open ended, both containing pens that were crammed with animals, many with long straggly tails matted with excrement.

Turning back to the courtyard, he spotted a quad bike through the open doors of the barn opposite. Adam was trudging over. 'He's not in, but I imagine he can't be far away.' Jon turned to watch a chicken as it raked the barn floor before expertly pecking out seeds from the strands of straw at its feet.

The sound of an engine grew louder before a Land Rover bounced into view at the other side of the fields bordering the farm.

'This'll be him,' said Adam.

Seconds later the vehicle pulled up before them. The silver- haired driver assessed them for a moment before muttering something to the man in the passenger seat. Then he pushed open the door of the battered jeep. A border collie that was caked in mud immediately jumped down, eyes flashing at the two strangers. Jon crouched down and held out a hand.

'Here boy, come here.' The animal looked at him warily before slinking off towards the farmhouse, body close to the ground. Not your friendly household pet then, Jon thought, straightening up as the driver approached them with a stiff- legged walk. He was wearing what appeared to be a pair of waterproof dungarees, the legs merging into rubber boots just below his knees. The garment was totally covered in grime.

Christ, the bloke must be over seventy, Jon realised. I've seen younger men driving to the shops in electric buggies, and this old boy is still out working the fields.

'Ken, this is DI Spicer. He's from the Major Investigation

Team in Manchester,' Adam announced.

'Is he?' the man replied, eyes on Jon.

Even though his answer was abrupt, Jon heard the clipped tones of a Yorkshire accent. He stepped forward with his hand held out. 'Pleased to meet you.'

The farmer regarded his hand for a moment before grasping it briefly. His skin felt like dry leather and, given his age, Jon was surprised by the strength of his grip.

'I'm sorry about your wife, Mr Sutton.' The comment elicited a curt nod.

Jon coughed in order to put a space between his condolences and his next comment. 'I understand the attack occurred after you lost a number of sheep.'

'I have. And I assume your job is to try and solve the problem.'

In the background Jon saw the younger man climb out of the vehicle. He had sandy-coloured hair and wore combat fatigues and army boots. Under his arm was a rifle-shaped carry case and in each hand a heavy-duty walkie-talkie. Jon watched as he walked silently across the courtyard to disappear into the farmhouse. Obviously Sutton and his friends had their own ideas about how to solve the problem. His eyes shifted back to the old man. 'I'm here to add what I can to the investigation.'

The farmer grunted at his politician's response.

Let's move the conversation away from this, Jon thought. 'So, how long have you owned the farm?'

'Been in the family for generations.'

'What breeds of sheep do you have?'

'Just Swales.'

Swaledales. The only breed of hill sheep he'd ever heard of.

'The ones in that barn look like they're ready for shearing.' Sutton's eyes went to the animals. 'Only if I want a field of stiffs once winter sets in.'

You idiot, thought Jon, realising the sheep would need all the protection they could get out on the moors. Sutton moved past him, entering the nearest barn and then climbing into the pen. The animals shied away from him, jostling with each other to get into the opposite corner. Keeping his legs wide, he stepped across the layer of straw, arms held out. He allowed four animals to squeeze past, then, as the fifth tried to get round, his hand shot out to grab the animal by the back of the neck.

He dragged it into the centre of the pen and lifted a leg over its back. Gripping the animal's shoulders between his knees, he yanked its head back and inserted his fingers into its mouth. Jon was shocked at how roughly the man treated the animal. But then it dawned on him that, to the farmer, it was merely an investment that he aimed to profit from. He thought of the collection of fluffy sheep that dangled from the mobile above Holly's cot. Reality suddenly seemed a lot harsher.

'So why have you rounded this lot up?' Jon asked.

'I've fetched them down for tupping.'

At last, a bit of information in return, Jon coaxed the conversation on. 'That's when you put a ram in with them?'

'Yes. Though I need to check their teeth, worm them and prepare their feet first.'

'What does that involve?'

'Dipping their hooves in formaldehyde solution to stop foot rot, clipping them if they're overgrown. Some of this lot need burling as well.'

'Burling?'

'Trimming the tops of their tails, so the tup takes to them a bit easier.'

'And once they're all pregnant, what do you do with them?'

'Turn this lot out into the lower fields. They're a bit lean. I need to get them on better grass. Then, come the spring, they'll lamb.'

Satisfied the animal was OK, he released it from between his knees. It moved unsteadily forward and he slapped it hard across its rump to get it out of his way. The animal staggered under the force of the blow before running back to join the rest of the flock.

'Do you bring all your sheep off the moors for winter?' Sutton shook his head. 'We leave some out on top, I take bales up for them, but these breeding ewes need a bit of looking after.'

'What about the lot in the next barn?' Jon looked over to the pen across the courtyard.

'Them? Misfits they are. I've pulled them in so they can go for slaughter.' He climbed back out. 'Are you here to learn about hill farming?'

'No.' Jon saw his attempt at breaking the ice had amounted to nothing. 'I'd like to talk to you about your wife, Rose.'

The man's eyelids gave the slightest flutter, but stopped short of a blink. 'I've given a statement. Have you not read it?'

'I have a few questions of my own. You won't be aware of this, but we found another body this morning. The man had very similar injuries to those of your wife.' Now he had the farmer's attention. 'I'd like to see where you found her if possible.'

'Who was he? This man you found this morning,' Sutton asked quietly.

'We can't release a name yet, his family haven't been informed.'

'Where was he found?'

'Around five miles from here, towards the city. In a car park by the edge of a lake.'

Sutton's eyes lifted to Jon. 'How old was he?'

'Mid-forties.'

'Mid-forties?'

Jon studied the other man. 'Should his age be of any concern to you?'

'What?' Sutton's eyes refocused, brittle exterior closing back over. 'It's not.'

'It seemed to cause you some concern.'

'No. It's a shock, that's all. To hear someone else has died.'

'It is,' Jon replied. 'So, the place where you found her... ' Sutton crossed his arms. 'I'm not going back up there now.

It's my lunch. Adam, you can take him if you want.' He nodded towards the quad bike. 'Keys are on the hook. I'll be around here when you get back.' Without waiting for an answer he set off across the courtyard, glancing about his feet. 'Chip!' he barked aggressively. 'If that bloody dog is in the upper field again

. . . Chip!'

The animal materialised from beneath the tractor, jinking round a stray chicken before submissively approaching Sutton, ears pressed close to its head. 'Get in there,' Sutton growled, jabbing his finger at a kennel. The dog slithered inside.

The cat jumped down from the mound of tiles, ignoring the chicken to trot alongside the farmer with its head held high. Sutton opened the front door of the farm and first the cat, then the man were swallowed by the darkness within.

Jon stood staring at the farmhouse. He had the distinct impression that attitudes to death were a lot different here. Sutton seemed to accept it readily as part of life, but only in the order he sanctioned.

The cat was free to kill the rats, but not the chickens. Under Sutton's supervision, the dog could harry and torment the sheep, but not chase the cat. The sheep were a mere commodity, to be protected and fed until their time for slaughter. And Sutton was master of them all. Jon thought about how the sheep dog had deferred to him and how the cat had ingratiated itself. Even the sheep seemed to sense that the farmer was boss.

But now things were different. A new element had been introduced that upset the established order. It had been killing his sheep, costing him money. It didn't take much to see that Sutton regarded it as a lot more than a threat to his income – it was a challenge to his rank and, with the death of his wife, a personal enemy. He guessed the farmer didn't want the creature merely trapped or tranquillised: he wanted it dead.

Jon turned to his colleague. 'Well, that's us told. Do you know the way?'

Adam nodded. 'Better change our shoes.'

But I haven't got any others, Jon thought, watching Adam as he opened his vehicle and got out a pair of green wellies. His eyes turned to the fresh black mud sticking to the farmer's Land Rover. Bollocks, I'm going to get covered.

'Haven't you brought anything else for your feet?' Adam asked, now pulling out a thick ski jacket.

'No,' Jon replied, opening his boot and taking out a thin waterproof coat.

'Sure you'll be warm enough in that?' Adam observed him dubiously as he put it on.

How the hell should I know? thought Jon, glancing at the sky.

'There's a fair wind up there, that's all. Shall we see if Ken can lend you anything?'

'No, don't worry,' Jon didn't want to add to the farmer's perception of him as a clueless city boy. 'We're not going to be long, are we?'

Adam shrugged, then walked over to the barn housing the quad bike. He took the keys from the hook and started the machine up. 'Climb on,' he said, jabbing a thumb at the pillion seat behind him.

Jon looked around for a crash helmet, saw none, then climbed gingerly on to the rear seat.

'Keep a good hold of my jacket,' Adam instructed as the vehicle jerked forward, nearly throwing Jon off the back.

Adam steered the bike up a rough stone track that led along the side of the farmhouse then came to a halt at a gate. Jon jumped off to open it and Adam drove into the field beyond. After swinging it shut and hooking the loop of chain around the gate post, Jon climbed back on the bike and they set off across the thick grass, sheep scattering before them.