Healers by Ann Cleeves

took no notice.
    “So you decided to teach him a lesson,” Ramsay said. “Why that night?”
    “He was annoying my girl. She didn’t like it and I wasn’t going to stand for it. Sexual harassment, that’s what it was. Leering across the bar at her, suggesting all sorts. It’s an offence these days, isn’t it? I was doing your job for you, that’s all.”
    “You didn’t have any other occasions to teach him a lesson?” Ramsay asked. His voice was dangerously quiet.
    At last the boy seemed to recognize the need for caution.
    “No!” he said. “I’ve told you. He wasn’t worth bothering about. I just kept out of his way.”
    “When was the last time you saw Mr. Bowles?”
    Peter Richardson shook his head. “Don’t know. Probably not since that time in the pub.” He gave a little triumphant laugh. “He probably kept out of my way after that.”
    Ramsay turned to the father. “And you, Mr. Richardson?”
    “I’ve not seen him to speak to since he was up here with that plan for the New Age festival. I’d only lose my temper. I’ve passed him sometimes in the lane when he was driving that Land-Rover of his …”
    “Did you see the Land-Rover this weekend?”
    Richardson shook his head.
    “You didn’t notice any strange cars on the land?”
    “Not ‘specially. But this time of the year lots of people come out from town for a ride in the country. That’s why Sue thinks she could make a go of a restaurant.”
    Sue, it seemed, was some kind of oracle.
    “What about a blue Transit van, early Sunday morning, coming from the Mittingford direction?”
    “No.” He turned to his son. “You were out shooting yesterday morning. Did you see anything?”
    “No.” But the reply was automatic. He could not be bothered to remember.
    “Where were you shooting?” Ramsay asked.
    “On our land. Nowhere near a footpath. No law against that, is there?”
    “Could you have seen the road from where you were?”
    “No.”
    “What about Laverock Farm?”
    “Yeah, I was over that way. I had a view down on the farm.”
    “Did you see anyone about?”
    “Only that hippy couple. They walked down the track and on to the road. They started walking towards town, hitching.”
    “Did anyone give them a lift?”
    “Not that I saw.”
    They would be on their way into Mittingford to have lunch with their friends. That part of the story fitted in.
    “Have you had any dealings with Miss Jackman and Mr. Slater?” he asked the older man.
    “The travellers? No. He came round asking for work when he first arrived but I told him we had nothing. Not that I’d have taken him on anyway.”
    “Why?”
    Richardson seemed not to think that worth answering.
    “You didn’t ever meet them socially?”
    “No. They seem an unfriendly pair. Keep themselves to themselves.”
    That, Ramsay thought, was hardly surprising.
    “You see the lad about, though. Walking. All times of day and night. I don’t think he’s quite all right in the head.” He paused, before adding reluctantly, “Never caused any bother, though. Keeps to the footpaths.”
    “Did you see him on your land over the weekend?”
    There was a pause. “I can’t remember,” Richardson said at last. “He’s around so often that I don’t notice him any more, if you know what I mean. You take him for granted.”
    Chapter Seven
    Mittingford police station was built in the same overblown style as the Old Chapel and stood close to it in the High Street with a view from the back down to the river. It too had the air of a building which had become redundant. Now it was only manned at all as a gesture to rural policing. Everyone knew it was being run down in preparation for closure. Stone steps led to a grand doorway but inside it was shabby, gloomy and overheated.
    Hunter was lording it in the incident room, irritating his colleagues on the team and putting up the backs of the locals.
    “They say we can use this …” he told Ramsay, looking around him disparagingly.