Hate Bale

By Stephanie Dagg

Grumbling guests and escaping piglets are precisely what Martha doesn’t need. She’s already struggling to run a holiday cottage and a rather large smallholding single-handedly. Since her husband Mark died, three years ago, her rural property in France, beautiful as it is, has become an increasingly heavy millstone around her neck.
So whilst she’s horrified to stumble across a corpse at the local farm supplies shop, it does at least distract her from her own woes. Best friend Lottie swoops in to offer moral support, and encourages Martha to join her in some unofficial sleuthing. Meanwhile, police officer Philippe Prudhomme, a former fellow chess-player of Mark’s, undertakes a rather more professional investigation.
However, the killer remains at large. And when more bodies (one and a bit, to be precise) come Martha’s way, it definitely feels like he’s closing in on her...
There’s suspense, humour and excitement in this entertaining cosy mystery set in the French countryside.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephanie Dagg
• Release date: Jan 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463116838

Stephanie Dagg

I'm an English ex-pat living in France with my family and a lot of animals, including llamas and carp. I was a bestselling author in Ireland, where we lived for 15 years before we moved to our new home here. I've recently relaunched my writing career, but this time as an indie ebook author and publisher. It's the twenty-first century after all!

Book preview

Hate Bale

by Stephanie Dagg

Hate Bale by Stephanie Dagg

© Stephanie Dagg 2019

The author’s rights have been asserted in accordance with current copyright law.

Cover design by editing.zone using image ID 79996018 by Andrei Krauchuk from Dreamstime.com

Editing and formatting by editing.zone

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Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The book is written in UK English so American readers may find some spellings and grammatical constructs different from what they’re used to!

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or format without prior consent of the author.

Chapter 1

Martha squinted at the clock radio and groaned. It was half past five. What on earth was she doing awake at that hour of the morning? She wasn’t a great sleeper and had only dropped off properly a couple of hours ago. She really didn’t want to be awake again quite so soon.

She pulled the covers over her head with a dramatic sigh and closed her eyes determinedly, but a woof from Flossie, her ancient and usually silent Border collie cross, alerted her to the fact that something was definitely going on that shouldn’t. Martha sighed again. It must have been a previous bark from Flossie that had woken her. She’d better investigate, since the dog had never been one to cry wolf in the past.

The something turned out to be the destruction of her one and only flower bed by her Berkshire sow Hermione, aided and abetted by her litter of eleven three-week-old piglets. They were all having a brilliant time in the early dawn, rooting out Martha’s painstakingly planted spring bulbs, but, for whatever reason, not eating them, going instead for the creepy crawlies that came up with them. That was one thing to be grateful for, Martha supposed, the fact that they were de-pesting her borders. And she was relieved they weren’t eating the bulbs, not just because she had a vague idea they might be poisonous, but also, and mainly, because she’d be able to stick them back in the soil in the hope they’d survive their traumatic experience of being dragged out of it in the first place.

But first she had to un-pig the garden. And that wasn’t going to be easy. A glance towards the food bins at the corner of the barn showed them to all be on their sides, and empty. Hermione was obviously stuffed full of a week’s worth of pig pellets and a similar amount of soaked wheat. And anyway, since the food was all gone Martha had nothing with which to try and tempt her back to the field. What on earth was she going to do? There was the cattle prod, but she didn’t like using that. It seemed a rather mean implement. Mark had only ever used it a couple of times on the Old Spot boar they’d had, Horace, who’d been a mean-tempered old beggar.

Mark. Not a minute went by when she didn’t miss her husband of twenty-seven years. She’d lost him to sudden arrhythmic death syndrome just over three years ago now. Sometimes it felt like only three days, the grief could be so raw, but at others like thirty years. Like she’d spent more than half her lifetime without him, mourning for him.

And couldn’t she do with him right now. Rounding up pigs was a two-person job. She had Flossie, but she was a sheep dog, at least in part, not a pig dog. And added to that, any sheep-herding instincts she might have inherited from her mother had been clearly quashed by the comfortable-life-seeking instincts of whatever her father had been. When their neighbour back in England had gratefully handed one of an unexpected, and unwanted, litter of seven puppies over to Mark and Martha, she’d said she suspected a local wiry-haired mongrel of some sort to be the father. Flossie looked every inch the sheepdog but the resemblance only went skin deep. Thus she threw Martha a guilt-free ‘not my monkeys, not my circus’ look and plodded back to the doorstep to have a nap. She’d alerted Martha to the fracas and that was as far as her responsibility and contribution went.

Martha frowned, and glanced towards the adjacent house. This was the holiday cottage she rented out, and which currently housed the obnoxious Carol Cuthbertson, her henpecked and downtrodden husband Roy, their surly-looking teenage grandson, whose name Martha still didn’t know, and their delightful toddler granddaughter Sophia. The little girl was clearly a pre-schooler, but why her fourteen or fifteen-year-old brother was on holiday during term time in late May was less easily explained. Martha suspected he’d been suspended from school and Gran and Gramps, who were about to go on holiday, got lumbered with him in order to give him and/or his parents a break. She’d only been expecting three guests to turn up the previous Saturday, so the teen’s arrival had meant she’d had to make up another bed quickly. The only clean, single bedding she had available at such short notice was a Disney Frozen set, which must have gone down very badly with the youth.

The cottage was still in darkness, so Hermione’s antics had not yet disturbed the Cuthbertsons. That was a mixed blessing. Martha wouldn’t actually have minded upsetting the old harridan. The woman was a nightmare. She’d been at Martha’s front door every day this week so far, at least twice, impatiently demanding bizarre items that surely she and the family could manage without for a week, such as a pizza cutter, banana boats, egg poachers and an egg-timer, nutcrackers, gateaux forks and an electric carving knife. And it was only Wednesday. Martha had been unable to meet any of the various demands since she had never possessed any of these objects, and not suffered any perceptible hardship during her fifty-three years of existence as a result. However, each failure was met with a hostile sigh and a pained expression. The holiday cottage was well equipped, and constantly re-equipped since breakages and disappearances were far more frequent than they should have been, with everything a holiday maker could sensibly need. Carol had also demanded rubbish sacks, washing-up liquid, towels, sugar, soap and toilet roll, all things that were clearly indicated on the cottage’s website as not being provided. Originally she and Mark had supplied most of these, but after one family apparently got through thirty-two black sacks in one week (although only four such sacks full of rubbish materialised in the bin), another party complained that the soap made their skin dry and a third that the practically new and ultra-soft towels were too scratchy, they’d withdrawn such provision for the sake of their sanity.

Martha mused. Could she get away with quietly opening the front door with her spare key and herding Hermione and her babies inside to let them run riot? No, there’d be hell to pay, and probably compensation, but oh, it was a tempting and delightful thought.

But never mind the Cuthbertsons. Saving what remained of her flowerbed, which by now wasn’t much, was her priority. How to start? Without much hope, Martha scooped up the two nearest fat, torpedo-like piglets. Neither so much as grunted. Berkshires were far too laid-back as a breed. She and Mark had bred Gloucester Old Spots for a couple of years in the past, and the two breeds couldn’t have been more different. If you so much as looked at an Old Spot piglet the wrong way it began to squeal in alarm, inciting mum to come barrelling over, ears flapping, grunting menacingly. These Berkshire piglets, in contrast, simply turned a puzzled but benign eye on their temporary pig-napper. One snuffled her hand and gave an exploratory nibble to her dressing gown sleeve.

Look, Hermi, I’ve got your babies! Martha waved the two piglets in front of the sow’s nose. Hermione blinked myopically but unconcernedly at them and carried on rooting up the geraniums to which she’d now turned her attention.

Defeated, Martha retuned the two piglets to the ground. They wriggled off her hands and enthusiastically recommenced vandalising her lawn, as though nothing had ever interrupted them. Would she ever get the porcine family to go home?

She heard the front door of the cottage creak quietly open and a figure stepped out. Martha braced herself, ready for a volley of complaints about being disturbed. She caught the flash of flame from a lighter out of the corner of her eye, heard the sound of a deep, satisfied inhalation, and then the smell of smoke drifted over to her nose. She glanced over; she hadn’t pegged the ghastly Carol as a smoker. And she’d been right because this was the grandson. He was in his own nicotine-fuelled happy land because he seemed totally unaware of what was going on the garden next-door. His reverie was broken by two piglets suddenly squabbling over a large worm one of them had unearthed. He jumped with surprise, then came over to the low fence separating the two properties for a better look. It was then Martha’s turn to be surprised when he spoke.

Are they supposed to be there? he asked chattily and with a pleasant smile that drove all the habitual sullenness from his face.

They seem to think so, Martha smiled back, but I disagree. However, they outnumber and outbulk me massively so I may have to go along with their plans for a while.

Can I help? he offered.

Gosh, yes please, replied Martha, gratefully, hoping she was keeping her incredulity out of her tone. She’d been sure he’d be happy to smugly watch the mayhem going on. Can you keep an eye on them while I go and unplug the electric fence and get the gate open? I’ll only be a minute.

She turned to go.

The fence is already unplugged, the lad’s voice came from behind her.

She whirled round and stared at him.

He shrugged. Gran unplugged it last night. She said the pulses from it were interfering with the long wave radio signal and spoiling her enjoyment of ‘The Archers’.

She… Archers… what? Martha stuttered incoherently, unable to believe her ears. The cheek of the woman! Disabling the electric fence like that, and all for the sake of stopping the occasional crackle of interference during her radio soap. Dear Lord! She ran a hand down her face.

Gran has that effect on people, the kid shrugged. I told her it was a really dumb idea.

You’re spot on there… er… She trailed off, wanting to use the boy’s name but not having a clue what it was.

Zack. I’m Zack, he said.

Martha, as you know. She stuck out a hand, and the boy shook it solemnly. I have to ask, she went on nosily, but why are you here at all? I’m guessing it’s not out of choice.

You’re spot on there, Martha, he replied with a grin, using her words from a moment ago.

Martha laughed. She liked Zack.

I keep skipping school so they’ve suspended me for a week, he explained.

That’s not really the most logical punishment, is it? observed Martha wryly. Kind of win-win for you.

Well, it would have been if I’d been able to stay at home. But luck would have it that it’s this week that Gran was booked to come on holiday with Gramps and Sophia. So Mum and Dad asked her to take me along. Believe me, that really is a punishment! Oh, I love Sophs of course, she’s cute, and Gramps is OK, but Gran, geez.

I got that impression, admitted Martha. I’m sorry you don’t like school, she added. "My kids always loved it. Mind you, Jared got himself suspended for three days for drinking beer in the dorm at lycée."

In the dorm! Wow, did he go to, like, really posh boarding school or something? Zack was intrigued.

"Boarding school, yes. Posh, no. The lycée, which is kind of equivalent to sixth form college, is a state school. So don’t imagine toasting crumpets round the fire and jolly japes! It’s an hour’s drive away in Gueroges, Martha explained. My kids, like loads of others out here in the sticks, boarded there from Monday to Friday. It was pretty basic but clean and comfy, and they had a great time. Too great, in Jared’s case. She rolled her eyes. It was the stupidest thing he’s ever done and the suspension shook him up a bit. He’s kept to the straight and narrow ever since, and he’s twenty-six now," she smiled.

I know playing truant is dumb but I hate school, sighed Zack. Well, I like English and music, but that’s all. I mean, maths is a waste of time cos everyone’s got calculators now, and if you want to know sciencey stuff you can look it up on the Net. And history. That’s just all battles anyway. He glibly wrote off all the past and vast struggles of humanity that had brought the nations of the world to their current political, geographical and economic states.

Martha’s eyebrows rose, but she managed not to make a comment in direct reply and instead changed the subject.

So what do you see yourself doing in the future? Being a singer-songwriter? she hazarded, with a sudden flash of inspiration.

Zack registered astonishment. How did you guess?

Well, you like English and music, and that’s the best way to put them together, she shrugged.

So that’s why I don’t need to waste time doing a bunch of exams in irrelevant subjects. My time is more usefully spent on my music and lyrics.

Martha suppressed a smile at his earnestness and nodded seriously.

So you’ll be self-employed. Working for yourself you’ll need a good grasp of bookkeeping and figures, believe me. She pulled a face. Tax forms are sooo complicated. Maths can come in handy there, you know.

Martha was speaking from experience.

Zack nodded, assessing this suggestion. OK, maybe I’ll start going to maths again. He took a drag on his cigarette. And maybe French. This is my first time here and I really like France so learning a bit of the language would be useful. But that’s it, he said firmly, to end that discussion. So, he looked at her brightly, are we going to round up these pigs or what?

We’ll give it our best shot. I’ll nip off and open the gate to the field, and then between us we’ll try and steer Hermi, that’s the mum, in that direction.

The rounding up went much better than anticipated. Hermione was getting bored of the flowerbed and fancied a change of scene, so when she saw Martha trotting past her towards the field, she decided to follow to see what was going on. She was starting to feel rather thirsty too after so many dry granules, so a quick stop by her water bucket would be a good idea. As soon as she started moving, Zack got right behind her, and the piglets fell into step behind him. His inner farmer emerged and he slapped Hermione a few times on the backside whenever her pace dropped, and that got her moving swiftly again. Martha had only just got the wire-spring gate open when Hermione caught up with her, and lunged past to stick her face in her water and take a long, slooping swallow. Zack stepped into the field, and the piglets, a couple of them hanging onto his shoelaces, tumbled in after them. Martha re-hooked up the gate. Then she darted to the corner stable where the control box for the fence was and plugged it back in, muttering obscenities directed at Carol as she did so.

She gave a thumbs-up from the doorway to Zack, who, after gently detaching the chewing piglets, stepped out carefully over the now-clicking electric fence. She went over to join him. Now that Hermione had had her drink, it was time to rest and digest. But maternal duties first. Hermione flumped down onto her side and immediately the piglets swarmed over her, squealing as they bickered over the teats. There were plenty to go round, sixteen altogether, but they all seemed to want the same one. It was chaos until finally every little mouth settled on its own milk supply and then peace reigned to the gentle background of slurping noises.

They’re cute, grinned Zack.

Yeah, they are, agreed Martha, but they soon get uncute, believe me, and once they’re weaned they get through a truckload of food. They get naughty too. This lot seem especially feisty so I imagine there’ll be a few break-outs at various times, usually the middle of the night.

Are they for eating? Zack asked next.

Martha was impressed with the straightforward question. The piglets’ fate was something guests generally preferred not to ask about.

Yes, I’ve got a pig-farming and charcuterie-producing friend who buys up all my piglets every year, either for breeding from or processing, she explained matter-of-factly.

You make a lot from selling them? Zack asked next.

Martha shook her head. Not really. Pigs are ridiculously cheap, so I barely break even on them. The only reason I keep breeding Hermione once a year is that if I stop, then I’ll have to make a tough decision about what to do with her and Harry, the boar. Pigs make for expensive and time-consuming pets. But, I’ll have to face it soon. I’m just making extra work for myself by carrying on with the piglet production. She shrugged.

She didn’t add that if she gave up on the pigs, or any of the other animals they had, then she’d feel like she was giving up on hers and Mark’s dream, and she worried that might mean she was giving up on Mark himself. But running the place on her own was getting noticeably harder as time went on.

The other animals included two elderly and ugly sheep. The Charollais ewes had almost bald, beigey-pink faces and so their thick white eyebrows showed up with unnatural zeal and lent a sinister look to the breed. Martha and Mark had bred from them for a few years, but, since the ewes insisted on giving birth to twins each time, quickly had more lamb in the freezer than they could eat. They had to buy a second freezer to store it all. Apart from in curry, neither of them liked lamb that much and so added the ram to the freezer and retired the two ewes. The donkey, which had been dumped on them by an anonymous donor who’d tied it to their gate one night, was always well behaved, as were the alpacas, purchased at crazy expense. Martha had planned to produce her own knitting yarn from the latter’s beautiful wool. She’d bought the spinning wheel and been on a course, and was all set to go. But then Mark had died. That put paid to that plan for a while, and it wasn’t until about a year ago that she she’d been inspired to start again. However, the alpacas had been left to their own devices for too long, and although happy to come over for food weren’t prepared for closer contact than that. They’d once been so docile, but now there was no way they’d allow her to shear them. And anyway, Martha consoled herself, a newly-shorn alpaca with its spindly body and pompom head was the most grotesque-looking thing ever. She couldn’t inflict humiliation like that on Boris and Shaun.

There were some smaller animals too. As well as Flossie, there were half a dozen farm cats, all former strays that had ended up on their doorstep and been adopted and neutered. There were four rabbits, left over from a brief rabbit breeding period a few years ago. The mum of one of Jared’s friends had insisted on Martha, evidently an animal lover, accepting a pair of hideous rabbits that her son now totally ignored. She assured Martha they were both females, but one of them obviously wasn’t as baby rabbits appeared one day. The adult rabbits were unfriendly and wild, and so they too ended up on the table. However, no one in the family thought much of rabbit meat. The only way they could eat it was by disguising its taste with additions such as chorizo and thick tangy sauces. Mark and Martha failed to separate the babies into same-sex cages in time, and so ended up with two more litters. Fortunately a farmer friend was happy to take on some of the animals. However, the inbreeding had resulted in some truly mini rabbits, which he didn’t want. And so those four, all females luckily, had stayed. They lived free in the alpaca field, and hopped into the barn at night for shelter. Martha and the kids had tried to catch them a few times. The one time Jared managed to grab one, it had started screaming. Having never heard a rabbit scream before, and not even realising they could do it, Jared had let go of it in alarm and it had scooted to safety. They didn’t try to catch them again after that.

And there was poultry too, far too much, but the birds were lowish maintenance. The four stately ducks and one figurehead goose served a useful traffic-calming role. Guests tended to treat the farm drive as an extension of the public road and to assume the same speed limits applied. Where her wonkily hand-painted ‘SLOW’ signs failed to have any effect, the quintet of solidly-built, slow-moving water fowl waddling sedately along in the way worked like a charm. To her frustration, at present the bantams, chickens and turkeys were refusing point blank to lay in their nesting boxes. Martha was having to hunt for eggs every time she needed some for cooking, or when guests asked for them. In the past the children had done this job but they were both far from home now. Rural France had been a cool place to move to fifteen years ago from suburban Leeds, even though the first six months at French school had been immensely tough going for Jared and Lily. However, they were both fluent within a year and had progressed through the educational system. They had emerged from university with degrees and, unlike their peers in the UK, without enormous debts hanging over them. But now, of course, they wanted to be where the action and other young people were. Creuse, with its largely decrepit population, wasn’t the place for them. Jared was now living and working in Marseilles. He had a lovely girlfriend, Blandine, and Martha hoped it wouldn’t be too long before she had to buy a hat for their wedding. Her lively, itchy-footed, petite daughter Lily was in Australia, doing a string of unpaid jobs for which she received board and lodging and the occasional tip. She was currently bottle-feeding some orphaned kangaroo joeys on a sort of roo sanctuary, as far as Martha could make out. She