Chapter 27
STEPHEN
An unsettled feeling wedges itself in the pit of his stomach as he walks with Detective Williams up the road towards their next destination.
Every step he takes, his gut tells him something is wrong.
His body is sending him all sorts of warning signals, but his brain won't accept them. It just keeps shoving them aside, hiding them under a metaphorical rug like they don’t matter at this point in time.
While the detective recounts what Mr Davies told him in the butcher's shop, Stephen fights with his brain to focus on the words. He hears them coming from the detective’s mouth, knows what each of them mean, but none of them sink in, don't quite make sense.
Just a mix of words, jumbled together, each one an individual rather than working together to form a coherent sentence.
They reach the end of the village; the houses and residents reducing in number now, more spread out.
There’s no longer any broken pavements to walk on, so they stroll down the side of the narrow country lane, keeping as close to the left as possible.
There’s even grass growing in the middle of it.
Detective Williams says there’s another mile to go before the turning to the farm.
They must now walk in single file to avoid oncoming traffic.
Not that there’s a lot. A car every now and then. A tractor turning into a nearby field.
Slow, plodding footsteps sound behind him.
Stephen turns and glances over his right shoulder, spying a person following them about fifty yards behind. The person has a flat cap on, so he assumes it’s a man, but it’s difficult to tell for sure.
Is this the same person who’d been watching him in the village earlier? There’s no dog with him, so perhaps not.
Stephen focuses his attention on the road ahead, continuing, but those warning bells are ringing again. Louder than ever.
He turns again, but the person behind him is no longer there.
It makes no sense because there are no turnings they could have taken to get off the road and, unless they threw themselves into a hedgerow, there’s nowhere to hide.
Is he imagining things again? The hairs on the back of his neck tickle as he faces the right direction.
Detective Williams doesn’t seem to have noticed he’s lagging.
Stephen keeps his head down, his arms brushing against the hedgerows and the stinging nettles and brambles that are growing out into the road.
The sound of an engine sounds ahead and he and the detective move in sync, pressing against the sides to give the vehicle plenty of space as it passes wide and slow.
‘Not much further now,’ says the detective.
Stephen looks behind him, back along the road towards the village where they’ve walked from. There’s no sign of his secret follower.
The sign to the farm is nestled behind a thick bush, but the detective sees it just in time to stop from walking past it. Pen-Y-Bryn. Stephen wonders what it means in English.
It’s a short walk up the track towards the farmyard. Along the way, they pass several fields filled with pigs of varying sizes and breeds. It appears that Diane is the owner of a pig farm. The closer they get, the more Stephen's nostrils twitch with an overwhelming stench of manure.
‘Delightful,’ says the detective, screwing his nose up.
‘It’s certainly an … interesting smell,’ says Stephen.
The detective smirks as he heads towards the main farmhouse.
Stephen takes a quick scan of the yard, noting the five separate barns surrounding it.
It’s a big area. Stephen can’t imagine that Diane manages the farm by herself.
She must have farmhands or helpers or whatever it is that they‘re called.
He wonders how many pigs she has on the farm at any one given time.
Hundreds, perhaps. How does one keep track of so many?
‘Can I help you?’ A woman’s voice interrupts his thoughts.
Stephen turns and spies a mature woman striding towards them, carrying a shovel.
While her manner doesn’t appear threatening, she’s clearly confused about who they are and why they’re on her land.
Stephen expects she doesn’t get a lot of strangers visiting the farm.
This is a village where everyone knows everyone, apart from the detective who clearly hasn’t done much socialising since he’s lived here.
Not that he can blame him, but he does appear to know where both Diane Bevan and Frank Hammel live, so that’s a plus.
‘Are you Diane Bevan?’ asks Stephen.
‘Depends.'
‘I’m sorry?’ he asks with a stutter. ‘Either you are Diane Bevan or you’re not. It's a pretty simple question.'
The woman raises her eyebrows at him, just as the detective steps forwards and joins the conversation. ’I'm sorry about my friend here.’
‘I didn’t know you had any friends, Mr Williams, but that’s quite all right. So, is there something I can help you with?’