“Ah, inspector—at last,” the thin blonde woman said pointedly. “I’m Angela Inglis—Mrs Duncan Inglis.” She paused, clearly expecting the name to have resonance.
“Detective Constable Weston, ma’am,” he said in a neutral tone, taking the limply proffered hand of a professional meeter and greeter.
“Detective Constable, did you say?” She regarded him blankly. “I must say, I rather expected someone a little more…senior. When my husband can tear himself away from European affairs of state, he plays golf with your Chief Constable,” she went on, allowing herself a small smile. “Lovely man, and his wife’s delightful. We’ve known them for years.”
And, having whacked that ball firmly onto his side of the court, she eyed him with arrogant expectancy. Your turn.
Ah, that Mrs Duncan Inglis. The name finally clicked and Nick suppressed a groan as he mentally re-ran his arrival, trying to work out if he’d been rude enough to drop himself in it. The headache had returned with a vengeance and he forced his right eyelid not to droop under the weight of it. The last thing he needed was the wife of a local bigwig to accuse him of winking at her.
She was a handsome woman rather than outright attractive. With her glacial looks and immaculate dress, she could have been modelling for some kind of country pursuits catalogue. They both could. Nick nodded to the silent man alongside her.
“I take it you’re not Mr Inglis, sir?”
It was the woman who answered, drawing herself stiffly upright. “Of course not,” she snapped. “Giles is simply a friend.”
“Ben is my dog, Mr Weston. Or rather, he was.” He cleared his throat. “Bad business, this. Not much more than a pup. Bit boisterous, but no real harm in him.”
Nick thought of the lambs with their throats taken out and wondered if the farmer would second that opinion.
“Your full name, sir?” Nick retrieved his notebook from an inside pocket, saw the man’s eyes flicker. “Sorry about this. Just formalities, you understand.”
“Ah, yes, I suppose so.” The man sounded doubtful, as though Nick had just suggested something vaguely indecent. “Erm, yes, Giles Frederickson.”
There was another hesitation before Frederickson reeled off his address, as though considering every piece of information before releasing it. He lived in Warcop village, he revealed, giving an address that consisted of a house name but no number or street, a haphazard system that was becoming all-too familiar to Nick. Cumbria didn’t have the manpower to send him out teamed with a local officer, so he’d been told, and it made finding anywhere a nightmare.
“Pretty little place,” Nick ventured, trying to put him at his ease. Warcop was about twelve miles from Orton, picturesque but bordered on its northern side by one of the main cross-Pennine routes. Nick had driven through the village once or twice when he’d been getting to know the area. Sunday drives with… He bit down on a scowl. “Must be a bit noisy, though.”
“We’re not that close to the A66.”
“There’s an army firing range nearby, isn’t there, sir?”
“Ah, yes, I see.” Frederickson’s tone was offended, as though he’d been personally criticised. “Can’t say it bothers me.”
“Can you tell me what happened here this morning?” Nick asked, his raised eyebrow inviting either of them to pitch in.
Frederickson cleared his throat again. “Erm, I’d popped over to talk to Angela—Mrs Inglis—about the local agricultural show next Saturday. We’re both on the organising committee.”
Nick assiduously jotted this down. “And what time was this, sir?”
The pair glanced at each other.
“About seven-thirty, I would say,” Angela Inglis offered. “Perhaps a little before.”
Nick looked up. “Bit early that, isn’t it, ma’am?”
“Of course not.” A snap, which she belatedly tried to soften with a little laugh. “Both Giles and I are larks rather than owls, detective constable. You’ve no idea how much can be achieved while most people are still lounging in their beds.”
Keeps emphasising the rank to put me in my place. And the rest.
“Really, ma’am?” He slipped doubt into his voice just to be awkward. His natural body clock had him up and out before six every morning, running the quiet streets around Kendal. “And where was Ben during this time?”
Again, a sideways look passed between them. “I’d, erm, left him in my car,” Frederickson admitted. “Angela has a couple of Siamese cats and Ben has a tendency to…”
“Go after them?” Nick finished for him and there was a long pause before Frederickson gave a quiet, embarrassed nod. “So you left him locked in your car?”
“One could hardly say it was too warm for him at that hour.” Frederickson flushed, two small coins of colour that highlighted his angular cheekbones. “I’d parked in the shade, watered him and cracked the windows. Unfortunately, seems I cracked them a bit too far, and he gave us the slip.”
“Really, detective constable,” Angela Inglis broke in, an edge to her voice now. “I wouldn’t presume to tell you how to do your job, but don’t you think your time might be better spent questioning that wretched farmer, rather than giving poor Giles the third degree?”
“Angela, my dear—”
“According to our crime scene technician, the farmer’s shotgun hasn’t been fired for days,” Nick cut across Frederickson’s half-hearted protest with a dangerous softness, “and it would also appear that the an—, er, Ben, was shot by someone using a rifle.”
She closed her mouth again, her lips forming a tight line.
“Look, Weston, don’t you think you’re making a meal out of this?” Frederickson said quickly, ignoring the quiet gasp from the woman alongside him. “What I mean to say is, on reflection, I accept that Ben committed a serious offence and paid the price.” He tried a small smile that didn’t quite make it to his eyes. “I view this as a tragedy, believe me, but it would be a blatant waste of police time and public money to take this further.”
“Oh, but surely—”
Frederickson held up his hand and Angela Inglis fell silent immediately.
“Please, Angela. Ben was my dog and you must let me decide how best to handle this.”
For a moment they fenced silently before she let her gaze drop. Interesting, Nick thought, watching them. Maybe there was a bit more spine to the old boy than had been first apparent.
“Of course, Giles. Do forgive me for interfering, detective constable.” Her composure was firmly back in place. “I’m understandably…upset by what happened.”
“Of course,” Nick echoed blandly. He glanced at his notes. “Nevertheless, I’m sure you understand that regardless of whether you feel this was rough justice of a kind, we will be making further enquiries about the firearm that might have been used.”
Frederickson looked as though he would argue but then gave a resigned nod instead.
“If you’re looking for someone with rifles, detective constable,” Angela Inglis said suddenly, “then perhaps you should look to your own.”
“Meaning, ma’am?”
“Jim Airey.” Nick recognised the faintest tinge of triumph when she said the name, as though she’d been waiting for this opportunity and was determined to savour it now. “He’s not a real policeman, of course, but if you people are prepared to hand out uniforms you must take responsibility for who puts them on. Jim Airey,” she repeated, when Nick didn’t immediately react. She glanced about, frowning. “He was here when you arrived. You must know him, surely?”
“I’m new in the area, ma’am.” Nick wrote down the name, adding an underscore and a question mark. “Are you suggesting that Mr Airey might have shot Mr Frederickson’s dog?”
“Of course not.” Just when the pounding in Nick’s head notched up a beat, she added, “but his daughter might.”
“His daughter?”
“Edith. I gave her a little menial job last year after she left school. A few hours a week—cleaning and so forth. But I had to let her go at Christmas. A certain item went missing from the house.” She coloured primly. “A rather valuable item. I spoke with her father and, naturally, agreed not to take action, but her position was clearly untenable. She was somewhat…resentful about it.”
Nick noted the hesitation. “And you think she might have been involved in this incident, ma’am?”
Angela Inglis nodded. “She made some silly threats at the time—just an immature teenager throwing a tantrum, so I thought.”
Nick’s scepticism must have shown, because her face tightened. “Edith used to get rid of vermin in the garden—magpies and grey squirrels.” Clearly sensing his distaste she added, “We’re in a red squirrel conservation area, detective constable. That means keeping the non-native greys out—they’re larger, more aggressive, and they carry disease. If any are spotted, there are local people one can call on to…take care of the matter.”
“And a teenage girl was one of those people?”
It was Giles Frederickson’s turn to nod. “She might only be a slip of a thing—all skin and bone, but she is a quite remarkable shot with a rifle.”
They’re lying to me, Nick thought as he walked away. Not sure what about yet, but I know they are.
He caught young Danny Robertshaw over by the gateway chatting with the farmer, who was still on his quad bike.
“Where’s Airey?”
“Er, I think he’s just nipped off.” Robertshaw had the grace to look sheepish. “Said he’d got an errand to run. Had to pop home to sort something out.”
His daughter, most likely.
“Yeah,” Nick muttered, “I’ll bet he did…”