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.”Shand detached himself from the conversation and stared over at Lower Ash Farm.Was he really dealing with a fight between neighbours that had got out of hand? He didn’t think so.Fights between neighbours tended to be settled on their properties with the bodies lying in the garden, not a half-mile away in a stone circle.But who else had a motive? The mysterious bank robbers? That only worked if Annabel Marchant was an unlucky witness, but the more he learned about her, the less likely that option appeared.Her car was in the garage, her house locked up.She didn’t like to walk through the village at night.How had she got to the circle?And even if she had been driving past the circle and stopped to see what was going on, would her killers really have taken the time to return her car to the garage? It didn’t ring true.The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that Annabel Marchant had known her killer.“Sir?” said Taylor.“What?” said Shand.“Is it worth taking a look at the neighbour while we’re here?”“I think it might,” said Shand, “and Marcus, see what you can find out about these Moleman stories.”~Lower Ash Farm was a complete contrast to the studied neatness of the Marchant’s house.The front garden was a rutted yard edged by brambles and nettles entwined around islands of rusty metal, old machinery, rotting fence posts, discarded polythene and old tyres.Puddles in the yard shimmered oily rainbows.The farmhouse hadn’t seen a lick of paint in years, an irregular tidemark of rising damp stained the grey rendered walls, and in the distance a succession of wooden and rusted corrugated iron outbuildings reminded Shand of a South African shantytown.“You arrested ’im yet?” said a voice to Shand’s right.“You been in there long enough.”A small weather-beaten man with a prominent red nose and a slight paunch emerged from a nearby barn.He was cleaning something black off his hands with an even blacker rag.“Why should we do that, Mr.Acomb?” asked Shand.“For killing ’is missus, of course.Terrible temper ’e has.And ’e don’t like animals, you know.Which is ’ow they all start – them serial killers – ain’t it? I was watching it on the telly the other night.They always start by torturing animals.”“Are you saying that Mr.Marchant tortured animals?” asked Shand, not sure whether to take Bill Acomb seriously.He had a glint in his eye and looked as though he was finding it hard not to grin.“’E tortured me prize cock,” said Acomb indignantly.“The Athelcott One?” asked Taylor.“That’s ’im.Your boys ’ave ’im now.Locked up in a cell when all ’e did was do what comes natural.”“After you moved him as close to the Marchant’s bedroom as you could,” said Taylor.“Maybe I did,” said Bill Acomb, grinning.“But I wouldn’t ’ave if they ’adn’t started it.I was quite prepared to behave neighbourly until they started trotting out their orders.Trim that ’edge, move that muck heap, stop leaving mud on the road.Accused me of sheltering rats in me barns, they did.And me tractor was always too noisy or smelly.”“Townies,” said Taylor.“Too right,” said Acomb.“The worse kind.Them that think they want to live in the country, but really want to live in a park where us yokels do nothing but keep the place tidy all day and look quaint.”“So when you threatened the Marchants, you didn’t really mean it?” asked Shand.“Who said I threatened anyone?” snapped Acomb.“I was told you threatened the Marchants in front of several witnesses.”“’E told you that, did he?” Bill Acomb darted a glance towards the Marchants house and cleared his throat.For one second Shand thought he was going to spit on the floor and prepared to step back.“All I said,” continued Acomb in a slower more deliberate voice, “was I’d get even with ’em.And I will.In me own way, which don’t include murdering nobody.”“And something which is entirely within the law, no doubt,” said Taylor.“Entirely,” said Acomb.“Law-abiding family, us Acombs.”“You must see a lot of what goes on next door, Mr.Acomb,” said Shand.“I might,” said Acomb.“What about last night?”“I already told your boys.I saw nothing.”“You didn’t go out yesterday evening?”“I might.”“And where might you have been,” asked Taylor.“Down the Oak.”“Until when?”“Just after nine [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]