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Authors: Jeanne M. Dams
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Fairweather and Norquist and Larsen, have made up their mind that Carter’s death was an accident. You must have noticed.’
‘I wasn’t up to n-noticing very much.’
Alan put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. ‘We’ll talk about it when we get you warm and dry. Meanwhile, how much farther do we have to go in this ungodly weather?’
Pointing was easier than talking. Watson was straining at the leash, so I freed him, and he dashed straight under the barbed wire to his discovery. Alan followed more slowly, using the gate, as I had. I sought the shelter of a standing stone near the road. It was too narrow and slender to deflect the wind much, and no matter which side I stood on, the wind seemed to shift around to direct itself at my face.
Alan was taking forever. I huddled miserably, my face buried in my coat collar, not knowing what he and Watson were doing, and not much caring. I was startled, therefore, when the wind dropped for a moment or two and I heard a man’s voice raised in anger, close by.
‘And what the bluidy hell d’ye think ye’re doin’ on my land?’
I looked up in alarm, but the anger was being directed not at me, but at Alan. The speaker was Andersen, the farmer who’d been so upset at last night’s meeting. He was approaching Alan at a rapid clip, and he had a lethal-looking pitchfork in his hand.
I screamed. Pure reflex, because there was no help in sight. But the scream was apparently all Watson needed. If he’d been uncertain about the situation for a moment, now he knew what he needed to do. With a full-throated growl, that mildest of dogs sprang for the farmer.
I screamed again, for my dog, this time. That pitchfork … But Watson’s aim was sure. He caught the farmer’s arm just below the elbow. The pitchfork went flying as Andersen, howling with rage and pain, fell to the ground. Alan managed somehow to catch hold of Watson’s collar and haul him off the farmer in time to prevent serious injury.
I ran as fast as I could, Watson’s lead in my trembling hand. Alan took it from me and clipped it to the dog’s collar, and helped Andersen to his feet.
The farmer wasn’t badly hurt, as far I could see. He was, fortunately, wearing a heavy work jacket, and no blood was visible on the sleeve. He was jibbering with rage, though, and that, too, was fortunate, because before he could get out any articulate statement Alan took over.
‘You asked, sir, what I am doing on your land. I am Chief Constable Alan Nesbitt, and I am collecting important evidence in a murder case. Had you been successful in attacking me, I would have charged you with assaulting a police officer. Luckily, my dog is trained to protect me. Now, what have you to say for yourself?’
At least one word of that speech got through to Duncan Andersen. ‘Murder? Are ye accusin’ me of murder? By God, I’ll—’
‘I have made no accusation as yet. I will have some questions for you later, however. Meanwhile I must caution you not to leave this island. And I suggest, sir, that you endeavour to keep your temper in better check, or you’ll find yourself in serious trouble. Good day.’
The three of us left him standing in the field, wet, muddy, furious, and with what was doubtless a very sore arm.
‘That was,’ I said, after I’d recovered a little, ‘the stuffiest speech I’ve ever heard from you.’
‘Also probably the biggest string of lies,’ said Alan. ‘Your teeth aren’t chattering anymore.’
‘No, I’m not cold anymore. Adrenaline, I suppose. Lies?’
‘I’m no longer a chief constable. This is not yet officially a murder case. I was, in fact, trespassing on Mr Andersen’s land, and I have no power to charge anyone. In fact, he would have every reason to charge me with both trespass and assault, not to mention impersonating a police officer.’
‘He won’t, will he? Try to have you arrested?’
‘I doubt it. I think he’ll go back and think about a murder charge and
‘I wasn’t up to n-noticing very much.’
Alan put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. ‘We’ll talk about it when we get you warm and dry. Meanwhile, how much farther do we have to go in this ungodly weather?’
Pointing was easier than talking. Watson was straining at the leash, so I freed him, and he dashed straight under the barbed wire to his discovery. Alan followed more slowly, using the gate, as I had. I sought the shelter of a standing stone near the road. It was too narrow and slender to deflect the wind much, and no matter which side I stood on, the wind seemed to shift around to direct itself at my face.
Alan was taking forever. I huddled miserably, my face buried in my coat collar, not knowing what he and Watson were doing, and not much caring. I was startled, therefore, when the wind dropped for a moment or two and I heard a man’s voice raised in anger, close by.
‘And what the bluidy hell d’ye think ye’re doin’ on my land?’
I looked up in alarm, but the anger was being directed not at me, but at Alan. The speaker was Andersen, the farmer who’d been so upset at last night’s meeting. He was approaching Alan at a rapid clip, and he had a lethal-looking pitchfork in his hand.
I screamed. Pure reflex, because there was no help in sight. But the scream was apparently all Watson needed. If he’d been uncertain about the situation for a moment, now he knew what he needed to do. With a full-throated growl, that mildest of dogs sprang for the farmer.
I screamed again, for my dog, this time. That pitchfork … But Watson’s aim was sure. He caught the farmer’s arm just below the elbow. The pitchfork went flying as Andersen, howling with rage and pain, fell to the ground. Alan managed somehow to catch hold of Watson’s collar and haul him off the farmer in time to prevent serious injury.
I ran as fast as I could, Watson’s lead in my trembling hand. Alan took it from me and clipped it to the dog’s collar, and helped Andersen to his feet.
The farmer wasn’t badly hurt, as far I could see. He was, fortunately, wearing a heavy work jacket, and no blood was visible on the sleeve. He was jibbering with rage, though, and that, too, was fortunate, because before he could get out any articulate statement Alan took over.
‘You asked, sir, what I am doing on your land. I am Chief Constable Alan Nesbitt, and I am collecting important evidence in a murder case. Had you been successful in attacking me, I would have charged you with assaulting a police officer. Luckily, my dog is trained to protect me. Now, what have you to say for yourself?’
At least one word of that speech got through to Duncan Andersen. ‘Murder? Are ye accusin’ me of murder? By God, I’ll—’
‘I have made no accusation as yet. I will have some questions for you later, however. Meanwhile I must caution you not to leave this island. And I suggest, sir, that you endeavour to keep your temper in better check, or you’ll find yourself in serious trouble. Good day.’
The three of us left him standing in the field, wet, muddy, furious, and with what was doubtless a very sore arm.
‘That was,’ I said, after I’d recovered a little, ‘the stuffiest speech I’ve ever heard from you.’
‘Also probably the biggest string of lies,’ said Alan. ‘Your teeth aren’t chattering anymore.’
‘No, I’m not cold anymore. Adrenaline, I suppose. Lies?’
‘I’m no longer a chief constable. This is not yet officially a murder case. I was, in fact, trespassing on Mr Andersen’s land, and I have no power to charge anyone. In fact, he would have every reason to charge me with both trespass and assault, not to mention impersonating a police officer.’
‘He won’t, will he? Try to have you arrested?’
‘I doubt it. I think he’ll go back and think about a murder charge and
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