2

The farmhouse was large and square and built of stone.  It was surrounded by an assortment of barns and outbuildings, also mainly built of rough, dark stone.  The farmyard was awash with mud, except for one corner that looked like it had recently been concreted and was still cordoned off by a makeshift barrier of broken white pallets.  Parked beside the pallets was a mud spattered Electra Blue 4x4.  Somewhere nearby a horse snorted and was answered by the sudden frantic barking of a dog.  

I removed my mobile from my pocket, checked to see if I had a strong enough signal and called DI Silver once more.

“Where are you?”  He shouted.  “It’s a terrible line!”

“I’m at Heather Hill Farm,” I shouted.  “I think I might need your assistance in the next quarter of an hour.”

“What are you up too, John?”

“Just be here in fifteen minutes.”

In the distance I could see a line of cows marching along a track, in an ordered, regimented formation.

At the back of the line of cows, I could see a figure following behind, encouraging them on.  Even at this distance I could see that it was Hilly Painswick.  She waved encouragingly as I got out of the car.  All the locals knew each other in Oxmarket; it was that sort of community.  It had its good points and bad points.  Unfortunately today was definitely the latter.

As the last of the cows entered the field, Mrs Painswick fastened and started across the field towards me.  She waved again.

“Hello, John.”  Hilly said as she climbed over the fence.  She pointed towards the farmhouse.  “Fancy a cup of tea?  George will be back with the baby shortly.  He will be pleased to see you.”

She came closer and I gave her a polite kiss on the cheek.  Hilly Painswick was in her late forties, her hair still clinging to some brown in among the grey.  She was wearing a green waxed jacket and jeans.  Her face was weather beaten but kindly, with laughter lines rather than wrinkles.  She was called Hilly because of Hilda and she lived on Heather Hill Farm.  It was a joke, so I was told.  A nickname given to her by her husband George, which stuck for whatever reason.  Apparently, the rumour went she did not really like it, but felt it was better than ‘Madame Pain’ which was the alternative he had mooted about in the pub one drunken night. 

She and Zoë had become good friends when my wife had taken over the Oxmarket general practice. I was working in London, only coming home weekends, so I didn’t really get to know her that well.  Then when Zoë was diagnosed with leukaemia, I gave up my job and nursed her through her final few months.  Hilly visited from time to time, but stayed away completely after the funeral.  For whatever reason I don’t know.  Agony is socially unacceptable.  One is not supposed to weep and Hilly had probably not wanted to see me upset. However, Zoë had been dead nearly nine months and while everyone else had finished grieving, sadly I had not.   

The front door was open, and Hilly led me inside.  The hallway was surface with quarry tiles.  The kitchen floor was flagged with slabs of pale stone.  A large wooden table stood unevenly in the middle of the room.  Various cooking utensils and farming implements hung round the walls and from the beams across the ceiling.

“Sorry it’s a bit of a mess,” Hilly said.  “But this is a working house.”

“That’s fine,” I seated myself at the table.  “I hadn’t seen you for a while.  Probably not since the funeral and I hear you’ve had some good news.”

“What?” Hilly croaked, her throat suddenly sounding dry and her face was slowly reddening.  “Oh yes, little Archie.  We were shocked as well as pleased.  Thought we’d missed our chance.”

“Yes,” I said, “I’m sure you did.  You didn’t look very pregnant at the funeral, I must admit.”

Hilly laughed.  “I didn’t know I was.  Thought I was going through my change, to put it bluntly.  It wasn’t till I saw Dr Madsen that I found out.  Kept it quiet because we didn’t want to tempt fate, especially at my age and we are a bit isolated up here.  Now would you like some tea?  I don’t have any coffee, I’m afraid.  Or a cold drink?  There are some biscuits somewhere.  I was baking just the other day.”  She started to look through the cluttered cupboard.  “Or was it last week?  Time simply flies by these days, don’t you find?  Especially with the baby and the farm to look after.”  She emerged brandishing a faded tin.

“Dr Madsen is a good doctor.”  I said courteously.

“He is,” Hilly agreed, “but nowhere near as good as Zoë.”

I smiled, but felt sad inside. Some days I could handle the pain and the hurt better than other days.  This fortunately was one of the better ones. “No one was as good as Zoë.”

“She was the best,” Hilly said and then if she was shaking herself out of her reverie asked:  “Now, what about that drink?”

“You know,” I said, “seeing the cows just now. . .  What I’d really like is a glass of fresh cold – “

“Milk?”  Hilly smiled as if she had just been paid the greatest compliment imaginable.  “Of course. I’ll get some – we keep a churn cool in the pantry.  A lot easier at this time of the year.”

She returned a few moments later with a glass filled almost to the brim with creamy milk.  “There you are.  You won’t get it much fresher than that.”  

I sipped at the cold liquid.  It was surprising how much more flavour the milk had when it was so fresh.  “That’s lovely,” I said and then asked:  “I see you’ve got a new vehicle as well?”

“We needed it for the little one,” a male voice said from behind me.  I turned to see George Painswick standing in the hallway behind a small pram.  He was a tall, heavy, swarthy, dark-eyed man and he did not look very pleased to see me.

I stood up.  “Hello, George.”  He shook my hand.  His palm was clammy but that could have been from gripping the handle of the pram when he was out walking.

“Hello, John,” he glanced over at his wife and then back at me.  “We haven’t seen you for a while.  Not since the funeral, I think.”

“No, I was just saying that to Hilly,” I said, pleasantly.  “I have been rather preoccupied with sorting out Zoë’s affairs and starting up the new business.”

“That’s right,” he said, “what is it you’re doing now?”

“I’m a private detective.”

“Really?”  George went even more pale and strained.  “Much call for that sort of thing round here, is there?”

“Early days,” I shrugged.  “Anyway, that’s enough about me.  I’ve come to see the new arrival.”

I noticed another scared glance between husband and wife.  

“Yes, of course,” George acknowledged, “he is asleep, so try not to disturb him.”

“I’ll be as quiet as a mouse,” I said, as I walked round to look.  He was asleep.  Contentedly laying there underneath a blanket, with his little thumb resting gently on his bottom lip.  I could not see much of him but I could see enough to finally help me make up my mind.            

“He’s lovely,” I said.  “Just like his mother.”

“Thank you.”  Hilly said.

“No, Hilly you didn’t hear me right,” I explained.  “I said he looked like his mother.  You’re not his mother and George is not his father.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say.”  She told me.

“But it’s the truth, I’m afraid.”

George’s face tightened, but there was the shadow of fear in his eyes.  “What the hell are you talking about, John?”

“You two have been living a lie for the past few months,” I said, “and the only reason you’ve got away with it is the remoteness of Heather Hill Farm.  No one ever comes up to see you and you are hardly seen in Oxmarket.  The perfect cover for what you’ve done.” 

“Whatever you are accusing us of, I don’t like it, John!”  His face was pale, his fists were clenched and you could see that he was actively considering having a go at me, which he should have recognised as an unpromising course of action. “Now I know you have been through a great deal with Zoë’s dying and all that but I really think you should leave, right now.”

“Oh, I will do,” I said, glancing at my watch.  “When the police arrive in exactly five minutes. Then, you can tell them what you did.”

“I can assure you, John, I haven’t the faintest idea – “

“Don’t lie to me!”  I said disgustedly.  I pointed to the pram.  “That baby is the child of Tador and Adrianna Zhivkov.  The baby has red hair.  Adrianna had red hair.  She has been missing for two months.  That’s her 4x4 out there.  Now, I don’t know what went on and I don’t believe for one minute you two are murderers.  So, why don’t you two just stop lying and tell me the bloody truth!”

Hilly Painswick lifted her shoulders in comfort and distress.  “We didn’t kill her, John.  There was an accident.”  She turned to her husband.  “Come on, George, we’ll only make it worse for ourselves.”

George Painswick stared miserably at his wife, turned away, slumped down in the chair next to me and held his head in his hands. 

“I had walked down the path to post a letter,” Hilly began. “I think it was a cheque for the previous month’s animal feed.”

“Go on,” I said, sipping some more of that gorgeous milk.

“And I saw that girl,” Hilly continued.  “What was her name again?”

“Adrianna,” I said, impatiently.

“Adrianna, that’s right,” Hilly nodded.  “She had just posted a letter herself and I saw she had a for sale sign in the back of her 4x4.  We had been talking about getting a new car and that 4x4 would have been perfect.  The trouble was Adrianna said that she had someone coming round to look at the vehicle later that afternoon.”

“What did you say?”  I asked.

“I told her that if my husband liked the look of it, we would give her the cash there and then and the deal would be done.”

“So she came back with you up to the farm?”

She gave me a troubled half-smile and said hesitantly, “Yes.”

“Then what happened?” I prompted.    

George Painswick, who had been quiet for a while, pushed himself wearily to his feet and went and stood behind his wife and rested a gentle hand on her shoulder.  The pram remained where it was and the baby slept through it all, totally oblivious to the revelations that were unfolding around him.

“It was a complete accident, John,” he said, eventually.  “I was attending the cows in the field and the heifer got through the gate and into the yard.  It ran amok.  Hilly had just arrived with that girl and before I could warn them the heifer had knocked the girl over, trampled all over her as it panicked and then ran off.”

“She was in a terrible state,” Hilly interrupted.  “Fractured her skull, we think.  There was blood everywhere.”

“Why didn’t you call Dr Madsen?” I asked.

“There was no time,” George replied.  “She was dying in front of our eyes; she was pleading with us to save the baby.”

“We had no choice, John.”

“I can see that,” I nodded sadly.

“We perform an emergency caesarean,” George went on; there was no stopping him off-loading his guilt now.  “We’ve done it hundreds of times on the sheep, pigs and cows on the farm.” 

“I’m sure you have,” I whispered and then asked:  “Did she see the baby, before she died?”

Hilly eyes were now filled with tears.  “Yes, no, maybe.  She was in and out of consciousness the whole time.  We’re not sure.”

“What did you do with the body?”

“It’s buried under that new patch of concrete in the yard,” George said guiltily.

I had guessed as much when I had arrived.

He gave out a long sigh of relief, but his wife said with hesitancy, “It was then that I came up with the idea of keeping the baby.  No one ever comes up here and once Archie had grown a little older we could say he was our nephew staying with us or he was adopted.  He hadn’t really thought that far ahead.” 

“Hilly,” I said.  “With respect, you are abysmally ignorant to the facts of life as they appertain to the wilds of Suffolk.  Eventually someone would have suspected something.  One of the mistakes you made was taking the 4x4 to Ian Hammond.  He might be Zoë’s brother, but he would sell his grandmother if he thought there was a profit in it and your second mistake was keeping the baby.  It was not yours to keep.  It belongs to Tador Zhivkov and once blood tests prove, which I am sure they will, that the baby is his, then he will be returned to his rightful family.”

It was then that the sound of police sirens filled the farmyard, which sent the animals wild and for Hilly Painswick to sob uncontrollably.

*

I met DI Paul Silver in the Waggoner’s Rest just before ten o’clock that evening.  Behind the bar Robert Trefoil paused in mid-polish, a damp cloth wiping the inside of a pint glass.  After a moment, the cloth started working again and the man leaned towards me, with a big grin on his face.

“And what can I get you two gentlemen, today?”  He asked.  His voice deep and accented.

I smiled at the large red-faced landlord with steel grey hair and I tapped the middle of the three pump handles.  “Two pints of Wellington Bomber, please, Bob.”

We found a deserted corner and Paul studied some papers for a while repeatedly scowling away, “This is an extremely grave matter,” into the middle distance from time to time, before his craggy face broke into an understanding smile when he looked up at me.

“How did you know?”  He asked suddenly.  “And before you say anything I’ve read your statement.  There is one vital piece missing.”

“And what is that?”  I raised my slippery glass carefully and took a mouthful of froth from the top.  I could feel that it left a white moustache traced across my upper lips, so I wiped it away with a napkin.

“How you knew,” he reiterated.  “From what you have said in your statement, there is no way you could have guessed Hilly and George Painswick had the child.”

“What will happen to them?”  I asked trying to distract his attention.

“They’ll serve a prison term,” he replied, “of that there is no doubt.  From what the SOCO’s have said with their initial findings, it looks like the story about the runaway heifer is true but until I see the report I can only speculate.”

“They did save the baby,” I said.

Paul did not bat an eyelid. “That is true, but they tried to keep it from its rightful father.”

“Yes, they did.” I said heavily.

“Now tell me,” he demanded.  “How did you find out?” 

“It was Zoë, who helped me.”

DI Paul Silver suddenly looked uncomfortable. “How?”  He whispered.       

“Zoë kept a diary.”  I said quietly.

“Yes, I can imagine she did.”  Paul’s craggy face broke into a smile.  It wasn’t much of a smile, it was tinged with sadness, but it was there.  He had been genuinely fond of Zoë, and had always found it difficult to understand why she had thrown herself away on me.

“It describes how she felt about things.  About me, about her illness.  It’s all there for me to see.  Yes, I have photographs of her, videos of her parties and weddings and I watch them frequently.  Listening to the soft lilting cadences of her voice and the fascinating shift and play of expression on her face.”  I cleared my throat as I felt the emotion well up inside of me.  “But the diary she bares her soul.  That is the real Zoë.  She wrote about how upset she got when she had to tell patients bad news and one particular entry stuck in my mind.  It was December the eighteenth.  The last Christmas before she died and she had been to see a female patient to tell her that she would not be able to have any children.”  Paul was looking straight at me.  The smile had vanished.  “It was then I remembered how upset she had been around about that time and how I had moaned at her for the state of the inside of the car, the next day.  All the mats were covered in mud and manure.  She had laughed at me for being angry over a trivial thing like a bit of mud and of course when Zoë laughed you just stopped being angry.  I didn’t really suspect Hilly and George Painswick until after I had seen Ian and found out who he had changed the number plates for. Then I realised who Zoë had been so upset about and of course I had heard that they had just had a child.  I knew they would confess once I confronted them.”

Paul didn’t bat an eyelid.  He said, “Your brother-in-law will get his knuckles rapped for that.”

“I know,” I said resignedly.  “You wouldn’t believe he was Zoë’s brother would you?”

“No, you wouldn’t.”  Paul then suddenly lifted his half-empty glass and asked, “Can I make a toast?”

“Of course,” I said, a little surprised.

“Zoë.”

I wanted to cry, but I didn’t.  I lifted my glass, tapped his gently and said, “Zoë.”

*