Текст книги "Dead and Buried"

Автор книги: Stephen Booth

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

4

Detective Sergeant Diane Fry was in the outside lane of the M1 motorway when she got the call. Her black Audi was travelling at just over seventy miles an hour, passing a convoy of French lorries occupying the inside lanes. Her CD player was blasting out one of her favourite albums, Songs of Mass Destruction. She loved Annie Lennox’s voice, always full of soul, even when rocking on ‘Ghosts in My Machine’.

Her fingers tapped on the steering wheel in a rare moment of relaxation. Her car was almost her only personal space, the last refuge where she could escape from the tension that ruled the rest of her life.

Fry turned the CD off to take the call. While she listened to the message, she looked ahead, saw the overhead gantry signs for Junction 26, the Nottingham exit. She was pretty sure there was a link on to the A610, which would take her back into Derbyshire.

‘Yes, give me an hour or so.’

‘Understood.’

She indicated to move into the inside lane and slowed for the exit. At the same time she began to reset the route on her sat nav.

‘Can you send me an outline of the original inquiry?’ she asked.

There was a pause. ‘We’ll ask the locals to give you a copy.’

‘That’ll do.’

She hit the roundabout and found herself stuck behind a car transporter as she filtered left towards the A610 for Ripley and Ilkeston.

‘Well, maybe a bit more than an hour,’ she muttered.

Fry had been with the East Midlands Special Operations Unit – Major Crime for six months now, part of the Derbyshire contingent allocated to the new unit when the county’s own Major Crime Unit was wound up.

The joint initiative was headed up by the former divisional commander from D Division in Derby. He was the man who’d expanded the city’s burglary and robbery squads and introduced Operation Diamond to deal with serious sexual and violent assaults. He was also behind Operation Redshank, set up to target gun and gang crime after a spate of shootings in Derby that had culminated in the death of fifteen-year-old Kadeem Blackwood in 2008.

Just as importantly from Fry’s point of view, this chief superintendent had joined Derbyshire from the West Midlands, just as she had herself.

It was funny to think now how frustrated she’d felt at being co-opted into discussions about inter-force cooperation last year. At the time it had seemed to have no relevance to her own career. She’d felt as though she was just waiting for an opportunity to move back to Birmingham, something that was beginning to look less and likely among all the cuts and restructuring.

But then the regional Major Crime Unit had become a reality, as all five forces in the East Midlands disbanded their own units in an effort to save cash. Its remit was to investigate all murders and other major crimes in the region, including kidnappings.

Though murders were still few in number, they caused massive disruption to local forces, especially in the first week of an inquiry. The regional unit meant that officers from Derbyshire had to support their colleagues in neighbouring areas, even those as far away as Lincolnshire or Northamptonshire. She now had the chance to operate in towns and cities well away from the rural wastelands of the Peak District.

The Northern Command of EMSOU – MC was based in the city of Nottingham, barely more than a forty-mile drive from Edendale, yet it might as well be a world away.

Fry called her office back.

‘This turn-out. Who’s on the ground at the moment?’

‘Local CID officers. I don’t know exactly who. Do you want me to get a name to make contact with?’

‘No, it won’t make any difference,’ said Fry. ‘I’ll find out soon enough when I arrive.’

Local CID. Oh well. At one time not too long ago, that could have meant her. But she knew it was always important to have local officers on scene, especially in the first days of a murder. Her new boss was very keen on the benefits of local knowledge. She’d read a newspaper interview in which he’d talked about his earlier career. He’d said that during one murder investigation he’d been approached at a crime scene by two burglars whose sentences he’d applied to have extended, but who wanted to give him information about the suspect. They’d done that just because they knew him. Personal contact created a strange kind of bond. It earned trust, even from someone you’d helped to put away for a spell.

Fry knew there were plenty of officers in the northern part of Derbyshire who had that kind of local knowledge and experience, particularly the personal contacts that might prove invaluable.

She was on the dual carriageway now, passing the old brewing town of Kimberley and the IKEA retail park.

‘Control?’ she said. ‘Is Oxlow Moor located in B or E Division?’

‘E, I think.’

‘Okay, thank you.’

Fry sighed. Well, it would only be temporary. In the subsequent weeks of an inquiry, when more detailed forensic investigations were taking place, it wasn’t so vital to have local officers involved. Everyone was trained to the same standard and used identical systems, so it wasn’t necessary. A central capability resulted in a more sensible use of available resources.

Of course, it was disloyal of her to think like this, in a way. She remained employed by Derbyshire Constabulary, though she had a new base away from the area she lived in. Her chief had said publicly that, despite his change of role, he would not be leaving Derby, which had been his family home for years.

But that was where she parted company with him. She didn’t feel quite the same about Edendale.

‘One last thing …’ she said.

‘Yes, Sergeant?’

‘Have you got a postcode for this place I’m going to?’ she said. ‘My sat nav doesn’t seem to recognise it.’

While he waited on Oxlow Moor, Cooper walked a few yards away from the smoke still drifting off the hill, and found himself looking down at the long drop into the valley.

Below him the road was crossed by the Limestone Way, one of Derbyshire’s most popular trails, which ended a few miles to the north in Castleton. Its name was pretty accurate. From Mayfield, in the south of the county, the route passed through the rugged greyish-white limestone landscape of the White Peak.

For centuries this had been the heart of England’s lead-mining industry, a rich ore field that had been mined continuously since Roman times. From the pigs of lead found with the official stamp and the abbreviation ‘Lut’, it was believed that Lutudarum, the Roman centre of lead mining, had been located somewhere in this area. Some sections of the Limestone Way used miners’ tracks, and even older pathways, a few of them dating back to the Bronze Age, when they’d linked prehistoric henges, hill forts and burial sites.

The Romans had built their own roads across this area, of course. And even in the Peaks they were straight as an arrow, irrespective of the hills. The route he’d crossed, known as Batham Gate, ran from the town of Buxton to the Roman fort of Navio, near Brough. Much of it was no longer used, but a Roman road could always be recognised on the map – their artificial straightness was such a contrast to the winding lanes that had grown up organically over hundreds of years of human activity, following the natural inclination to take the least demanding route.

The present Batham Gate was an oddity, though. Long stretches of it twisted and turned in a very un-Roman fashion, diverting to avoid the quarries and fluorspar workings that had sprung up alongside it. Curiously, the modern electricity pylons seemed to follow the route of the old Roman road, marching dead straight across the countryside in a way the road itself no longer did.

‘Parts of this area are quite dangerous,’ said the fire chief. ‘And I don’t mean because of the fires.’

‘Dangerous?’

‘The old mines. You have to be careful where you walk if you stray off the path.’

‘You’re right, of course.’

Because of its history, the area was riddled with old mine workings, capped-off shafts and thousands of small grassy hillocks covered in wild flowers, most of them spoil heaps, which formed the only visible legacy of the lead-mining glory days of the eighteenth century. And then there were the limestone and fluorspar quarries – great white gashes blasted from the hillsides, many of them now abandoned in their turn, grown over or gradually filling up with water.

With one hand Cooper swiped his mouth, realising that he could still taste smoke in his saliva when he swallowed. Unless the rain came in the next few days, this whole landscape could soon be reduced to ashes.

Cooper recognised the black Audi has as soon as it turned on to the track approaching Oxlow Moor. There was something about the tinted strip across the windscreen blocking out the sun, and the way the car was driven, slowly and skittishly, as if it was only used to travelling on dual carriage-ways and expected those stone walls to move in from either side and crush it.

Diane Fry looked thinner than ever, which hardly seemed possible. But he’d noticed something strange about her over the years. She’d always looked much more fragile outdoors, when she was out of her natural environment. Inside, in the office, she was quite a different person. She seemed to grow and become stronger. Her fair hair was longer than it used to be, which did at least soften her features.

‘Is there mud?’ called Fry when she got out of her car at the bottom of the track.

‘Not here.’

Fry walked across the verge, but halted the moment she stepped off on to the moor in the direction of the crime-scene tent.

‘Damn. I thought you said there wasn’t any mud?’

‘It isn’t mud, Sergeant. It’s burned heather and ashes. It’s wet because the fire service have just finished extinguishing a fire.’

‘In my book that makes it mud,’ said Fry.

She covered her mouth with her hand against the wisps of smoke still rising here and there from among the burnt heather.

‘We’ll have to get a supply of masks if we’re going to be out here any length of time,’ she said.

Cooper nodded. ‘I’ll organise it.’

So far she hadn’t greeted him, let alone acknowledged that she’d known him for years, had served with him, been his immediate supervisor before his promotion to detective sergeant. More than that, they’d been through a lot together, and no one could argue that they owed each other something. At least that was how Cooper felt.

He was used to this taciturn way, of course. Most of his own family were like that. But in their case they didn’t need to speak because they understood each other’s thoughts without words. It was a silence born of ease and familiarity. With Fry, there was no question of either. He felt neither easy nor familiar in her presence. If she didn’t speak, he had no idea what she was thinking.

A few minutes later they stood together at the partially excavated site. Fry looked down at what Abbott had uncovered.

‘David Pearson,’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘Any indication of, er …?’

‘Trisha. Yes, evidence of her too.’

‘There’s quite a story to the Pearson inquiry,’ said Fry.

‘It’s all in the file,’ said Cooper. ‘Not our greatest success.’

‘It was more than two years ago. But there were theories …’

Abbott shook his head. ‘I’ve done a presumptive test for blood on the rucksack. It’s positive.’

‘Could it be animal blood? If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my time in the Peak District, it’s that these sheep are suicidal. They all have a death wish.’

‘They might be suicidal,’ said Cooper, ‘but they don’t dig shallow graves for themselves. When they die, they generally just lie about on the surface until the scavengers get to them.’

‘Grave?’ said Fry.

‘Well, it seems to be where the possessions of David and Trisha Pearson were buried. Whether the Pearsons are also dead and buried … I guess that’s what you’re here to find out.’

‘No bodies, then.’

‘No,’ said Cooper. ‘No bodies. Not yet.’

Fry turned and pointed.

‘The building I passed a mile or two back,’ she said. ‘A pub, is it?’

‘It was.’

The auctioneer’s sign on the wall of the Light House was legible from half a mile away, and visible from much further. Historic landmark inn. Cooper wondered how many more questions he would have to give obvious answers to.

‘It’s been empty for about six months,’ he said.

‘Looks a grim place.’

‘It wasn’t so grim when it was open.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

‘You don’t remember it, do you?’

Fry frowned. On her face a frown looked more like a scowl, as if being forced to remember something made her really angry.

‘Have I been there?’ she said.

‘Yes, with me,’ said Cooper.

‘No, I don’t recall the occasion, then.’

‘Never mind.’

Cooper remembered it, though. He recalled sitting in the conservatory after driving up here from Fry’s flat in Edendale one summer evening, when it stayed light long enough for them to enjoy the spectacular views for an hour or two. It had been busy at the Light House that night, but they’d managed to get a table in the conservatory, just as the first drops of rain began to fall on the glass roof. He remembered being surprised when he offered to buy the drinks and Fry asked for a vodka. When he thought back, he could still recall the clatter of those raindrops on the roof, sounding much too loud in the awkward pauses in their conversation. The memory was so firmly lodged in his brain that the sound of rain had become a sort of musical accompaniment to the history of their relationship.

And Fry said she didn’t remember it. Well, he wasn’t surprised. She was capable of erasing him from her life as easily as she might wipe away a splash of rain.

It was amazing to think now that he’d once considered … well, it was probably best not think about it at all. He was marrying Liz Petty in a few months’ time. That was what he was put on this earth for. Diane Fry had just been an irritant, sent to make him appreciate better things. He ought to be thankful that she’d existed. If only he could bring himself to be thankful that she had gone.

Fry seemed to be gazing at something, but not the nearby scene. She was staring into the distance, where the smoke was still billowing towards them across the moor. The wind must have changed again.

‘We might have to move,’ said Cooper.

‘Possibly.’

But then he realised that she was gazing in the direction of the Light House, even though it wasn’t visible from here. He wondered what it was that fascinated her. Had she perhaps dredged up a fragment of memory? But if he knew Diane Fry, she would have pushed any memories she didn’t want right to the back of her mind, where they would never be found.

‘Why did it close?’ she said.

‘The pub? Lots of reasons.’

Cooper knew there were several factors contributing to the closures of rural pubs. The traditional lunchtime trade had been dying on its feet. The crackdown on drinking and driving, the ban on smoking in public places, the availability of cheap alcohol in supermarkets – they’d all played their part in the slow erosion of pub business. For many licensees, the increase in VAT to twenty per cent had been the last straw, a sudden hike in their quarterly bills too much to cope with at the wrong time.

In addition, the Light House had always been one of the places worst affected by spells of bad weather in the winter. Prolonged periods of snow meant no one could reach the pub for weeks. Over Christmas and New Year, that was a disaster. The holiday period was the one time of the year when a pub could expect to make a profit. Cancelled bookings and an empty bar turned a bad situation into a catastrophe beyond recovery.

He started to tell Fry this, but soon ground to a halt. Not for the first time, he had the distinct impression that she wasn’t listening to him, that she was just letting him talk as a form of noise to fill the void, the way you might play familiar music on a long car journey. It allowed your thoughts to be elsewhere.

‘Is there … anything I can do, Diane?’ he said instead.

She looked at him then, as if he’d just appeared at her side.

‘No. You’ve done well.’

‘Oh, thanks.’

Cooper turned aside, hoping to get more sense out of Wayne Abbott. At least he wouldn’t be so patronising.

‘Who was that?’ said Fry suddenly.

Cooper stopped and turned back in surprise. ‘Where?’

‘Didn’t you see them? Running across the moor.’

‘Towards the fire?’

‘Into the smoke, anyway. It was only a second, then I lost sight of him again.’

‘Him?’

‘Well … I can’t be sure. It was so quick it could have been anybody, I suppose.’

Cooper had automatically taken a step towards the hill, but she grabbed his arm and held him back.

‘There’s no point, Ben. Let’s warn the firefighters to keep an eye out for them.’

He stopped, accepting her decision without question, and surprised at himself for it. He looked at her hand on his arm, wondered why he was so struck by her use of his first name. It sounded odd after all these months.

Fry dropped her hand.

‘You’re getting married soon,’ she said.

‘Yes.’

Small talk now? Surely not.

‘Good.’

Gavin Murfin appeared, trudging up the track in his green anorak with an armful of files. He wheezed, dropped the files on the ground and threw a mock salute.

‘Messenger boy reporting, ma’am. They said you wanted these.’

‘Thanks,’ said Fry. ‘But I don’t know why they sent you. Any uniform would have done. A PCSO could have managed the job.’

Murfin smiled cheerfully. ‘In view of my vast experience as a detective, they thought I might be of some use to you.’

‘I doubt it.’ Fry picked up the files and began to turn away.

‘So how’s life at the East Midlands Special Operations Unit?’

‘Interesting,’ said Fry sharply.

‘Have you got an acronym for yourselves yet? EMSOU – MC doesn’t have much of a ring to it, does it?’

Fry turned to him with a sour expression on her face. At one stage in their relationship, a look like that from her would have quelled Murfin without a word being spoken. It didn’t seem to have any effect now.

‘Don’t you have work to do?’ she said. ‘I heard you had an urgent inquiry involving stolen postboxes to deal with. Or has that proved beyond your capabilities?’

Murfin chewed thoughtfully.

‘You know they’re giving me a medal, don’t you?’ he asked.

‘They ought to give you a brain scan,’ said Fry over her shoulder.

‘Why?’

‘Well, someone needs to carry out a proper examination of your pathological behaviour.’

‘Hold on,’ called Murfin as she walked away. ‘Are you calling me a pathologist?’

Fry gritted her teeth, told herself to hang on. Her own DCI would be here in the morning to take charge as senior investigating officer. Until then, it was a question of holding the fort. Grin and bear it. Except she didn’t feel much like grinning.

It would actually be a whole lot better if she could just get rid of some of these people cluttering up the scene. Almost all of them, in fact.

She looked at the firefighting operation still continuing on the moor, the road closure below. There was only one road in, and one road out. That was good. The crime scene was protected, and the evidence collected. Nothing was going anywhere until morning. She knew DCI Mackenzie would back her up.

Alistair Mackenzie was also on a transfer from Derbyshire’s D Division. He was the reason she’d landed the job with EMSOU – MC. She’d worked with him on a case last year – a case she probably shouldn’t mention to Ben Cooper. Well, not unless he started to annoy her, anyway. It had involved Cooper’s brother, and they were all lucky that the outcome hadn’t been much worse.

She looked at the people around her at the scene. Dusk was starting to fall. That was good, too.

‘Okay, I think we can call it a day,’ she said. ‘We’ll pick it up again tomorrow morning. Full daylight, a complete team, a proper scene examination.’

‘All right.’

She could see Cooper was reluctant, but he didn’t argue. In fact he didn’t say anything as the others began to drift slowly away. Perversely, Fry felt the need to provoke some kind of response from him, even if it was a negative one.

‘Can I leave you to organise a scene guard for tonight?’ she said.

Cooper met her eye calmly. ‘Yes, of course. Whatever you want.’

And for some reason, when Fry gazed at him, the thought that came into her head was: And that was your first mistake.