“Nothing’s been stolen as far I can tell,” the farmer said, stepping into the barn behind me. “But that’s not the point. If it hadn’t had been for Jess scaring the thieving bastards away, they could’ve done more damage than just the broken lock.”
“Jess?” I said, cocking an eyebrow at him, and fixing my torch back on my belt.
“My German Shepard,” he said gruffly, taking me by the elbow and leading me from the barn. “The dog scared ‘em off, she did.” The farmer pulled the barn door closed behind us, then added, “I reckon it’s that vermin.”
“What vermin?” I asked, pulling the collar of my raincoat up about my throat, and tugging the peak of my cap over the bridge of my nose. Rain dripped off it in thick rivulets.
“Those travellers who have taken over old Farmer Moore’s house,” he said, his voice almost dropping to a whisper. “Nothing like this ever happened ‘til they moved in.”
“As far as I know, that family keeps themselves to themselves and doesn’t cause anyone any bother,” I told him.
“They ain‘t like any family I’ve ever seen before,” the farmer grunted, setting off back towards the house. “They look like a goddamn bunch of witches.”
“Witches?” I called after him, splashing through the rain-soaked ground. I secretly thought the name described the family quite well. I had never had any dealings with them and had only seen them from afar. They rarely ventured into the town of Cliff View, but when they did appear, all huddled together in the back of the horse-drawn cart, their complete black attire did, I guess, give them the appearance of a coven of witches. As far as I could tell or had seen, the family was led by an elderly, wizened-looking guy. There was a younger couple, maybe in their late thirties or early forties, but their faces were so pale and drawn-looking, it was hard to tell. There was a younger kid, about four or five years old - but again, it was difficult to tell, and if the truth be known, I didn’t really give a shit. The family, however odd as they might have looked, kept to themselves and had never given me or my colleagues any reason to speak with them. There hadn’t been an increase in reported crime since their arrival on the outskirts of town a few months back. Most of the burglaries, car thefts and shoplifting were the work of those shit-heads, the Day brothers, who lived on the estate on the other side of Cliff View. I had been a cop for less than twelve months, and already I had arrested both of those pimply-faced arseholes more times than I cared to remember. If the farmer’s barn had been broken into – it was more than likely to be the handiwork of the Day brothers than the family of witches who had recently moved into the area.
At the kitchen door, the farmer kicked the mud from his boots and stepped inside. I scraped the soles of my boots against a broken piece of paving outside the kitchen door, shook the rain from my coat, and followed him into a cosy-looking kitchen. A wide, wooden table surrounded by uncomfortable-looking chairs filled most of the small room. The floor was made of a grey stone, and around the edges of the kitchen were an array of cupboards, shelves, and a stove. The room looked cluttered with junk, just like the barn had.
“Take a seat,” the farmer said, scooping up an armful of cups and plates from the table. He dropped them into the nearby sink, came back, and took away a pile of old newspapers. “Tea?” he asked, switching on the kettle.
“No thanks,” I said, taking my cap from my head. “I should really be getting back to the station.” I didn’t want to be off duty late, as I had plans to go clubbing with my friends.
“What about my barn door? Are you gonna go and arrest those witches?” he huffed.
“I won’t be arresting anyone right now,” I told him. “You don’t know who broke your lock and neither do I just yet.” Taking my pocket notebook out, I flipped it open. “Let me take some details.”
“Details?” the farmer asked, turning to face me with a disgruntled stare.
“I’ll need to report the criminal damage so you can get a crime number to pass onto your insurance...” I started.
“I haven’t got time to sit here all day talking to you,” he said, rubbing his huge, dirty hands together. “I’ve got work to do.”
What I suspected he really meant to say was, he was too freaking dumb to read or write.
“If you don’t want to report it then that’s fine,” I said, pushing back from the table.
“Sit back down,” the farmer grunted, flapping one of his giant hands at me. In a deep, booming voice, which seemed to rattle the windows in their frames, he shouted, “Michael! Michael! Come and speak with this police officer, will you?”