Superstitious Death (4 page)

‘One thing, Mr Meredith,’ Pluke hailed him. ‘Would you care to state whether or not she was killed here? In your opinion, is this the scene of her death or did she die elsewhere before being brought here for burial? And am I right in thinking her death was comparatively recent?’

‘I cannot be adamant about any of that, Mr Pluke, but my first impression is that there is nothing to indicate she died here. And I think she died within the past forty-eight hours, perhaps less. Sometime on Saturday, early evening at a guess.’

‘I tend to agree. Now, you will note that this quarry is used for a variety of purposes and by a variety of people,’ Pluke pointed out. ‘Many people know of it, campers, local lovers, litter louts and the like – and you can see that a number of agricultural machines are stored here.’

‘Are they also relevant, Mr Pluke?’

‘There could be a link, Mr Meredith. For example, I must consider that a component part of one of the machines might have caused that injury – a bolt, spindle, something of that kind.’

‘You’re thinking of some kind of accident followed by an attempted cover-up, are you?’

‘It is one of the options I shall be bearing in mind, Mr Meredith.’

‘I have no doubt you will closely examine all such machinery to see if a part is missing. If you discover anything of relevance, give me a call. I can check to see whether the wound is the same shape and size as whatever part you find, and of course there might be identifiable deposits in the wound. Meanwhile, I shall be carrying out the post-mortem. The sooner the better.’

Minutes later, the blue van, driven by PC Browning of Crickledale, left the scene
cn
route
to the pathologist’s laboratory. Meredith followed in his Rover as Pluke turned to PC Singleton and said, ‘PC Singleton, Scenes of Crime and the Task Force will now carry out their detailed examination of the scene and fingertip search of the surrounding area. As you know, they will be seeking the murder weapon and the tool used to dig the grave. I shall ask them to examine those machines too. Can you remain here to secure the site against anyone who might try to enter – press, photographers, hikers?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Now, Detective Sergeant Wain, we shall talk to Mr Eric Burholme, a preliminary interview at this stage. And our officers will have to examine his heavy machinery, every piece of it, to see if a component part could have caused that odd wound.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Wayne Wain was looking forward to this investigation. A successful outcome, crowned by the arrest of the killer, would enhance his chances of promotion for surely old Pluke was heading for his pension? Soon, there must be a vacancy for a young, energetic, modernised and successful detective inspector. 

As they walked towards the farm buildings, Wain warmed to his task while Detective Inspector Pluke glanced around. The complex was an amazing place, extremely tidy and well maintained but full of colourful decorations and large bold advertisements. Huge lengths of pale blue plastic sheeting with yellow lettering advertising ‘Harman’s Agricultural’ adorned the outer walls of some buildings. Fluttering in the moorland breeze, a large blue flag with a similar message flew from a flagpost at one end of the big house. It was complemented at the other end by a huge weather-vane comprising a golden-headed cockerel perched above a slender arrow which in turn was above the letters which indicated the four points of the compass. The body of the cockerel was painted light blue; the beautiful vane was in excellent condition considering its exposed position. In fact, the entire farm was immaculately maintained with fresh paint on the doors and windows, and not a speck of rubbish in sight.

The weather-vane, Pluke noted, indicated that the wind, more powerful up here than in the valley, was still blowing from the west. The displays of plastic sheeting and the flag were fluttering noisily, making a sound rather like that of a yacht at sea. Before them was the massive farmhouse; this also had a sign outside, a wooden one above the door saying ‘Harman’s Farm’ in yellow letters on a clean blue background. An array of stone buildings surrounded the house, like a clutch of chicks around a mother hen, and they provided a degree of shelter from the fierce moorland weather.

‘A likely place for interesting horse troughs, Wayne!’ said Pluke with enthusiasm as he strode towards the front door.

‘Some of these places have been modernised, sir, and all unwanted artefacts removed.’

‘Some, but not all, Wayne. Many old farms of this kind, with the original buildings still intact, are the perfect sites for unadulterated horse troughs. There’s none of your modem metal or plastic monstrosities in these places – good old stone troughs serviced by spring water which never ceases to flow.’

‘Sir, this is a murder-type investigation. We have rather more serious things to concern us just now.’

‘But even murder enquiries are ephemeral, Wayne. Stone horse troughs are not. Now, when we interview Mr Burholme, we will not suggest, at this early stage, that we suspect a piece from any of his machines could be responsible for the girl’s injuries. If it’s flown off a machine at high velocity, we don’t want him looking for it, finding it and getting rid of it when we’ve gone!’

‘But he will know eventually because we shall have to examine every one of them,’ Wayne stressed.

‘Indeed we shall and we shall also have to search his farm for the tools used to dig the grave. I think you will agree that a person could walk from the quarry and help himself, or herself, to a spade or pick-axe from these buildings without anyone knowing. The doors appear to be left permanently open – they’re open now. Few farmers lock away all their tools or even keep them under cover, but this is an exceptionally tidy place.’

As they crossed the neat forecourt towards the house, Mr Burholme emerged from the front door. Framed in the opening, he appeared to be exceptionally tall and upright with a splendid head of pure white hair and a very fresh, pink complexion. His slender body was casually dressed in a patterned green shirt and light slacks. He appeared to be in prime condition for he walked without the aid of a stick and without any sign of a stoop. He could be in his late sixties, Pluke guessed, a fine specimen of manhood and living confirmation of the ancient belief that a luxuriant head of hair was an indication of life and vigour.

‘Ah, Mr Pluke. They have sent you!’ His crisp well-spoken voice held just a trace of a North Yorkshire accent.

‘Good morning, Mr Burholme. Yes indeed, I am the investigating officer and this is my deputy and my assistant, Detective Sergeant Wain.’

‘So the call of duty dragged you away from the shoggling ceremony, Mr Pluke. A shock for us all, but how can I help?’ and Burholme extended his hand in a gesture of warmth and hospitality. Pluke and Wain shook his hand, each noticing a very strong, dry grip.

‘May we come inside?’ suggested Pluke.

‘By all means, how discourteous of me,’ and Burholme turned and led the way towards his kitchen. Inside, it was spacious and light with a tiled floor and oak-panelled walls; a large table on which lay a plate, cup and eating utensils dominated the centre of the room while a wood-burning Aga worked ceaselessly in the background, casting its heat about the entire house. A kettle was singing on one of the hot plates, its lid bubbling up and down as steam puffed into the room. The place was immaculately clean, with every kitchen utensil in place and no dirty pots in the sink, although Pluke did notice the absence of fresh flowers. The woman’s touch was missing.

‘I trust we are not interrupting your lunch or your family meal?’ Pluke indicated the used plate.

‘Not at all, I have just had lunch. I live alone in this great barn of a place. I have seven bedrooms, one for every day of the week,’ he smiled. ‘But can I offer you a drink of something? Tea, coffee? Wine? Fruit juice?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Pluke even before Wain could express his delight at the prospect of a cup of coffee. It seemed they would not get any lunch today: when interviewing suspects, Pluke regarded offers of food and drink as potential bribes and rejected every one.

‘As you wish, Mr Pluke,’ and Pluke then noticed the intensity of the cool blue eyes of this handsome farmer.

‘We shall not detain you long, Mr Burholme,’ continued Pluke. ‘Now, I know you are aware of our activity in the quarry – your quarry, I believe?’

‘Yes, PC Singleton explained. He said a body had been found by a hiker, buried in my quarry.’

‘It is the remains of a young woman.’ Pluke exercised considerable care in presenting the information, conscious of the fact that this man was his second suspect until he had been eliminated. ‘She had suffered a head injury and was buried in your quarry, not far from the public footpath. The body has now been removed for a post-mortem to be conducted, and my officers are undertaking a careful search of the quarry and surrounding area. We have to search for a potential murder weapon and any other material evidence.’

‘You are saying she was murdered?’ A frown appeared on Burholme’s face.

‘That is a distinct possibility, but it has not yet been determined,’ Pluke said. ‘But I must be frank and say that this has all the hallmarks of a suspicious death. We are treating it as murder until the contrary is proved. That means we must question you, Mr Burholme, about your movements, about people you might have seen on the farm or in the quarry, whether or not the girl is known to you…’

‘Of course, I understand perfectly, inspector. Please feel free – I wish to help all I can. Do sit down.’

Pluke and Wain each eased a dining-chair from beneath the table find settled upon them, with Pluke beginning the questioning.

‘Your full name, sir, to begin with?’ he asked politely.

‘Eric Burholme, just Eric, and this is Harman’s Farm, as I am sure you realise from the displays outside. The postal address is Barughdale, as I am sure you know. I am a widower – my dear wife died fifteen years ago this very week, and I have no children. An old war injury, you understand. As I said, I am alone in this huge place, Mr Pluke.’

‘You still work, though?’

‘I need to keep myself fully occupied. But you think I am too old to work?’ He smiled at the detectives, those bright blue eyes laughing with pleasure. ‘I am eighty years of age…’

‘Eighty?’ Pluke expressed genuine surprise. Burholme could have passed easily for someone ten or even twenty years younger.

‘I know I do not look it. I reached eighty in February. I have aged well, Mr Pluke, and I owe that to a careful lifestyle of hard work in the open air. But you will note there are no animals or livestock on the farm, not any more. I sold them all after the death of my wife, to raise capital which I have invested to provide me with an income. I like to be kept busy, so I occupy myself by hiring my wide range of agricultural machinery to those who need it, when they want it – farmers just beginning their careers cannot afford to pay thousands of pounds for something like a combine harvester which they use only for a few days each harvest time. So I hire my machinery to them – everything from ploughs to combines by way of seed drills and mowers, tractors and forage harvesters, hence the rather gaudy advertising. And I lease my land to those who wish to make use of it, either for crops, silage or livestock grazing. I do work, Mr Pluke, just sufficient to keep me agile, but no longer do I tire myself out with hard manual labour. That’s a young man’s game.’

‘And I do know that, in addition to what you have told me, you are a generous benefactor to many local causes.’

‘I like to share my good fortune, Mr Pluke. I have no family to inherit my wealth, and I like others to benefit from it. It is my way of giving something back to society.’

‘A very nice thought, Mr Burholme. Now, you store some of your machinery and bales in the old quarry?’

‘I do indeed, but not all my machinery is kept in the open air. Most of it is under cover, in the buildings which you can see around this complex. You are welcome to have a look at anything you wish. The bales in the quarry are not mine, by the way – I allow a neighbouring farmer to leave them there. I have ample room and besides, they do create a useful shelter for small animals and also provide a solid wind barrier.’

‘My officers will have to search your premises, Mr Burholme, in case the person responsible has concealed any evidence around the farm. I cannot divulge the precise cause of death, except to say there are indications of violence upon the victim. That means we need to find the weapon which caused her death, and the implement which was used to dig the grave.’

‘Of course, Mr Pluke. I shall help in any way I can. This is a dreadful thing to happen, and it is made worse for me because it is on my land.’

‘I do understand, and thank you,’ said Pluke. ‘Now, the victim is a young woman, blonde hair and very attractive in life, aged about thirty. We should have a photograph before the day is out, but can you recall any such visitor here? A customer perhaps? The wife or girlfriend of a customer maybe? Or someone merely passing through?’

Burholme creased his brow in thought a while, and then he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Lots of people come here on business. Many of them are either ladies or accompanied by ladies, but I cannot identify any of them from such a brief description. I’d like to see a photo, if that can be arranged?’

‘We will do that,’ promised Pluke. ‘Now, have you had any visitors out of normal hours? I am thinking of the quarry in particular. I believe the only way into the quarry by motor vehicle is through this farm?’