in Libby's head. What on earth had Susie been doing in Exham after all those years away?
18
James
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.’
19
Cheese
‘Dairy's over there.’ He pointed through the window. To be sure, behind the run-down farmhouse nestled a contrasting complex of neat brick buildings, doors and windows smart with red paint, enclosing a small yard lined with pristine paving stones. In the distance, a herd of goats tugged up mouthfuls of grass in a paddock, as though on a mission. ‘Jack runs the business now.’
The unexpected burst of information brought Libby back to the filthy kitchen. Could that be pride in the farmer's voice?
‘Jack?’ She guessed. ‘Your son?’
‘Ah. Lives over yonder with that fancy wife of his.’ Sutcliffe's ruddy face had calmed. Social relations had somehow been restored. The farmer gestured towards a battered brown kettle. ‘Tea?’
‘Yes, please. Let me get the cups.’ Many more of these visits and she'd float away on a tide of tea and coffee. She pulled mugs from the wobbling pile on the draining board and seized the opportunity to inspect them for grime. She'd seen worse.
Sutcliffe fiddled with kettle and tea caddy. Libby coughed. ‘Susie Bennett. You were in the band, with her and Guy, isn't that right?’
‘Ah.’ Sutcliffe kept his back turned.
‘I found her body.’
He stopped, kettle poised inches above an ancient, cracked teapot. His words were almost inaudible. ‘Did you now? All alone on the beach?’
The bluster drained away from the red face, leaving it crumpled, like a crushed eggshell. Libby took the kettle, pouring hot water into the pot, giving the farmer time to blow a loud nasal blast on a grubby handkerchief. ‘Little Susie. Who'd have thought it?’
The door opened and a younger, taller, cleaner version of James Sutcliffe strode in. Any hope the son would prove more welcoming than his father evaporated. He threw a cursory glance at Libby. ‘What's going on, here, Dad?’
Sutcliffe wiped his eyes. Libby assessed the distance to the door, wishing she could just leave, annoyed to have misread James Sutcliffe. The gruff exterior hid deep feelings.
‘I – I'm sorry.’ Lost for adequate words, she sniffed a nearby bottle of milk, decided there was life left in it, and poured three cups of tea. ‘I came to find out more about Susie Bennett.’
‘You've picked a bad time.’ The son pulled out a wooden chair and his father sank into it. ‘Dad's wife died a month ago. The news about Susie just about finished him off.’
Libby gulped. No wonder the place was such a mess. James Sutcliffe had been running on empty, trying to keep going after the tragedy.
A thought struck. Jack Sutcliffe had said, ‘Dad's wife.’ She wasn't his own mother then.
He folded his arms. ‘What's it all to do with you, anyway?’
‘I