Tainted Ground Read Online Free Page B

Three bodies had been discovered by walkers in a disused farm building about two miles from Hinton Littlemoor. Such were the circumstances of the find that two elderly women had been taken to hospital suffering from shock. It would appear, yelled the over-excited young reporter, that the murder victims had been strung up by their feet and their throats had then been cut. The crime was already being dubbed the Ritual Killings.
    James Carrick appeared on camera, with Lynn Outhwaite, mobbed by the media and looking a little driven. Questioned, he said merely that the murder victims had not yet been identified and that scene-of-crime officers would be working at the barn throughout the night.
    â€˜No one’s said so but it’s Hagtop Farm,’ Elspeth said when the TV had been turned off. ‘I’d recognize that building anywhere. There was such a fuss when it was erected. The farm’s been an unhappy place for as long as anyone in the village can remember. And when foot and mouth struck a few years ago and all the cattle and sheep had to be destroyed it finished off poor old Barney Stonelake, the farmer, as well. They said he died of a broken heart. His son restocked and carried on for a while but when his mother had a stroke and had to go into a nursing home recently he had everything auctioned off and put the place on the market.’
    I glanced at Patrick, the acute misery at his rejection tangible. Our eyes met and he put it into words.
    â€˜I should be there,’ he said.
    â€˜Then go,’ I said.
    â€˜James made his feelings perfectly plain this morning. I’d be accused of making trouble.’
    Up until now I had vowed that I would not interfere. For, after all, everything was now different and there was no need for me to become involved in Patrick’s new venture. I was discounting the words of a particularly poisonous civil servant, Nicholas Haldane, now in prison, who had once told me that without me Patrick would be nothing. It was untrue. But the female mindset does have its uses.
    â€˜Where are you going?’ Patrick enquired as I headed for the door. He sounded a trifle alarmed, as if thinking that I was furious with him and raging off.
    I blew him a kiss.
    Two police vehicles were parked among others that possibly contained hopeful newshounds at the end of the lane that led to the crime scene, blue-and-white incident tape fluttering everywhere. I spoke to the constable who had flagged me down.
    â€˜Is Detective Chief Inspector Carrick still here?’ I asked.
    â€˜Are you from the press?’ he wanted to know.
    â€˜No. Would you please ask him if I may approach? My name’s Ingrid Langley.’
    â€˜I’m afraid that no one’s permitted to—’
    â€˜Please ask him,’ I interrupted. ‘It’s very important.’
    â€˜To the case?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    Of course it was, silly.
    I sat, for some reason with heart hammering, while he got on his radio. The answer came quickly and one of the vehicles was moved so I could manoeuvre past it. The lane was very rutted and longer than I had imagined, the brightly lit scene ahead of me looking at first glance grotesquely like the venue for a rave.
    The open area around the barn, which was of brutal, modern construction, covered what must have been at least six acres and consisted of sections of concrete with coarse tufts of grass and weeds growing in the cracks between them. There were various police vehicles parked there and other, unmarked, cars but they were reduced almost to toys by the size of the building itself. I could discern no trees or anything that might give a clue that here we were in deepest Somerset: this had been agribusiness, pure and simple.
    Carrick and a young woman who must be Lynn Outhwaite – I had not met her before – left the building and came across as I got out of the car. By the illumination of the rigged-up lights I could see that Carrick’s