29

First thing in the morning, the high street was quiet. A brisk walk from my farm, into town, to the police station, ready to report my findings.

Two police constables pushed past me. The phone was ringing, unanswered, and shouts came from the depths of the station. The constable at the desk held up his hand for me to wait.

‘Is Neesham in?’ I asked.

Detective Sergeant Neesham was an old acquaintance from school. A good man, give or take. We’d butted horns over a recent murder. I’d cleared my name but left a trail of collateral damage – men who’d deserved to die.

A door slammed and Neesham appeared from his office, grabbing his overcoat from a rack. He didn’t slow down as he opened the hatch on the counter and made for the front door.

‘I saw a parachutist,’ I said. ‘The one Vaughn Matheson reported. He’s making radio transmissions.’

‘Not now, Cook,’ he said.

I followed him out to his car.

‘I also found the Leckies’ killers,’ I said, as Neesham pushed past me.

Neesham hesitated.

‘Get in,’ he said.

He pulled out of the station car park, onto the high street, and flicked a switch on the dashboard. His siren wailed into life. We hurtled down the hill towards the railway crossing, past the Fireman’s Arms. Neesham took the crossing without slowing down, testing the suspension on the car. He sped up the high street, towards the cinema. He gunned the powerful engine and shoppers crossing the road had to step lively as we sped past.

‘The War Ag’s taking Streatfield’s farm,’ he said. ‘He’s got himself holed up in the house with a shotgun, threatening to kill anyone who cares to get close.’

Arthur Streatfield had a failing farm on the Newick road, between me and Eric. He’d been letting it go to the dogs since his sons were killed in the Great War. Three sons on the same day. A suicidal attack the day before the Somme. Turned out later it was designed solely as a diversion. Went down in regimental history as ‘the day that Sussex died’.

‘I thought that was the War Ag, not you lot,’ I said.

‘How’s your place?’ Neesham asked. ‘Ready for the -inspection?’

I didn’t answer.

He took the s-bend carved through sandstone outcrops, under the footbridge that let the owners of The Rocks estate cross the road to their pleasure gardens without having to interact with the rest of us.

‘I had an irate call last night from the barracks at Maresfield,’ he said. ‘Someone encouraged their MPs to snatch a couple of civvies.’

‘Kate Davidson’s boys,’ I said. ‘They killed the Leckies. They wanted them out of the cottage. They’d already tried violence, but they weren’t getting things their way.’

‘So you thought you’d step in and play detective.’

‘They’d still be at large if it wasn’t for me.’

We shot down the straight, heading out of town, hemmed in by mossy stone walls. I looked left as we passed the turn-off to my farm.

‘It wasn’t them,’ he said.

‘How do you know?’

‘They’ve got an alibi,’ he said. ‘We know where they were when the killings took place.’

‘And you believe them?’

‘I believe my own eyes,’ he said. ‘They were at the -station. First day of training for the local defence volunteers, along with every other man in Uckfield. Apart from you, I might add.’

Churchill had put out a call for able-bodied men to sign up at their local police station. No planning. No infrastructure. No weapons. Give the masses something to do.

‘Doesn’t sound like their cup of tea,’ I said.

‘They were first in line.’

Neesham killed the siren as we bumped along the rutted track to Streatfield’s farm. Three police cars circled the abandoned well in the middle of the yard. Each car had a police constable sheltering behind it. Each constable had a shotgun. Like a Bogart film. One of the constables had a bloody handkerchief pressed to his face.

‘This is going to be a mess,’ Neesham said. ‘Stay in the car.’ He got out and hurried around the back of the car, keeping low.

A shotgun barrel protruded from an upstairs window of the farmhouse. Streatfield, presumably. He’d be drunk, which meant his aim would be useless.

I got out of the car, slamming the door behind me. I wanted Streatfield’s attention, wanted him to see it was me, not a police constable.

‘Streatfield?’ I shouted. ‘I’m coming in. If you shoot me, we’re going to have words.’

‘Cook!’ Neesham shouted. ‘Get back in that car!’ I -ignored him and strode across the overgrown yard. The last time I’d been here had been to borrow a harrow, when I’d got back from the North-West Frontier, and I’d been putting everything I had into keeping my farm afloat. Streatfield had been the only one willing to lend me his kit. One of the problems with farming. Everyone needs the same machines at the same time, so it’s hard to share them. Streatfield had given up, so his tools were always available.

I made it to the shelter of his barn, attached to the side of the house. The barn was dark, and smelt of rotting straw. Rats scurried in the dark. They didn’t sound like they were running away, more like they were trying to get a good look at the unexpected visitor. Or planning a co-ordinated attack.

There was a side door from the barn into the house. I hoped it was unlocked. Kicking a man’s door down wasn’t the best way to get him on your side.

The kitchen was as rank as the barn, possibly worse. Fewer rats, but only just. Or maybe the rats in the house were -quieter.

‘Are you going to come down and sort this out, or am I going to have to come up?’ I shouted.

‘They’re not taking my farm,’ Streatfield shouted down.

‘Nobody’s taking anyone’s farm,’ I said. ‘But if you keep pointing a gun at all those lads out there one of them’s going to get upset and decide to shoot you first.’

‘Tell them to go away,’ he said.

‘I think it’s a bit late for that.’

There was silence for a while.

‘Bit of a problem,’ he said.

‘I’m coming up,’ I said.

Streatfield was sitting on a wooden chair to the side of the window, his ancient shotgun resting on the sill. He was dressed in his underpants and a filthy vest. The room was dank with mould and it smelt worse than it looked.

‘They want to take the farm,’ he said, as if I didn’t know. As if I’d dropped round for a social visit.

‘Maybe not such a bad thing,’ I said. ‘Let a young man have a go with it. The country needs feeding.’

He looked at me with watery eyes. Tracks on his grimy face showed he’d been crying.

‘Meant to be my boys.’

‘That’s all in the past,’ I said. ‘We all lost people. Got to get on with it.’

He looked around the room.

‘Did I hurt anyone?’ he asked.

‘You winged one of them. Probably given him a few weeks off sick.’

‘They’re going to put me in jail.’

‘They want the farm,’ I said. ‘Come down and we’ll talk with Neesham. He’s all right.’

‘Charlie Neesham?’ he said, his face lifting.

‘Let’s go,’ I said. ‘Sort it out over a pint.’

He looked up at me with hope, a vision of a way out.

‘Stay away from the window,’ I said, as Streatfield got up from the chair.

‘Right,’ he said, leaning across the window to grab his gun.

A volley of gunfire erupted from outside. Like a pheasant shoot; a frenzy of gunfire until everyone had emptied their chambers. I got a mouthful of dust and blood before I could back out into the upstairs hall.

The shooting stopped.

‘You in there, Cook?’

It was Neesham. A bit late.

‘He was coming out,’ I shouted.

No answer. An honest mistake, Neesham would be -thinking. Paperwork, but nothing worse.

I looked back into the filthy room. Streatfield was on his back, what was left of him.

I walked out through the barn, into the yard. Police cars were already backing out, places to be, things to do, lives to ruin.

Neesham shook his head.

‘You all right?’ he asked.

I stared at him, hoping to convey all the contempt I felt for everyone who’d ever sent a man over the top. For the generals who’d murdered Streatfield’s sons as surely as the constables had murdered their father.

‘I’m all right,’ I said, walking past him, walking home.

I’d got the Leckies killed, and I’d made a mistake about the Davidson boys. But the answer wasn’t to put my faith in Neesham and his constables. Nothing good would come of Streatfield’s last stand, but something useful perhaps. A reminder of my guiding principle. One that had got lost in the mess of the last few days. One that I’d learnt the hard way.

If you want something done, do it yourself.