"They accused me of threatening the locals, but all I was doing was trying to explain why they should allow their verges and front yards to be farmed by those who want to grow, you know, cabbages and the like? But people get very defensive and interpret things wrong. Suddenly, rumors abounded that I had made the threats. Of course, I didn’t. I like to think of myself as a pillar of the community, even if a small one. Perhaps more of a post than a pillar. And I get on well with all my students. They’re wonderful young people."
"Okay," May said.
To her, the Professor was starting to come across as a man who was highly eccentric, and most definitely consorted with criminals, but who didn't seem to have a real motive for these particular crimes. However, there was still the matter of hisalibi. Could he account for his time when the murders were committed?
"What were your movements yesterday afternoon?" she asked him.
"Yesterday afternoon, I was at one of the local farms. A normal farm, growing produce. I was giving growing advice. I do that a lot, which is another reason why the university should stop spreading rumors that I clash with locals, because they all love me. It was a farm that belongs to Mr. and Mrs. Hudson. We did a tour of the farm in the afternoon, and I gave them many pointers. We did soil analysis and talked about the changes they should make in what was planted where. Then they were kind enough to ask me to stay for supper, so I got home at about eight-thirty p.m. I don't have a car, I either cycle or use a cab. On this instance, I took a cab."
May nodded.
She was satisfied that this man was not their killer and they needed to keep looking for more common threads between the victims.
But, at that moment, her phone rang. It was Pete, the locksmith, calling.
Was he at the safe now? Had he managed to get inside? Or was he about to report a failure?
"I'd better take this," she said to Owen as she rushed out of the trailer.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Reaper waited in the dark of the barn. This was an old barn, seldom used, now home to only a few chickens and a pile of rusting and disused equipment.
But he'd observed it was the place where the chickens liked to hide their eggs away, scurrying to the dark corners of the barn, among old sacks and hay bales, to sit on them.
And because of that, the farmer's wife used to come in every evening to collect the eggs. He had watched and waited. He knew. Now, he was ready to strike.
The smell of old hay and the pungent odor of the chicken house below permeated the air.
But he didn't mind. He had grown accustomed to the smell as he sat in the darkness and waited for his victim. He had been waiting for a long time, sitting quietly, with his mind in a state of meditation and his senses alert.
He was in a state of heightened awareness. He heard and saw everything around him.
At first, the barn had been warm and stuffy, heated by the afternoon sun that had filtered through the small windows. Now, as evening arrived, the breeze was freshening, and the barn was cool. He was sure that in winter, it would be icy.
But winter would not come for the farmer's wife. His lips tightened as he thought about the fact that she had already enjoyed one winter too many. She'd outstayed the time she was owed. Now, it was up to him to correct this.
She should be here any moment and she would be carrying a basket. He'd seen how she put the eggs into a basket, then put the basket on her arm, and walked out of the barn as if she didn't care about them at all.
He thought, in fact, that she looked sullen and dour. Ungrateful and ungracious about the borrowed time he knew she was enjoying — not that she seemed to be enjoying it much.
He'd seen her, when he crept near to peer at her through the windows, frowning and muttering away to herself. She'd looked twice as unhappy as she actually was, he thought.
It would be a good thing to end her misery and her discontent. She'd been allotted another span of life, but she was wasting it, he felt. She was a sad and unhappy woman who didn't deserve to be alive any longer.
The Reaper, ready to do his work, thought of the two lives he'd ended, the two imbalances he'd corrected. Soon, very soon, the number would be three. He understood the satisfaction in the task when it had been carried out exactly as it should.
He waited now, as still as the old, rusted wheelbarrow next to him, as quiet as the mother hen on her eggs in the corner, who from time to time gave him a wary glance but otherwise, took no notice of him.
He would wait here until she came. And then he would end her existence, her borrowed time.
His mind would be clear and calm, his actions precise. He would do it with a sense of serenity and satisfaction.
The image of the farmer's wife filled his mind. He knew her routine well.
She would come. She was always on time.He'd observed this as he'd watched and waited, coming here several times over the past few weeks, getting an idea of her daily and her weekly routine because this had to be done perfectly. He could not risk a mistake.
He'd left a lure for her: a small clue, to make sure she was well into the barn when he struck. He wanted her to know, to see the figure of death before she died, so that she had a few moments to regret her stolen days.