Grave Stones by Priscilla Masters Read Free Book Online

Black and white, hardworking and loyal in a bouncy, energetic sort of way. Working dogs. He hunkered down on his meaty thighs and stretched out a hand. The dog was stiff and cold, its mouth open, saliva and vomit nearby.
    When he stood up again he felt angry.
    ‘There’s more,’ King said quietly. ‘Animals in the sheds.’
    Korpanski didn’t want to see it. He felt upset about the dog. ‘Call a vet,’ he said brusquely.
     
    Mark Fask, the civilian scenes of crime officer, was taping off access corridors, marking the stones and organising a search of the farmyard and house, while the police photographer was taking pictures of the body, the wall and the dog.
     
    Having made a pot of strong tea Dawn Critchlow was ‘chatting’ to Kathleen Weston. ‘So tell me, when did you last see the farmer?’
    ‘A week, ten days ago. I can’t remember precisely.’ Her face was blotchy but the colour was returning. The tea was working.
    ‘Would you like me to call your husband?’
    An expression close to distaste crossed the woman’s face. ‘Don’t bother,’ she said dryly. ‘He’ll be home when he’s finished his work .’ The last word was uttered with a note of mockery, a fact which Critchlow squirreled away.
    She glanced around the kitchen, taking in the cream units and black granite tops, and unwittingly echoed Korpanski’s thoughts. ‘Nice place you have here.’
    Way beyond the pocket of a WPC.
    Mrs Weston looked around the room as though surprised at the comment. ‘Yes,’ she said, frowning, ‘I suppose it is.’
    Dawn Critchlow struggled not to roll her eyes at the mega-sized kitchen absolutely stuffed with units, which opened onto an enormous conservatory that housed not only an eight-seater dining table but also a soft and comfortable-looking sofa, which she would simply love to sink down into at the end of a busy day. WPC Dawn Critchlow’s husband had been a garage mechanic on the Ashbourne road but the garage had closed last year. He’d tried to open a car repairs business on his own and had ended up badly in debt. The only job he’d been able to find since had been as a shelf-stacker in the local DIY store, which was not only poorly paid but which he hated. However, he had no choice but to take what was offered. They’d remortgaged their tiny terraced house twice and only by the skin of their teeth avoided having it repossessed. To make up the short fall in their finances, she volunteered for all the overtime she could get, which made her permanently tired. Sometimes she dreamt ofliving in a house like this. And then she woke up.
    She sighed. She didn’t mind folk living in wonderful houses but she hated it when they didn’t appreciate how lucky they were.
    ‘How long have you lived here?’ she asked Kathleen chattily.
    Something passed across the woman’s face. ‘Five years,’ she said tightly. She could have said five unhappy years but instead she followed up with, ‘We bought it new.’
    ‘And do you like it here?’
    Korpanski used to say that WPC Critchlow must have a degree in getting information out of people. She was a natural at the art. They didn’t even know they were being interrogated.
    ‘Not really,’ Mrs Weston returned frankly.
    ‘Any particular reason?’
    ‘The smell,’ Kathleen said.
    ‘That’s only been for the last few days – surely?’
    Kathleen Weston took a deep lungful of air then wrinkled her nose as though her breath was tainted. ‘No – I don’t mean that. Yes, that’s new. The place was – I don’t think he looked after his animals properly,’ she said. ‘They were dirty, neglected. I never saw him clean out a barn or a shed. The cows and pigs were without water, sometimes left inside in hot weather.’ Her voice became impassioned. ‘He wasn’t fit to look after animals.’
    Whoah. Animals’ Rights , Dawn Critchlow thought. She knew the sort.
    * * *
    Next door but one, PC McBrine was having more success with Peter Mostyn though