Stephen Booth – Scared to Live (страница 16)
‘If you have an interest in wildlife, I wonder if you’ve been aware of anybody lamping in this area?’ asked Fry.
‘Lamping?’
‘You know what that is, sir?’
‘Oh, we know what that is, all right. If we knew about anything like that going on around here, we’d report it straightaway. But what has that got to do with this suspicious death you’re investigating? Was the lady killed by poachers?’
‘I’m afraid we just don’t know.’
He took her ignorance as confirmation of his own fears. ‘That’s another problem our native wildlife is facing, you know. Animals are the first victims when society starts to fall apart. Look at all those stories of illegal immigrants stealing swans and butchering sheep in the fields.’
‘You read the
‘You’re not from this area yourself, by the sound of your accent.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘A city person? Birmingham, at a guess?’
‘Very close.’
‘Ah, I can understand why you came here, then. Seeking to get back to the real England, like we did.’
‘No, not at all.’
‘I know it’s not politically correct to say it, but many of your colleagues agree with our views.’
‘Not me.’
Ridgeway smiled and gestured at the bird table. ‘We sometimes think of grey squirrels as the immigrants of the animal world. They’re nothing but vermin, after all – rats with furry tails.’
Fry felt the anger rising, but she’d promised herself she was going to be more tolerant of people she had to deal with. Even those who infuriated her as much as Martin Ridgeway.
She consulted her notebook, partly to cover her irritation, and partly to remind herself of the questions she would otherwise fail to ask.
‘Have either of you noticed a blue Vauxhall Astra in the village recently? No? A vehicle of any kind acting suspiciously?’
‘No.’
‘Any vehicles at all visiting Bain House?’
‘We can’t see the entrance to Bain House from here, so we wouldn’t know.’
‘And did you hear anything unusual on Saturday night, or in the early hours of Sunday morning?’
‘Our double glazing is very good. We don’t hear much noise at night.’
‘One final question, sir – do you possess a firearm of any description?’
Ridgeway hesitated. ‘I do have an air rifle.’
‘Oh? What power?’
‘No more than twelve foot pounds, so I don’t need a licence for it. I’m a law-abiding citizen, you see.’
‘What do you use an air rifle for? No, don’t tell me – let me guess. You use it for shooting squirrels.’
‘Also crows, rooks and magpies, which steal the eggs of song birds. They’re all classed as pests, so it’s lawful to shoot them on private property.’
‘I can understand that. But what’s the problem with squirrels?’
‘The invasion of grey squirrels has driven our native reds into remote sanctuaries, protected forests in Wales or Scotland. Now all they can do is cling on in dwindling numbers, powerless against an alien species.’ Ridgeway took a step towards her and lowered his voice. ‘Our kind of people are just like those red squirrels. We’re being driven out by the vermin.’
‘I think I’m finished here,’ said Fry.
As she was shown out, she wondered why the Ridgeways had bothered joining Neighbourhood Watch if they knew nothing about their neighbours and couldn’t even see the adjoining properties. But she supposed there was only one reason, from their point of view – they thought it would provide protection for themselves.
In the dining room, Martin Ridgeway tapped the barometer, as if out of habit. It appeared to be some kind of ritual before he opened the door of his barn conversion.
Fry looked over his shoulder. One hand pointed at ‘Stormy’ and the other at ‘Change’.
‘Is that good or bad?’ she said.
Ridgeway scowled. ‘The same as bloody usual.’
Rose Shepherd’s other neighbours were called Birtland. Cooper found their address to be a bungalow, with a long curving drive leading off Pinfold Lane. The property was only a few decades old, but built after the introduction of national park planning regulations. There were no red brick terraces and plaster porticos here, no incongruities like those allowed in some of the forties and fifties developments. This place was stone clad and mullioned, designed to blend in with its surroundings.
Even so, Cooper thought he would never get used to some of these new properties. They gave the impression that someone had sliced off a piece of landscape with a bulldozer and flattened an area big enough to plonk down a bungalow. There seemed to be no regard for the natural contours of the land.
‘Mrs Birtland?’
‘Yes?’ The grey-haired woman who answered his knock peered cautiously past a security chain.
He showed his ID. ‘DC Cooper, Edendale CID.’
‘Is it about the murder?’
‘Oh, I see someone’s been talking. Was it the officer who called earlier?’
‘No, but word gets around.’
Cooper smiled. He was pleased to hear that, for once. ‘May I come in? You can check my ID, if you want.’
‘No, that’s all right.’
She took the chain off and let him into the bungalow.
‘Edward and Frances, is that right?’
‘I’m Frances, Edward is my husband.’
‘And is Mr Birtland in?’
‘Yes, Ted’s in the back. Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Cooper?’
‘No, thank you, Mrs Birtland. I won’t be keeping you long.’
Being called ‘Mr Cooper’ made him smile even more. That really was a rarity in this job.
‘Ted,’ called Mrs Birtland, ‘we’ve got a visitor.’
Edward Birtland didn’t get up when Cooper entered. He was seated in a well-used armchair by a random stone fireplace, a fragile man of about seventy. He held out a hand politely, and Cooper couldn’t do anything else but shake it. The grip of Mr Birtland’s fingers hardly registered.
‘So,’ he said, ‘how did you hear someone had been killed?’
‘The murder?’
‘Well …’
Frances Birtland chuckled. ‘It was Bernie. Our postman knows everybody.’
‘Of course he does.’
‘You brought him back to Foxlow when he’d nearly finished his round. He stopped and told a few people about it on the way home.’
‘I understand how Bernie Wilding knows everybody. The question I’ve come to ask you is how well you knew Rose Shepherd.’