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He picks up his phone. ‘Tichborne Farm. Owners are a Mr and Mrs Stirling.’
He looks up towards the house, but the hedging is so thick he can barely see much more than a distant hint of brickwork. He opens the car door. ‘You coming? Or would you prefer to stew here?’
Holloway gives him a withering look and yanks open his own door, muttering, ‘I need a piss anyway.’
Another long gravel drive, leading to a perfectly re-painted and -pointed farmhouse set among a scatter of black-slattedoutbuildings that can’t have seen livestock in a good thirty years. At least there’s no labrador this time, but there are no other signs of life either. They knock at the door and hang about for a few minutes, then Holloway says, ‘Come on, like I said, it’s a waste of bloody time.’
But Bell’s a stubborn sod when the mood takes him. He goes to the side of the house and spots a wooden gate leading to the garden.
‘We might as well check it properly while we’re here. Don’t want Bradley sending us back out here a second time like a couple of amateurs. Wouldn’t she just love that.’
Holloway heaves a theatrical sigh, then looks around. ‘Suit yourself – I’m going over the back there for a slash.’
Bell makes a devastating retort but only in the privacy of his own head, and pushes open the gate. On the far side of the immaculate lawn, a man in a short-sleeved floral shirt and shorts is reading a newspaper by a swimming-pool. There’s a silver cafetière on the table next to him. He’s wearing sunglasses and headphones, but he’s facing towards Bell so can see him coming all the way across the grass. By the time Bell gets there the man is on his feet.
‘Who are you?’
Bell whips out his warrant card. ‘DC Bell, South Mercia Police. Are you Mr Alistair Stirling?’
The man’s eyes widen, just a little. ‘What’s this about? Some sort of break-in?’
Bell tucks his card back in his jacket. ‘Nothing to be alarmed about, sir, we’re just making general enquiries. Were you aware that a shallow grave has been discovered in the woods not far from here?’
The man takes off his sunglasses. ‘Agrave?’
‘’Fraid so, sir. A woman’s remains. Been there about a month, we think. As at now, we haven’t been able to identify her.’
The man looks genuinely wrong-footed. ‘I’m not sure how I can help –’
‘You’re not aware of anyone who’s dropped out of sight unexpectedly – a woman, maybe in her twenties?’
He shakes his head, ‘No, no one.’
‘Do you remember seeing anything or anyone unusual around that time, Mr Stirling? As I said, we’re talking mid to late June. Maybe something that didn’t strike you at the time?’
Stirling shakes his head slowly. ‘We weren’t even here then. We were staying with friends in Cornwall for three weeks from May 27th. My sister-in-law was staying here on her own for the last few days before we got back but she never mentioned anything out of the ordinary.’
‘Could we speak to her, sir?’
‘I’m afraid she’s not here – she had to go back home. But I can give her a call and ask her to contact you?’
‘Thank you,’ says Bell, handing him a card, ‘the number’s on there and if I’m not in the office someone else can take a message.’
Stirling is now looking past Bell’s shoulder and Bell turns to see Holloway emerging from behind the house, still doing up his flies and then doing a pantomime start when he sees the two of them watching. Bell turns back to Stirling. ‘Sorry about that, sir – just can’t get quality recruits these days.’
Back in the car and Holloway is acting as if nothing happened, which is exactly what Bell’s mother’s cat does when he’s caught out too.
He winds down the window to its maximum extent and starts loosening his tie. ‘It’s bloody sweltering in here, you should’ve parked in the shade.’
Bell shoots him a look he doesn’t see, then starts the engine.
‘OK,’ he says, ‘fancy stopping at a pub for a Coke or something before we do the next one? Apparently the one in the next village is pretty good. I know we shouldn’t but –’
Holloway reaches for his seat belt. ‘Sod that. Has my bloody name on it.’
Bell smiles to himself, savouring the anticipation. ‘Funny you should say that, cos it’s called the Beetle and Frog.’
Holloway turns to look at him. ‘Ha-fucking-ha. Fancy yourself a bloody comedian, do you? Well, don’t give up the day job. Which you’re also shit at, by the way.’