Dying to Sin by Stephen Booth Page A

man in splendid isolation, perched in one of those big chairs that only old people ever sat in. There were other, similar chairs ranged round the walls of the room, and a big television set stood in the corner, mercifully switched off a moment before. Many interviews conducted in people’s own homes resulted in conversations shouted over the noise of the telly. It was often a temptation to take someone down to the station just for the sake of being able to hear what they were saying.
    ‘Mr Sutton? I’m Detective Inspector Hitchens, and this is Detective Constable Cooper. From Edendale CID.’
    Hitchens offered a view of his warrant card, as procedure recommended. But Sutton held out his hand instead to greet his visitors, and Hitchens was obliged to shake it. Cooper did the same, grasping a hand with paper-thin skin that trembled slightly in his palm. The old man smelled of soap, and his clothes were clean and neat, though the cardigan he was wearing no longer fit him so well as it once might have.
    They sat on chairs either side of him, and Hitchens opened the conversation.
    ‘Mr Sutton, you are the former owner of Pity Wood Farm at Rakedale. Is that right?’
    ‘Aye. That’s where I live. Pity Wood.’
    Hitchens shook his head. ‘That’s where you used to live. You sold the farm, didn’t you?’
    ‘I did. You’re right. I don’t remember who bought it.’
    ‘We know who bought it, Mr Sutton.’
    ‘Who was it? I can’t remember their name.’
    ‘Mr Goodwin, from Manchester.’
    ‘I don’t know him. It was all done through the estate agents and solicitors. You’ll have to ask them where he is.’
    ‘No, we want to ask you about Pity Wood Farm.’
    ‘Pity Wood, that’s where I live.’
    ‘You don’t live there any more. Don’t you remember?’
    Sutton laughed – a dry, crackly laugh, with little humour in it, as if the DI was tormenting him with a feather in a sensitive spot.
    ‘I remember some things quite well. But I don’t recall this feller that bought the farm. What did you say his name was?’
    ‘Goodwin.’
    ‘I don’t know him.’
    ‘No sir –’
    The old man turned away from Hitchens and studied Cooper instead, his eyes glinting. ‘You’ll come to see me again, won’t you? I don’t get many visitors.’
    Hitchens became impatient then, and made the mistake of putting his hand on Sutton’s sleeve to get his attention. The old man drew his arm away abruptly and stared at Hitchens in indignation.
    ‘Just a minute, young man. Take your hands off me, or I’ll get them to send for the police.’
    ‘Mr Sutton. We have to ask you some questions, I’m afraid, sir. There have been human remains found at Pity Wood this morning. The dead body of a woman. We need to know how this person ended up buried on your farm.’
    ‘Questions? Well, you can only try. Open the barn door, and you might find a cow.’
    Hitchens opened his mouth, but shut it again quickly, as if he’d just found the cow and didn’t want it to escape.
    They left Mr Sutton sitting in the lounge on his own, and found the care assistant who’d let them in to The Oaks.
    ‘I’m sorry if you didn’t have much luck, Inspector,’ she said. ‘Raymond has good days and bad days. You’d be surprised how much he can remember sometimes. His brain is still quite active. But other times, he gets a bit, well… confused, even distressed. It’s perfectly normal for his condition, but you can never quite tell what’s going to upset him. Memories, I suppose.’
    ‘If he has a good day, would it be possible to bring him out for a couple of hours?’ asked Hitchens. ‘We’d like him to come and see the farm.’
    ‘His old home? Oh, I’m sure Raymond would love that.’
    ‘I take it he’s physically fit enough?’
    ‘Oh, yes. He has no major health problems, considering his age. In fact, the doctor says Raymond is quite a tough old bird. He’ll probably still be around in ten years’ time, when all our other residents have