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Authors: J. M. Gregson
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shorthand.
Hook said, “But you said they don’t talk a lot.”
“You try keeping them quiet over something like that.” It was a fair defence, but he spoke of his customers with contempt.
“And they told you the vicar had been killed with a shotgun?”
Farr had the sense to pause before he replied. “They talked about the injuries. It didn’t take much knowledge to guess they had come from a shotgun.”
“I see. Do you have a shotgun yourself?” If the man wanted to be insolent, Lambert could return the attitude with interest. Ultimately, he held all the important cards in this game.
Perhaps Farr realized that. He said sullenly, “Yes. You can see it, if you want.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked through the door behind him.
Both of them knew the shotgun would be of no interest, or he would not have volunteered it so readily, but they were not going to turn down the chance to see how this aggressive curmudgeon lived. They followed him without even needing to look at each other.
The storeroom behind the shop was surprisingly untidy after the neat displays of merchandise they had left. Probably Farr knew his way around its clutter well enough. They were almost through the next door and into his living quarters when the menacing growl and bared teeth stopped them in their apprehensive tracks. “All right, Kelly, they’re friends. Back in your box!” said Farr. The Doberman loped away, obedient but seemingly disappointed; Farr’s smile of secret amusement convinced them that he had deliberately not warned them about the dog, which now stared at them from its bed with baleful brown eyes.
Farr went into a small pantry near the back door and emerged with a double-barrelled shotgun which he almost tossed into Hook’s hands. They gave it a token inspection, but Lambert was more interested in its owner. “You said the Reverend Barton wasn’t your type,” he said. With the shotgun now back in Farr’s hands, it seemed an appropriate moment to return to the shop-owner’s assertion.
Farr acknowledged the thought with a mirthless smile. “I’ve no time for organized religion. Perhaps he was just the representative of that. I’d nothing against Barton personally.” He said it as though it was an admission of weakness rather than anything to his credit.
“But you like Mrs Barton.”
Tommy Farr shrugged his wide boxer’s shoulders, pulled briefly at the distorted lobe of his flattened right ear, and put the gun unhurriedly back into its place in the pantry. “I’m not sure I said that. I think I said I fancied her. That’s different. I could do her a bit of good, if she’d let me.” He smiled in lubricious speculation, but his amusement was for himself, not his audience.
Lambert, watching him closely and refusing to react, said, “You live here alone, Mr Farr?”
He looked at them suddenly then, for the first time since he had brought them into his own quarters. “Yes, unless you count Kelly.” He went over and fondled the dog’s soft ears; it wagged its tail and lifted its slim, powerful head towards his hand after he had stopped caressing it. “And to save you asking, my wife walked out. Fifteen years ago. I haven’t seen her since.”
He said it aggressively, as though he expected them to pursue the matter with further questioning, but Lambert merely nodded, almost absently. Farr, with his air of barely suppressed energy, did not seem a man who would find it easy to sublimate his sexual instincts. If he regretted his unguarded reference to the vicar’s wife, he had carried it off forcefully enough, in line with the terms in which it had been couched.
Lambert looked through the small window beside the rear door towards what now seemed the brooding presence of the forest. The nearest trees were scarcely two hundred yards away. He said, “I suppose you see most of the people who go into the forest from your shop.”
“There are other ways than the lane in front of my
Hook said, “But you said they don’t talk a lot.”
“You try keeping them quiet over something like that.” It was a fair defence, but he spoke of his customers with contempt.
“And they told you the vicar had been killed with a shotgun?”
Farr had the sense to pause before he replied. “They talked about the injuries. It didn’t take much knowledge to guess they had come from a shotgun.”
“I see. Do you have a shotgun yourself?” If the man wanted to be insolent, Lambert could return the attitude with interest. Ultimately, he held all the important cards in this game.
Perhaps Farr realized that. He said sullenly, “Yes. You can see it, if you want.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked through the door behind him.
Both of them knew the shotgun would be of no interest, or he would not have volunteered it so readily, but they were not going to turn down the chance to see how this aggressive curmudgeon lived. They followed him without even needing to look at each other.
The storeroom behind the shop was surprisingly untidy after the neat displays of merchandise they had left. Probably Farr knew his way around its clutter well enough. They were almost through the next door and into his living quarters when the menacing growl and bared teeth stopped them in their apprehensive tracks. “All right, Kelly, they’re friends. Back in your box!” said Farr. The Doberman loped away, obedient but seemingly disappointed; Farr’s smile of secret amusement convinced them that he had deliberately not warned them about the dog, which now stared at them from its bed with baleful brown eyes.
Farr went into a small pantry near the back door and emerged with a double-barrelled shotgun which he almost tossed into Hook’s hands. They gave it a token inspection, but Lambert was more interested in its owner. “You said the Reverend Barton wasn’t your type,” he said. With the shotgun now back in Farr’s hands, it seemed an appropriate moment to return to the shop-owner’s assertion.
Farr acknowledged the thought with a mirthless smile. “I’ve no time for organized religion. Perhaps he was just the representative of that. I’d nothing against Barton personally.” He said it as though it was an admission of weakness rather than anything to his credit.
“But you like Mrs Barton.”
Tommy Farr shrugged his wide boxer’s shoulders, pulled briefly at the distorted lobe of his flattened right ear, and put the gun unhurriedly back into its place in the pantry. “I’m not sure I said that. I think I said I fancied her. That’s different. I could do her a bit of good, if she’d let me.” He smiled in lubricious speculation, but his amusement was for himself, not his audience.
Lambert, watching him closely and refusing to react, said, “You live here alone, Mr Farr?”
He looked at them suddenly then, for the first time since he had brought them into his own quarters. “Yes, unless you count Kelly.” He went over and fondled the dog’s soft ears; it wagged its tail and lifted its slim, powerful head towards his hand after he had stopped caressing it. “And to save you asking, my wife walked out. Fifteen years ago. I haven’t seen her since.”
He said it aggressively, as though he expected them to pursue the matter with further questioning, but Lambert merely nodded, almost absently. Farr, with his air of barely suppressed energy, did not seem a man who would find it easy to sublimate his sexual instincts. If he regretted his unguarded reference to the vicar’s wife, he had carried it off forcefully enough, in line with the terms in which it had been couched.
Lambert looked through the small window beside the rear door towards what now seemed the brooding presence of the forest. The nearest trees were scarcely two hundred yards away. He said, “I suppose you see most of the people who go into the forest from your shop.”
“There are other ways than the lane in front of my
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