A Death to Record Read Online Free Page A

cheerful grin. ‘Are you busy?’
    Den flapped the paper and glanced at the tepid coffee. ‘As you see,’ he said.
    ‘Something for you, then. Take Young Mike with you. Dead body on a farm. We’ve got the police doctor on his way, but you ought to be there first.’
    Something stirred in Den’s breast. Fear, excitement, memories. ‘Which farm?’ he asked.
    ‘Hmmm.’ Danny consulted the scrap of paper in his hand. ‘Dunsworthy, looks like. Woman called Deirdre Watson. It doesn’t say who’s dead. Maybe it’s her.’ He shook his head. ‘Usual balls-up.’
    ‘ Dunsworthy! That’s Hillcock’s place. Who the hell is Deirdre Watson?’
    ‘Search me,’ Danny shrugged. ‘That’s for you to go and find out.’
    ‘But—’ Den looked at the other man helplessly. Nobody at the station knew about Lilah’s betrayal, beyond the fact that she’d called off the wedding and he wasn’t seeing her any more.He ought to try and explain the situation, now, right at the outset, before driving to Dunsworthy. He opened his mouth, to say, That’s where my girlfriend’s new bloke lives. Are you sure you want me involved in this? Might there not be a conflict of interest somewhere along the line?
    But he didn’t. If Gordon Hillcock was dead, it would feel like a friendly Fate lending a hand. It would make Den feel better. But it wouldn’t affect his work. There was also the unavoidable fact that there was really nobody else. Sergeant Phil Bennett was off sick and likely to be for some time, after breaking his ankle. Already under-staffed, the DI had little alternative to sending Den out on this particular call.
    And it wouldn’t be a problem, Den insisted to himself. He would do all he could to discover how and why the victim had died. But who was Deirdre Watson? At least three families lived at Dunsworthy. Den guessed she must be a wife or girlfriend of an employee.
    ‘Okay,’ he said, getting up slowly. Standing, he was a clear four inches taller than Danny, himself almost six feet. ‘Where’s Young Mike?’
    ‘Waiting by the front desk. Nobody can say that boy’s not keen.’
     
    Although he’d never been to this particular example, Den was familiar enough with thegeneral layout of farms of the same type to make enlightened guesses as to the inhabitants of the three homes on the Dunsworthy farmstead. Close to the road, two semi-detached, low-level cottages came into view first. They had been built for farm workers a century or so earlier, and were still occupied by farm employees. Four hundred yards further up the rutted drive, the main farmhouse, inhabited by Gordon Hillcock and his family, sat squarely surrounded by a motley assembly of modern steel-and-concrete farm buildings, as well as older barns and sheds. The cow sheds were huge and extensive, providing cover for the entire animal stock. A round food hopper, containing cattle cake, stood outside the milking parlour and bulk tank room. A muddy yard, dotted with glittering patches that turned out to be frozen puddles, offered ample parking space, despite already containing a tractor, battered Land Rover, a mud-spattered Peugeot, an ambulance and a very disturbing heap of dead black-and-white calves, caught in the police car’s headlights. Young Mike yelped when he caught sight of them.
    ‘Good God! There’s been a massacre here.’
    ‘Not really,’ said Den. ‘They shoot the bulls at birth. Not worth trying to sell them these days. Remember all that hoo-ha at Shoreham?’
    ‘Live exports, yeah.’
    ‘Well, now the calves get shot instead of exported.’
    ‘Hmm,’ was Young Mike’s confused response.
    Den dragged his thoughts from conversations with Lilah on this and other agricultural subjects. He’d learnt more from her than he realised, in the years they’d been together.
    ‘Poor little buggers,’ Mike murmured. Indeed the calves looked pathetic enough, their long, thin legs outstretched, the sweet faces, marked with the vivid monochrome