Tainted Ground by Margaret Duffy Page B

but that’s all. I sent them on their way, don’t you worry.’
    Within roughly five seconds of meeting the farmer I had decided, rightly or wrongly, that here was no true son of the soil. I was probably biased by the truly hideous barn he and his father had built and in so doing swept away hundreds of years of rural history, but he did himself no favours. A shambling, unshaven beanpole of a man, he looked so shifty that if someone had informed me he was involved with running rackets on East End greyhound tracks I would have believed them. I told myself sternly that this was my first lesson in not pre-judging people and prepared to give him the benefit of every smallest doubt.
    â€˜But you haven’t lived there for a while,’ Patrick said.
    â€˜No, but I still take a walk round the place most days, especially up by the house. Can’t think why you lot want to search there – it’s quite a way from the yard where the bodies were found.’
    â€˜Did you know the murder victims?’ Patrick asked.
    The interior of the bungalow, as so often happens when the place is rented, had an unhomely feel to it, boxes stacked everywhere, some open and with the contents spilling out as though Stonelake had rummaged in them, looking for things. The beer opener? No,
no
, I berated myself.
    The living room was comparatively tidy and contained some good pieces of furniture, antiques, but these had been pushed to the walls in haphazard fashion and were covered in dust. With difficulty I refrained from removing a half-drunk mug of tea, cold-looking, that had been placed on the top of a rather fine mahogany chest of drawers.
    â€˜No,’ Stonelake said in response to the question, ‘I only know that they lived in the village. How long are you lot going to be in the barn? There’s a bloke coming to look over the place in a couple of days’ time.’
    â€˜I couldn’t tell you,’ Patrick replied. ‘And it’ll take quite a while to search the whole farm.’
    â€˜You didn’t answer my question – what the hell d’you have to do that for?’
    â€˜Mr Stonelake, three people have been butchered on your property. One item we will be searching for is the murder weapon.’
    Stonelake threw himself sulkily into a chair.
    â€˜Have any dodgy people shown an interest in buying the farm?’ Patrick went on. We remained standing, mostly because the rest of the seating was occupied by clothing, newspapers and a large and smelly dog that was either asleep or moribund.
    â€˜No, no one like that. I haven’t had much interest at all. Farming’s in a dreadful way. That’s why I’m selling up now my mother’s gone into a home. With a bit of luck I’ll be able to flog off most of the land for housing but knowing my luck that would go against green-belt rules or some other crap like that.’ He hurled a nearby phone book at the dog, which lunged to its feet and half fell off the sofa, sending things in all directions.
    Once upon a time Patrick would have probably hefted Stonelake out of his chair and shaken him until his worn dentures rattled. Sadly, as far as this instance was concerned, he could no longer do so.
    â€˜Bloody thing,’ Stonelake muttered. ‘It’s Mother’s and if she didn’t keep asking how it is I’d take it out and shoot it. Turned up one night, starving, and they took it in. Still, when the old lady goes a bit more ga-ga—’ He broke off and eyed the animal meaningfully, and as if knowing what was being said it slunk nervously off into a corner.
    Patrick brushed some of the hairs and dried mud from the seat vacated by the dog and sat down on the edge of it, staring hard at the other man. ‘Your farm has a bit of a history, hasn’t it?’ he said. ‘Bodies have been found there before – in the old barn that was demolished to make way for the new one. Suicides, a tramp, a