Read Online The Fox in the Forest by J. M. Gregson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. M. Gregson
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shop — footpaths across the fields. And anyway, I have a business to run; I’m too busy to watch all the comings and goings.”
“Nevertheless, you would no doubt be aware of most of the people who regularly go into the woods.”
Farr weighed the thought of denying the suggestion, then decided that was not possible. “There’s plenty. Most of the children go in there sometimes, especially now they’re on holiday. Like those kids who found Barton.” He seemed to find this a convincing demonstration of his argument, but they said nothing to encourage the notion. Farr said, “I go in there myself, nearly every day, with Kelly. Do a mile or two, I suppose.”
“And who else do you know who goes in there regularly?”
Farr paused, whether in a genuine attempt to give them the best information or in a consideration of how best to conceal something, it was impossible to say. Perhaps he was conscious of this ambivalence, and pleased by it. He smiled as he said, “There’s young Charlie Webb, of course. He takes a short cut through there on his way to work at the Electricity Works.”
Hook raised his eyebrows. “Long way for him to walk, even with a short cut.”
“He doesn’t walk.” Farr was delighted to expose their naivety. “He takes his motorbike. Pushes it under the barrier. Easy done, that is.” His South Welsh accent came out more strongly in his contempt for their ignorance.
Lambert said, “You say you go into the woods yourself on most days. Did you go there yesterday, and the day before?”
“Yes. I told you, I walk Kelly in the forest most days.” He had not even hesitated. Probably he had anticipated the question from the moment when he first heard the news of the shooting.
“And did you see or hear anything which now seems significant in the light of the Peter Barton’s death?”
“No.” Farr paused, preparing to make the maximum impact with the piece of information he had known from the start that he would have to reveal to them when the time came. “I saw a tramp in the forest though, the day before that.”
Lambert had to control both irritation and excitement. “Where was he sleeping?”
“In the forest, I think. He had a little tent with him. Ain’t no haystacks for tramps, nowadays, I suppose.”
Lambert said heavily, “You’d better show us just where. Bert, there’s a 1:25,000 map in the car. Would you —”
“I can do better than that. I can show you the place, if you’ve got half an hour. It’s ten minutes into my dinner-hour already. The shop should be shut.” Tommy Farr had decided to help the police. He didn’t want to shop anyone, but murder was murder. And he’d made one mistake in mentioning Clare Barton like that, and another one in letting on about the murder being done with a shotgun. He was in need of a bit of credit with the police.
The entrance to the forest was under police guard, though Lambert reflected wryly that it must be impossible to cordon off the whole of the perimeter and deny the possibilities of entry and exit where no tracks ran. The young uniformed constable did not know Lambert, but fell back when he heard the exalted rank like a footman before a duke.
Kelly moved ahead of them, seemingly a dog who knew exactly where he was going. They matched Farr’s brisk marching pace for a mile, then ducked after him under low branches, down a side-track which was so overgrown that they would not have known it was there.
They moved a hundred yards at least before Farr hesitated. “It was around here, I’m sure. It was Kelly that found him.” Because his mind was on other things, his pride in the dog leaped out at them like that of a small boy, catching him as well as them unprepared for it.
The dog had moved a little to their left, and Hook, following it, called a little breathlessly, “There’s been a fire here, and a tent, I think.” They pushed through behind him into the tiny clearing. There was a small rectangle of flattened
“Nevertheless, you would no doubt be aware of most of the people who regularly go into the woods.”
Farr weighed the thought of denying the suggestion, then decided that was not possible. “There’s plenty. Most of the children go in there sometimes, especially now they’re on holiday. Like those kids who found Barton.” He seemed to find this a convincing demonstration of his argument, but they said nothing to encourage the notion. Farr said, “I go in there myself, nearly every day, with Kelly. Do a mile or two, I suppose.”
“And who else do you know who goes in there regularly?”
Farr paused, whether in a genuine attempt to give them the best information or in a consideration of how best to conceal something, it was impossible to say. Perhaps he was conscious of this ambivalence, and pleased by it. He smiled as he said, “There’s young Charlie Webb, of course. He takes a short cut through there on his way to work at the Electricity Works.”
Hook raised his eyebrows. “Long way for him to walk, even with a short cut.”
“He doesn’t walk.” Farr was delighted to expose their naivety. “He takes his motorbike. Pushes it under the barrier. Easy done, that is.” His South Welsh accent came out more strongly in his contempt for their ignorance.
Lambert said, “You say you go into the woods yourself on most days. Did you go there yesterday, and the day before?”
“Yes. I told you, I walk Kelly in the forest most days.” He had not even hesitated. Probably he had anticipated the question from the moment when he first heard the news of the shooting.
“And did you see or hear anything which now seems significant in the light of the Peter Barton’s death?”
“No.” Farr paused, preparing to make the maximum impact with the piece of information he had known from the start that he would have to reveal to them when the time came. “I saw a tramp in the forest though, the day before that.”
Lambert had to control both irritation and excitement. “Where was he sleeping?”
“In the forest, I think. He had a little tent with him. Ain’t no haystacks for tramps, nowadays, I suppose.”
Lambert said heavily, “You’d better show us just where. Bert, there’s a 1:25,000 map in the car. Would you —”
“I can do better than that. I can show you the place, if you’ve got half an hour. It’s ten minutes into my dinner-hour already. The shop should be shut.” Tommy Farr had decided to help the police. He didn’t want to shop anyone, but murder was murder. And he’d made one mistake in mentioning Clare Barton like that, and another one in letting on about the murder being done with a shotgun. He was in need of a bit of credit with the police.
The entrance to the forest was under police guard, though Lambert reflected wryly that it must be impossible to cordon off the whole of the perimeter and deny the possibilities of entry and exit where no tracks ran. The young uniformed constable did not know Lambert, but fell back when he heard the exalted rank like a footman before a duke.
Kelly moved ahead of them, seemingly a dog who knew exactly where he was going. They matched Farr’s brisk marching pace for a mile, then ducked after him under low branches, down a side-track which was so overgrown that they would not have known it was there.
They moved a hundred yards at least before Farr hesitated. “It was around here, I’m sure. It was Kelly that found him.” Because his mind was on other things, his pride in the dog leaped out at them like that of a small boy, catching him as well as them unprepared for it.
The dog had moved a little to their left, and Hook, following it, called a little breathlessly, “There’s been a fire here, and a tent, I think.” They pushed through behind him into the tiny clearing. There was a small rectangle of flattened
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