‘So you run the risk of bringing illegal immigrants into the country too, like Mike Spicer?’
It was a random question to support the fiction that I was doing a follow-up piece on the Spicer news conference, but Harry Pool’s attitude changed. He didn’t lose his temper, nothing like that. But he suddenly became alert. Before he’d been laid-back, humouring a student, now every word was spoken with care.
‘What exactly are you implying, Miss Bartholomew?’
‘Nothing. Just that working overseas must involve more risk, more complications. Not just because of the dangers of unknowingly carrying asylum seekers.’
He conceded that I was right. There was a lot of red tape. ‘We had to think very carefully before expanding into Europe. Previously we occupied a niche in the market. Big companies don’t like delivering to the Borders. There are no motorways and transport time is slow. Obviously there’s a lot more competition now, and not just with British firms.’
‘They have lower fuel costs?’
‘Much lower.’ He quoted some of the figures I’d heard from Kenny. ‘The price of fuel is crippling for a medium-sized business like ours. How can I compete with local firms in Germany and France?’
‘Don’t the French hauliers have higher overheads?’ I asked. ‘National insurance? Tax?’ I’d been reading up on the subject. I hadn’t wanted to look a complete prat.
‘Maybe they have.’ He would have preferred to be allowed to continue unchallenged. ‘If they have to pay them. A good accountant and you can get round most of that. There’s no avoiding the duty on diesel.’
‘Isn’t there? I’d heard there was a black market trade in the red diesel farmers use.’
‘That’s all talk and rumour.’ For the first time the good humour slipped. I didn’t tell him the talk and rumour had come from Kenny. ‘Reputable hauliers couldn’t afford to get mixed up in that.’
‘Someone must buy the stuff, though. I read that it’s smuggled in. Through Ireland, they say.’
‘Shady outfits with nothing to lose. Not me. I prefer to play it straight. That’s why I’ll have nothing to do with convoys and blockades.’ He looked pointedly at his watch. ‘Is there anything else? I’m expecting an important call.’
I closed the notebook. ‘How did Thomas feel about all that?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The convoys and protests. He was a Countryside Consortium supporter. They backed the fuel protesters, didn’t they. They see cheap fuel as a countryside issue.’ According to the leaflets Marcus had given me at Wintrylaw.
Harry didn’t seem inclined to discuss the finer points of the argument. ‘I didn’t care what Thomas did in his own time. In my time he was there to work.’
‘Did he enjoy it?’
He gave an awkward laugh. ‘Does anyone enjoy work at that age? I know damn fine I didn’t.’
‘But nothing was bothering him? He got on OK with everyone?’
‘Of course. We all did. They’re like family, my lads.’
He stood up. I felt I was being chased away, as he’d chased his grandchildren back to their mother the night before. As he shut the door behind me, I heard the phone ring.
It was as I was on my way back to the car that I realized how relieved he’d been to see me go. He didn’t seem to notice that he’d given me no new information on the Spicer case.
Chapter Twenty-eight
I had a shock when I got back to Sea View. There was Inspector Farrier sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea and chatting to Jess like he was one of the Newbiggin Mafia and they’d been friends for ever. I’d got right into the room before they saw me. Farrier looked up first. His face creased into a cross between a smile and a wink, but Jess was so wrapped up in what she was telling him that she didn’t notice me. ‘Our Lizzie’s a sensible girl, Inspector. A bit headstrong at times, but that’s hardly surprising, is it, after all she’s been through? And really, she’s not been a peck of bother since she arrived.’
I could feel myself blushing, at least my skin turning hot. Farrier was enjoying every minute. He grinned and that’s when Jessie realized I was there. She was startled – ‘Hey, man, Lizzie, don’t creep up like that.’ But not embarrassed. She made an excuse about nipping to the shop to pick up extra milk, but Farrier said he’d been sat all day and maybe I wouldn’t mind a walk either. We could pick up the milk on our way back.
I let him out through the front door. He admired the little garden and the view, but I wasn’t listening. I was thinking about what he could be doing there. He must have found out that I’d left the pub with Marcus Tate that evening before he died. There were a couple of lads in waders fishing from the beach, and a father and daughter flying a kite, but no one to overhear us. A breeze was blowing from the water, gusting so the kite swooped and dived, and we started walking along the sea wall. It wasn’t sunbathing weather.
‘I should have been round before,’ Farrier said, ‘to apologize in person. I believed Howdon. I couldn’t see what he had to gain by lying.’
‘He’s a lawyer. You should have known better. It’s what they do for a living.’ It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate the gesture, but I felt awkward. Apology doesn’t come naturally to policemen and, despite the warm and fuzzy image, that’s what Farrier was. Then I realized. ‘You’ve not come all this way just for that.’
‘I had a phone call from your MP,’ he said. ‘Shona Murray. You went to see her.’
‘I had to do something.’ Defensive, because I was sure he was going to warn me about meddling. ‘You thought I was a murderer.’
‘No,’ he said, so softly I could hardly hear the words above the water breaking on the rocks and the wind. ‘I never did.’
I wanted to believe him. ‘Did she show you the letter Thomas wrote?’
‘Aye. It took her a bit of time to get round to it, the silly woman, but she got in touch eventually.’
‘I told her to. I gave her your name.’ It’s not my style to crawl, but I needed the brownie points. I wanted him to tell me what was in the letter.
He stopped, leaned his back against the painted railings. ‘You could have come to me, Lizzie. I’d have chased it up for you.’
I looked at him. Couldn’t help it. I could hardly walk on without him. He was dressed like a student who’s come to learning late, in middle age. There were a few of them at university. Nerdy jeans, too baggy round the legs, a hand-knitted sweater, ribbed, beige with little brown flecks. In the winter he’d probably wear a duffel coat. Whenever I’d seen him before he’d been in a suit and tie, and I couldn’t work out what the scruffy gear was all about. Was this his day off or had he dressed down on purpose, a way of persuading me to lower my guard?
‘What do you want from me?’
I knew I sounded rude, but the persuasion was starting to work. I could feel myself being seduced by the fatherly voice, the patience and the kindness. I’m a sucker for older men. Look at Ronnie Laing. I’ve got the discrimination of a rabbit. Manic depressives are always being taken in by unsuitable people.
The wind was making his eyes water. He took a white hanky from the jeans pocket and wiped them.
‘I want to know who else you’ve been talking to, what else you’ve found out.’
‘Picking my brains?’
‘Yes. Just that.’
‘Why isn’t this official, then? Why aren’t you with the skinny cow with the notebook? Why not get me down to the station, take a proper statement?’
‘Is that what you’d prefer?’
‘I just want to know where I stand.’
He didn’t answer.
‘They still think I did it, don’t they? They think it was done by a crazy, so it must be me.’