Gavin stared through the windscreen at the converted stable block and tried to read the small signs outside each of the doors.
The U-shaped buildings were accessed via a narrow driveway that wound around the back of a farmhouse, the entrance to which bore the name of the craft centre and a list of the businesses that now thrived where horses were once kept.
He edged the car forward, sure that the one he sought was the larger premises at the far end, and found a parking space between a battered pickup truck and a hatchback that looked like it had seen better days.
A few people milled about the place, a small café nearer the farmhouse doing a thriving business in hot drinks and pastries, and he groaned under his breath as his stomach rumbled.
Checking the details once more on his phone, he walked towards the building, casting his gaze over the reclaimed stone troughs filled with lavender and bright flowers placed outside the open door.
Various pieces adorned a wooden rack, some with price tags on that reflected the craftsman’s reputation as a carpenter, and the reassuring aroma of fresh sawdust reminded Gavin of woodworking classes at school.
The sound of sandpaper scraping against timber carried through the open door, and he blinked to counteract the gloom before knocking on the glass panel above the handle.
‘Hello? Mr Chilton?’
Stepping inside, he heard the sanding stop, and then a figure appeared from the back of the workshop in a cloud of sawdust motes.
‘That’s me.’
The man walked over and placed a sandpaper block on a cabinet behind the counter before turning to him, blue eyes inquisitive.
‘Can I help you?’
In reply, Gavin held up his warrant card. ‘DC Piper, Kent Police. I’ve been trying to call you.’
Curiosity turned to fear, and Chilton hurried around the counter before pulling the door shut. He glared at Gavin.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘I’m trying to progress a murder investigation. You haven’t returned any of my voicemail messages.’
‘I can’t talk to you.’
Chilton moved back to the cabinet, then picked up the sandpaper, turning it in his hands as he retreated to the back of the workshop.
‘I only have a few questions.’ Gavin nodded towards a lathe and other machinery that stood silent, waiting for the craftsman to resume his work. ‘How long have you been a carpenter?’
‘Since I left school.’
‘I understand you were involved in the film industry for a while.’
Chilton shuffled his feet, scuffing a path through the sawdust that sprinkled the concrete floor. ‘It was a long time ago.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I was a set designer. Then I started an independent production company with a friend of mine.’
Gavin looked around at the various items hanging from the walls – cheeseboards, house signs, knife blocks. ‘Why did you quit?’
‘I’d rather not talk about it.’ Chilton turned away and busied himself with what Gavin realised was a cradle, gentling sanding the surface.
The workmanship was incredible, with intricate carvings detailing the outside of the rails and animal silhouettes in the boards.
‘When did you start this business?’
‘About two months ago.’
‘Looks like you’re doing well.’
A shrug. ‘It’s okay. Keeps me out of trouble.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
In response, Chilton turned and tossed the sandpaper block onto a workbench, then folded his arms over his chest.
‘I meant what I said. I’m not prepared to talk about it.’
‘Let me put this into perspective for you,’ Gavin said, running his fingers over the smooth surface of the wooden frame. ‘We’ve already interviewed Porter MacFarlane and his son in relation to a murder north of Bearsted last week…’
‘I saw it on the news.’
‘What you won’t have seen is that two rifles were stolen from the MacFarlanes sometime after the end of June. We believe one of those rifles was used in the shooting. Out of all the production companies we’ve interviewed who had access to their stock, you’re the only one left. And you’ve been avoiding our calls. Why?’
He saw it then – the slight shake in Chilton’s hands, the trembling lips while he raised his gaze to the ceiling as if seeking divine guidance.
‘Mr Chilton?’
‘You can’t tell him you’ve spoken to me,’ the craftsman said eventually. ‘He’ll kill me if he finds out.’
Gavin stepped forward, his heart racing. ‘Who? Porter MacFarlane?’
‘No.’ Chilton snapped. ‘That son of his. Roman.’