Cold Revenge (Willis/Carter #6)(67)

‘Can we stop here a minute? asked Willis. ‘It looks empty.’ She had the original investigation photos on her lap, including the search of the bungalow.

Carter parked at the gate. They got out of the car and opened the gate, as quietly as possible. There was only the sound of the birds and the squirrels’ chatter. A concrete path led to the front door of the cottage, its name hanging on a wooden plank from the porch that was a recent add-on. They walked around the outside, past a frosted-glass window on the road side of the bungalow, round to the patio at the back which had a barbecue and patio furniture under wraps. The garden was fenced off from the field in which it was built by a low picket fence and a gate. The field was flat, the hedges high at its perimeter.

‘I must admit, it’s a great site for a party,’ said Carter. Willis was nodding, her eyes taking in the scene.

‘According to statements, this was the field Ash and his mum lived in.’ Willis looked behind her at the sliding patio doors. ‘This place has a few tales to tell.’

‘Unless you’re thinking of renting the bungalow, I’ll thank you to get off my property.’ A man approached from the lane wearing Wellingtons and a blue checked shirt, his hair curly, pale auburn, thin, balding on the top.

‘Mr Truscott?’

‘Yes?’

Willis showed her badge. ‘We’d like to ask you a couple of questions, please.’

‘What is it you want to know? I’ve had press around already today, they’ve been phoning for interviews. I told them this farm is not the same one as Douglas used to live on.’

‘Good try, but it is, isn’t it?’ said Carter. ‘And this is the bungalow he used to rent?’

Willis had moved to the far side of the patio and climbed on top of an upturned plant pot as she looked at the skyline for three hundred and sixty degrees.

‘We have a different name now and we don’t keep horses any more, or any animals since 2001. This is called Rose Cottage.’

‘Even so, we have some questions to ask you about the people who lived in this bungalow in 2000.’ Truscott started groaning and moving away. ‘From a personal perspective, I think you have a great place here,’ said Carter. ‘The girlfriend is always looking for venues for our wedding day, when it comes around.’

‘I do weddings in the field opposite the car park, you can pitch your own tent here or hire a tepee or a cabin. I’m building a pool this winter.’

‘Mr Truscott, whose is that house I can see over to the left?’ asked Willis.

‘That’s the farrier’s place, he’s called Saul. Lives on his own, been the farrier in this area as long as I can remember. Doesn’t like company; he’s moving away soon, retiring back home, he says.’

‘Where’s home?’ asked Willis.

‘Wales somewhere.’

‘Has he lived there long?’ she asked.

‘Long time, he bought the place in the eighties.’ Truscott turned back to talk to Carter. ‘He asked me if I wanted to buy it, but it’s no good to me without planning permission, and I’d never get it. Shame, you could have a big wedding party in those fields.’

‘Are those his fields, on that side of the lane?’

‘Yes, he has three more. A hundred and twenty acres or thereabouts. What do you want to talk to me about? I’m a busy man.’

‘Can we go to your farm and talk? I’d like to get a look at the pool you’re building.’

Willis avoided smiling at Carter’s not so cunning ploy. They got back into the car and sat for a couple of minutes. Truscott took the shortcut back across the field, the way he’d come. Willis was looking through the statements, balancing the file on her lap.

‘Did the farrier Saul feature in the original investigation?’ asked Carter.

‘He made a statement but he wasn’t thought to be a threat. He’d no previous and no problems before.’

‘Has he ever been married?’

‘He lost his wife and daughter in a hit and run – drunken driver accident in North Wales, that was in eighty-one. He moved here shortly after. He’s in his sixties now, I suppose being a blacksmith is really physical work.’

‘Do you want to check him out?’ asked Carter.

‘While we’re here, I think we should.’

Truscott was opening the gates when they got there. There was a big sign on them welcoming people and a list of rules concerning pets and children’s behaviour.

‘Park over there,’ he said, pointing out a visitors’ car park to their left, beside the main farmhouse, which was a simple grey stone building with over-fussy plaques and farm memorabilia and an old tractor for the children to play on. To the right was a building with ‘Farm Shop’ written on the door and a reception centre. Building work was going on beyond that, to the sound of jackhammers and drills. And a digger was scooping out the hole for the pool.

‘Come inside. By next season folks can go into the reception centre and be greeted, get their chalet keys. Then this house will be for rent too.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘I haven’t decided yet. Not far.’

‘Do you live here at the moment?’ asked Willis.

‘Yes, me and the wife and one kid.’