By the time Robin got back in the Land Rover, she felt more miserable than ever, and it took a considerable effort of will to refocus her attention on the job in hand.
She arrived in Sheila Kennett’s road at five minutes to twelve. As she locked up the Land Rover, Robin wondered how, given what Kevin Pirbright had said about church members sinking all of their money into the UHC, Sheila had managed to afford even this small bungalow, shabby though it looked.
When she rang the doorbell she heard footsteps of a speed that surprised her, given that Sheila Kennett was eighty-five years old.
The door opened to reveal a tiny old woman whose thinning grey hair was worn in a bun. Her dark eyes, of which both irises showed marked arcus senilis, were enormously enlarged by a pair of powerful bifocals. Slightly stooped, Sheila wore a loose red dress, navy carpet slippers, an oversize hearing aid, a tarnished gold wedding ring and a silver cross around her neck.
‘Hello,’ said Robin, smiling down at her. ‘We spoke on the phone. I’m Robin Ellacott, the—’
‘Private detective, are you?’ said Sheila, in her slightly cracked voice.
‘Yes,’ said Robin, holding out her driving licence. ‘This is me.’
Sheila blinked at the licence for a few seconds, then said,
‘That’s all right. Come in, then,’ and moved aside for Robin to pass into the hall, which was carpeted in dark brown. The bungalow smelled slightly fusty.
‘You go in there,’ said Sheila, pointing Robin into the front room. ‘Want tea?’
‘Thank you – can I help?’ asked Robin, as she watched the fragile-looking Sheila shuffling away towards the kitchen. Sheila made no answer. Robin hoped the hearing aid was turned up.
The peeling wallpaper and the sparse, shabby furniture spoke of poverty. A green sofa sat at right angles to a faded tartan chair with a matching footstool. The television was old, and beneath it sat an equally antiquated video player, while a rickety bookcase held a mixture of large-print novels. The only photograph in the room stood on top of the bookcase, and showed a 1960s wedding. Sheila and her husband, Brian, whose name Robin knew from the census reports, were pictured standing outside a registry office. Sheila, who’d been very pretty in her youth, wore her dark hair in a beehive, her full-skirted wedding dress falling to just beneath her knees. The picture was made touching by the fact that the slightly goofy-looking Brian was beaming, as though he couldn’t believe his luck.
Something brushed Robin’s ankle: a grey cat had just entered the room and was now staring up at her with its clear green eyes. As Robin bent to tickle it behind the ears, a tinkling sound announced the reappearance of Sheila, who was holding an old tin tray on which were two mugs, a jug and a plate of what Robin recognised as Mr Kipling’s Bakewell slices.
‘Let me,’ said Robin, as some of the hot liquid had already spilled. Sheila let Robin lift the tray out of her hands and set it on the small coffee table. Sheila took her own mug, placed it on the arm of the tartan armchair, sat down, put her tiny feet on the stool, then said, peering at the tea tray,
‘I forgot the sugar. I’ll go—’
She began to struggle out of the chair again.
‘That’s fine, I don’t take it,’ said Robin hastily. ‘Unless you do?’
Sheila shook her head and relaxed back into her chair. When Robin sat down on the sofa, the cat leapt up beside her and rubbed itself against her, purring.
‘He’s not mine,’ said Sheila, watching the cat’s antics. ‘He’s next door’s, but he likes it here.’
‘Clearly,’ said Robin, smiling, as she ran her hand over the cat’s arched back. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Smoky,’ said Sheila, raising her mug to her mouth. ‘He likes it here,’ she repeated.
‘Would you mind if I take notes?’ asked Robin.
‘Write things down? That’s all right,’ said Sheila Kennett. While Robin took out her pen, Sheila made a kissing sound in the direction of Smoky the cat, but he ignored her, and continued to rub his head against Robin. ‘Ungrateful,’ said Sheila. ‘I gave him tinned salmon last night.’
Robin smiled again before opening her notebook.
‘So, Mrs Kennett—’
‘You can call me Sheila. Why’ve you done that to your hair?’
‘Oh – this?’ said Robin self-consciously, raising a hand to the blue edges of her bob. ‘I’m just trying it out.’
‘Punk rock, is it?’ said Sheila.
Deciding against telling Sheila she was approximately forty years out of date, Robin said,
‘A bit.’
‘You’re a pretty girl. You don’t want blue hair.’
‘I’m thinking of changing it back,’ said Robin. ‘So… could I ask when did you and your husband go to live at Chapman Farm?’
‘Wasn’t called Chapman Farm then,’ said the old lady. ‘It was Forgeman Farm. Brian and me were hippies,’ said Sheila, blinking at Robin through the thick lenses of her glasses. ‘You know what hippies are?’
‘Yes,’ said Robin.
‘Well, that’s what me and Brian was. Hippies,’ said Sheila. ‘Living on a commune. Hippies,’ she said yet again, as though she liked the sound of the word.
‘Can you remember when—?’
‘Sixty-nine we went there,’ said Sheila. ‘When it was all starting. We grew pot. Know what pot is?’
‘I do, yes,’ said Robin.
‘We used to smoke a lot of that,’ said Sheila, with another little cackle.
‘Who else was there at the beginning, can you remember?’
‘Yes, I can remember all that,’ said Sheila proudly. ‘Rust Andersen. American, he was. Living in a tent up the fields. Harold Coates. I remember all that. Can’t remember yesterday sometimes, but I remember all that. Coates was a nasty man. Very nasty man.’
‘Why d’you say that?’
‘Kids,’ said Sheila. ‘Don’t you know about all that?’
‘Are you talking about when the Crowther brothers were arrested?’
‘That’s them. Nasty people. Horrible people. Them and their friends.’
The cat’s purrs filled the room as it lolled on its back, Robin stroking it with her left hand.
‘Brian and me never knew what they were up to,’ said Sheila. ‘We never knew what was going on. We were busy growing and selling veg. Brian had pigs.’
‘Did he?’
‘He loved his pigs, and his chickens. Kids running around everywhere… I couldn’t have none of my own. Miscarriages. I had nine, all told.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ said Robin.
‘Never had none of our own,’ repeated Sheila. ‘We wanted kids, but we couldn’t. There was loads of kids running around at the farm, and I remember your friend. Big lad. Bigger than some of the older boys.’
‘Sorry?’ said Robin, flummoxed.
‘Your partner. Condoman Strike or something, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ said Robin, looking at her curiously, and wondering whether the old lady, who might repeat herself a lot, but had seemed basically alert, was in fact senile.
‘When I told Next Door you was coming to see me, she read me out an article about you and him. He was there, with his sister and his mum. I remember, because my Brian fancied Leda Strike and I could tell, and we had rows about it. Jealous. I’d see him watching her all the time. Jealous,’ Sheila repeated. ‘I don’t think Leda would’ve looked at my Brian, though. He was no rock star, Brian.’
Sheila gave another cracked laugh. Doing her best to dissemble her shock, Robin said,
‘Your memory’s very good, Sheila.’
‘Oh, I remember all what happened on the farm. Don’t remember yesterday sometimes, but I remember all that. I helped little Ann give birth. Harold Coates was there. He was a doctor. I helped. She had a rough old time. Well… she was only fourteen.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah… free love, see. It wasn’t like it is now. It was different.’
‘Was the baby—?’
‘It was all right. Mazu, Ann called her, but Ann took off, not long after. Left her at the commune. Didn’t like being a mother. Too young.’
‘So who looked after Mazu?’ asked Robin, ‘Her father?’
‘Don’t know who her father was. I never knew who Ann was going with. People were sleeping with whoever. Not me and Brian, though. We were trying to have our own kids. Busy on the farm. We didn’t know everything that was going on,’ said Sheila, yet again. ‘Police come into the farm, no warning. Somebody tipped them off. We was all questioned. My Brian was at the station for hours. They searched all the rooms. Went through all our personal things. Me and Brian left after that.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yeah. Awful,’ said Sheila, and yet again, she emphasised, ‘We didn’t know. We never knew. It’s not like they were doing it in the yard. We were busy with the farming.’
‘Where did you go, when you left?’
‘Here,’ said Sheila, indicating the bungalow with her mottled hand. ‘This was my mum and dad’s place. Ooh, they were angry about all the things in the papers. And Brian couldn’t get a job. I got one. Office clerk. I didn’t like it. Brian missed the farm.’
‘How long were you away, Sheila, can you remember?’
‘Two years… three years… then Mazu wrote to us. She said it was all better and they had a good new community. Brian was good at the farming, see, that’s why she wanted him… so we went back.’
‘Can you remember who was there, when you returned?’
‘Don’t you want a cake?’
‘Thank you, I’d love one,’ lied Robin, reaching for a Bakewell slice. ‘Can I—?’
‘No, I got them for you,’ said Sheila. ‘What did you just ask me?’
‘About who was at Chapman Farm, when you went back there to live.’
‘I don’t know all the names. There was a couple of new families. Coates was still there. What did you ask me?’
‘Just about the people,’ said Robin, ‘who were there when you went back.’
‘Oh… Rust Andersen was still in his cabin. And the Graves boy – posh, skinny boy. He was new. He’d go up Rust’s place and smoke half the night. Pot. D’you know what pot is?’ she asked, again.