The Darkest Evening

stared at each other, Nettie thinking there might be more questions, Vera not able to come up with anything further. In the end she gave a little wave of her hand. ‘Off you go then. I don’t want to keep you.’
The engine roared into life again and the quad bike bumped away down the track. Vera watched it go. She contemplated going back to the Land Rover and driving the long way around to the house. There’d be coffee there and perhaps a bit of flapjack left at the bottom of the tin. Besides, she’d never seen the attraction of walking for its own sake. But this time curiosity did get the better of her. Where had Nettie Heslop come from? Was there some sort of shortcut from Home Farm to the track that led to the cottages and the road? Presumably her father farmed this land. Vera suspected that Nettie might have been curious too, and had wanted a neb at the spot where her father had found Lorna Falstone’s body. The CSIs were still working the crime scene and the young had a taste for the ghoulish. It didn’t hold any fear for them, because they thought that death was so far away.
Vera walked on down the track, which, away from the cottages, became even more potholed and rough, bordered on one side now by a high stone wall, marking the boundary of the walled vegetable garden. Vera had a brief memory of being brought here by Harriet to pick soft fruit on one of the summer visits. She’d been very young then, so it hadn’t been that last visit, the one that had burst into her mind when she’d approached Brockburn on Friday night. She’d been a small, plump, sullen child, led away, no doubt, so Hector and Crispin could shout at each other without an audience. The men had always disliked each other, and Vera suspected both had enjoyed an argument.
At the end of the wall, Brockburn came into view. The track forked. One path, just wide enough for a quad bike, led west into the forest. Vera watched it twist away into the distance, tantalizing and mysterious. She couldn’t imagine where it might lead, but certainly not to farmland. Nettie Heslop must have been checking the sheep in the field behind the cottages. The other led towards the house. From this angle it could have been the back of any shabby country-house hotel: bins full of bottles waiting for the recycling lorry, an outhouse that had obviously been turned into a laundry because, even from here, she could hear the churring of a tumble dryer. Vera could understand why Mark had wanted his party guests to use the grand front drive.
The search team and CSIs had been using another outbuilding as a base. Inside, Vera could see boots on a rack and overalls hanging on pegs. A few officers sat round a trestle, drinking tea. Billy Cartwright was outside on the lawn, inside the tent, though Lorna’s body had been removed. The area was still cordoned off and only the track and the concrete yard by the kitchen door were free for use. The post-mortem would take place the following morning; Paul Keating, the pathologist, was a religious Ulsterman who preferred not to work on the Lord’s Day. There was no rush, Vera thought. The cause of death had been obvious from the start. Billy emerged from the tent and she waved for him to join her.
‘Anything?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m not sure you really want to know.’
‘H’away, Billy man, I’m no shrinking violet. I’ll not faint at the sight of blood.’
‘As the snow melted, we were able to collect brain tissue, pieces of bone. She might have looked peaceful lying in the snow, but it was a brutal attack.’ He looked up. ‘One of the worst I’ve seen. At least it would have been quick.’
She wasn’t sure how to reply. Billy was the least squeamish man she knew, given to black humour and tasteless jokes. Either he was developing some respect in his old age or this had been a horrific assault. ‘Murder weapon?’
‘Nothing yet. We’re still looking.’ He nodded towards the blue-suited team, who’d moved away from the immediate area of the locus. ‘Doc Keating thinks something smooth. A mallet? Even a heavy rock.’
‘So she was definitely killed here?’
He stretched. She thought he looked exhausted. Maybe he was just feeling his age. ‘Killed yes, but Doc Keating found a bruise on the other side of her head too. He thought it possible she was knocked out, stunned at least, elsewhere and carried here to be killed. He’ll know more after the post-mortem.’ He paused. ‘Even if she was battered by something to hand, this was planned, Vera.’
‘Why would anyone move her? It’d be tough going to carry her such a distance in that weather. Were they trying to make a point? Linking her death to the big house to implicate the folk there?’ Vera shook her head. ‘It makes no sense.’
‘It makes no sense to kill a young mother.’
She nodded her agreement. There was another sharp shower of sleet but the team worked on. ‘You deserve a medal,’ she said. ‘The lot of you.’
‘Dorothy’s looking after us very well,’ he said. ‘It could be worse.’
Again, Vera wondered at the change in him. Usually he was full of complaint, sardonic and only half-joking. ‘She’s in there today?’ She was surprised. For the last couple of days Dorothy had been working flat out. Surely she deserved a day off. When she’d found the cottage empty, Vera had imagined the family had escaped for a while.
‘Aye, she was already in the kitchen at first light when we arrived. She had tea and bacon stotties organized in minutes. A wonderful woman.’ For a moment, Billy sounded like his old self. He gave a little wave and moved back to his work.
Again, Vera paused, wondering whether she should return to the Land Rover or go on. She wanted to be