Healers by Ann Cleeves Read Free Book Online Page B

a silence which Ramsay did not fill and he felt forced to continue.
    “My wife’s always taken in a few guests for bed and breakfast. She was in catering before we married. It’s what she knows. She didn’t make much but she enjoyed it. Said it was keeping her hand in, like.” He spoke of his wife with a mixture of awe, admiration and incomprehension. “It was her idea to expand that side of the business. The first year we had a few campers and caravanners on the bottom field. Then we decided to convert some of the outhouses into holiday cottages. She saw to all that. She talked to the architects, worked out a business plan, got the finance. A couple of months ago we got an award from the Tourist Board. She’s planning to expand again, talking about opening a restaurant. That’s where she’s off to today. To talk to the bank manager.”
    “And Mr. Bowles objected to all these plans?”
    “Cissie started it. Said she didn’t want strangers trespassing all over her land. Ernie just took over when she died.”
    “But you went ahead all the same?”
    “Of course. He had no real grounds for objection. There was no way our guests could stray over to Laverock Farm. It was just spite.” He walked stiffly to the table to pour more tea, turned to Ramsay and asked grudgingly:
    “Do you want a cup?”
    Ramsay shook his head.
    “And then he had the bloody nerve to tell me that he was going into the same line of business himself.”
    “In what way?”
    “You know he’s got those hippies living there?”
    “Yes.”
    “Apparently that was only the start. He said he’d decided to open up Laverock Farm for a weekend for one of those festivals. You know, the
    New Age things that they show on the television. Convoys of travellers descending on an area doing God knows what damage. Loud music all night. Drugs. And no way of knowing when they’re going to move on or where they’re going to end up next.” He paused for breath.
    “When was this festival going to take place?”
    “June,” Bowles said. “The summer solstice.”
    “Was he serious?”
    “No!” Peter Richardson interrupted with a sneer. “It was just a wind up.”
    “How was I to know?” the father demanded angrily. “That man was capable of anything.”
    “You objected to the plan? Formally?”
    “Of course I bloody objected. We run a classy operation, up market Sue sees to that. I didn’t want my punters frightened off by a load of drug-crazed morons.”
    “Yes,” Ramsay said. “I understand.”
    “Do you?” Richardson was almost shouting. “It’s only the holiday side of the business that’s stopped us from going bankrupt.” He stopped abruptly.
    Ramsay turned to Peter, the son, who had been watching the exchange with an amused detachment. He seemed untroubled by the prospect of bankruptcy or perhaps his father had made the threat so many times that he no longer believed it. He was full of himself. Ramsay could see that. Too cocky by half. If he’d been brought up on an inner city estate he’d have been a delinquent, a stealer of flash cars, the sort of lad who didn’t mind a prison sentence because it gave him the reputation for being hard. Here in the country Ramsay suspected he would have the same reputation, but with less effort. He’d be a heavy drinker, known for screwing his suppliers for the best possible deal, a jack the lad to be rather admired.
    “Is that what your argument with Mr. Bowles was about?” Ramsay asked.
    “What do you mean?” Peter Richardson spoke insolently.
    “I understand there was a fight in a Mittingford pub.”
    “That?” The boy laughed. “That wasn’t a fight. He’d have been in hospital if he tried to mess with me. He tripped, that was all. I wouldn’t waste my time on him.”
    “But there was an argument. What was that about?”
    “He needed teaching a lesson,” Peter said, contradicting himself. “He was a mucky old sod.”
    Ramsay saw his father flash him a look of warning but he