Читать книгу Exham-on-Sea Murder Mysteries 1-3 - Frances Evesham - Страница 22

Libby fiddled with the Satnav, planning the route to Weldon on the other side of Bristol, aware that someone, either Guy or Alvin, was watching from a window. They wanted to make sure she'd left the area. She revved the engine and wound down the window, waving with enthusiasm. She'd have time to visit Susie's other band mate if she set off now.

The route to James Sutcliffe's home took Libby down a series of ever more winding, narrow roads. She stopped to check her iPhone. Surely no one lived down this tiny, overgrown lane, hedges high on either side?

No signal. Should she give up, reverse back and go home? A horn blared and Libby twisted in her seat. She flinched. A monster tractor filled the whole of the rear window. The engine ground to a halt at the last moment, inches away.

The driver dragged off a pair of headphones, swung down from the cab, and rolled across to her window. A knitted jumper of indeterminate colour lay, unravelling, over his paunch. His head was stubbly and weathered. He shoved a ruddy, belligerent face close to the glass. ‘Where you off to, then?

He'd left Libby no space to open the Citroen's door. Trapped and furious, she lowered the window and used her iciest voice. ‘What business is it of yours?’

‘If you're on the way to Ross on Wye, you need to go back, turn right onto the main road, and take the motorway. And don't use that Satnav. Can't be trusted.’

‘How can I reverse with your tractor practically in my back seat? Anyway,’ she remembered why she was here. ‘I'm looking for James Sutcliffe. I think he lives nearby.’

‘Ah.’ The eyes narrowed. ‘Huh. Plenty like you come up here on the way to Ross. No more sense than the day they're born. Buy an expensive Satnav, throw away perfectly good maps and get lost here, in my lane. You're going nowhere this way, let me tell you.’

Libby picked out information from an apparently well-practised rant. ‘Your lane? You must be Mr Sutcliffe.’

‘So, who wants me?’ Must they have the conversation here? Libby peered ahead, but she couldn't see around the corner. The cultured voice of the Satnav recovered and broke in, insisting that in one hundred yards she would reach her destination.

Libby pulled out the connection. ‘I want to ask about Susie Bennett.’

‘Thought so.’ James Sutcliffe was triumphant. The colour in his cheeks, previously the sort of dull pink a kind observer would describe as a healthy, open air glow, darkened to purple. Was he about to have a stroke? At least that would stop him blowing Libby's head off with a shotgun. ‘Just get off my land, woman. I've had enough of journalists nosing into my business.’

‘No, no, I'm not a journalist.’ The squeak in Libby's voice was less than convincing.

‘Who says so?’ The man had a good point. It was one thing to prove you were something: journalists carried ID cards, didn't they, like police officers? Much harder to prove you were nothing special, just a normal person. Not that Libby felt very normal, given the events of the past few days.

She slapped on what she hoped was a non-journalistic smile, aiming for a mix of seriousness and reason. ‘Anyway, even if I came from a newspaper, I can't go back until you move your tractor.’

Sutcliffe growled. ‘Get yourself up to the yard.’ He stomped back to the tractor.

The vast front end was only inches from her car. Libby feared for the newly repaired Citroen. She clashed gears and cursed under her breath, and the car lurched further up the lane, finally rounding the corner to rest on a cobbled farmyard.

Mud, an inch thick, covered uneven cobbles. Libby groaned. She'd chosen her shoes with care: elegant red patent with kitten heels and elaborate holes cut into the sides. Wholly appropriate for the refined ambience of Georgian Bath, they were unlikely to survive an encounter with farmyard muck. The temptation to wheel round and disappear back up the lane was almost overwhelming.

Holding the door for support, feet slithering, she edged out of the car. ‘Mr Sutcliffe, I'm honestly not from the media. I've just been talking to Guy. Guy Miles.’ The farmer frowned, obviously recognising the name. Libby held out her phone. ‘Ring him, if you like.’

Libby had never heard anyone harrumph before, but that was what Sutcliffe did. He brushed past the outstretched phone. ‘Better come in, then.’

She ducked under a low doorway that opened into a huge kitchen. Mud from the yard had infiltrated, using the convenient transport of Sutcliffe's boots, through the ill-fitting door. It carpeted the otherwise bare, flagstone floor of a rustic room, apparently undecorated since the 1950s. Rickety orange boxes, stacked underneath and to the side of a huge, pine table, teetered and trembled. Libby caught a glimpse of greaseproof paper and a logo showing a goat's head. Sutcliffe, proving himself to be no more of a talker indoors than in the lane, uttered one word. ‘Cheese.’