Читать книгу Cooper and Fry Crime Fiction Series Books 1-3: Black Dog, Dancing With the Virgins, Blood on the Tongue - Stephen Booth - Страница 24

The smell of the smoke was acrid and strong, like burning rubber. But it was nowhere near as strong as the other smell, which lay like an evil fog on the ramshackle buildings and overgrown paddocks of rough grass. It was the sweet, sickly stink of advanced decomposition, the odour of organic matter rotted to the point of putrefaction and the escape of fermenting gases.

Cooper had found the three old men by using his nose. They were building a vast compost heap, well out of sight of the track to the house at Thorpe Farm. From a seat on a bale of straw, Sam Beeley was supervising the operation, while Harry Dickinson and Wilford Cutts had their jackets off and their sleeves rolled up on their white arms as they wielded two forks. Two young men were mucking out a nearby breezeblock building, producing a constant trail of wheelbarrow loads of dark, wet, strawy manure. It arrived in the barrows steaming and black, like enormous Christmas puddings. A few yards away, a pile of dry bedding was smouldering viciously, creating a blanket of thick grey smoke that drifted away from the buildings and dispersed in the bracken on the hillside. Its smell couldn’t mask the stench of the fresh manure piling up in heaps on the ground. The smell was overpowering.

Wilford saw Cooper approaching and pointed at him with his fork, stabbing the air.

‘Look what’s coming! Here’s trouble, you lot.’

‘Nay, he’s a hero, that lad,’ said Sam. ‘He’s just come from arresting the number one suspect. Solved the case, he has.’

‘On his own?’

‘With one hand behind his back, probably.’

‘Happen he’s come to volunteer,’ said Harry, leaning on his fork. His shirt was open at the collar, and there was a distinct line where the tan of his neck met the bleached white skin of a throat and chest that hadn’t seen the sun for years. He looked like parts of two totally different men stuck together. Cooper thought stupidly of Frankenstein’s monster, the creature with a head sewn crudely on to someone else’s body.

‘Ah, grab a spare wheelbarrow then,’ said Sam. ‘Unless you know anything about making compost.’

‘All you do is pile it up and it rots down again,’ said Cooper, determined to stay on friendly terms. ‘Is that right?’

‘Oh no, not at all.’

‘Not at all,’ echoed Wilford. ‘There’s an art to compost. It needs nurturing, like a child.’

One of the young men came past with another load of manure. Cooper stepped back as a lump of evil-smelling muck slipped off the barrow. He could see it consisted of wet, soiled straw and partly decomposed animal droppings in indistinguishable clumps. As soon as the manure had landed, small brown flies appeared from nowhere and settled on it, probing into the mess with their noses.

‘This is good stuff,’ said Wilford. ‘Take a whiff of that lot.’

‘You use it on your vegetable patch, I suppose.’

‘Vegetables now, they need a particular sort of compost.’

‘Blood and bone. That’s what you want for vegetables,’ said Harry.

Sam cackled. ‘Blood and bone. Blood and bone,’ he said. ‘Oh aye.’

There were dogs barking from a shed in the background and hens clucking. But the smallholding was quieter than Cooper remembered it from his previous visit with Diane Fry. There was a strange stillness about the scene in front of him, as if the old men were posed around some bizarre work of art they had created for the National Gallery.

‘There’s plenty of nitrogen in blood,’ said Wilford. ‘Phosphorus in bone. Nowt like it for your brassicas.’

Another barrowload of manure was tipped on to the heap. Wilford and Harry forked it over, and Harry walked up the slope and trod up and down the heap in his black wellies.

‘I’d like to speak to you, Mr Dickinson, please,’ said Cooper, staring up at him.

The compost heap had reached a height of about four feet. Harry loomed high above Cooper, a strange scarecrow figure marching up and down on the compost like a sentry on guard duty. Cooper had to shade his eyes against the sun to look up at the old man.

‘In a minute,’ said Harry.

Wilford passed him up two thick wooden stakes about six feet long. Harry chose a spot carefully and drove the first stake deep into the compost. It plunged into the heap with a squelch and a burst of putrid odour. Then he heaved his weight on to the end of the stake until it stopped moving, with the last couple of feet still protruding.

‘You’ve got to give it a bit of air,’ explained Wilford as Harry drove in the second stake.

The youth with the barrow came past again and gave Cooper a sideways look and a conspiratorial grin. He had very short fair hair and a ring in his right ear. He was about the same height as the detective, and had well-developed muscles in his arms and shoulders. He was wearing torn jeans and was stripped to the waist. His torso was oily with sweat from the exertion and the steamy heat inside the building. A few yards away, the other youth was throwing some branches and armfuls of straw on to the fire to keep it going. The straw caught, and flames instantly leaped into the air.

Closer to, the vast compost heap was shimmering and steaming, with clouds of dung flies swirling through the haze seeking out the choicest, smelliest patches. Cooper covered his mouth and nose, feeling slightly sick. He was used to farmyard smells, but this was a special creation in itself.

‘Mr Dickinson, I really need to talk to you.’

‘It won’t smell when it’s ready, you know,’ said Sam.

‘Now, please,’ snapped Cooper, starting to lose his temper.

The three old men made an elaborate show of being impressed by his authoritative tone. Harry stood to attention in his wellies and saluted slowly. Wilford hoisted his fork over his shoulder like a rifle. Sam got up from his bucket and peered at Cooper over the top of the compost, grinning slyly.

‘You’ll get on all right, lad,’ he said. ‘You could be Chief Constable one day. All you have to do is get rid of all the other people ahead of you first.’

The old men laughed, and Cooper scowled. The heat was really starting to get to him. He felt drained of energy and irritable. He was relieved when Harry picked his way carefully down the side of the compost to join him.

‘I’m about finished here now,’ said Harry. ‘If you hang on while I fetch Jess, you can give me a lift home and talk all you like.’

‘Fine,’ said Cooper, pleased at the chance to get away from the smallholding.

‘Blood and bone,’ called Sam, as Cooper began to walk back across the field. But Wilford followed him and caught up with him by the gate.

‘You’ll be questioning Harry again,’ he said. ‘That’s what they call it, isn’t it? Questioning.’

The aroma of the compost clung to Wilford’s clothes and skin and hair, and small clumps of it dropped from his boots as he moved. He was breathing a bit too fast, with his chest heaving and his face strained.

‘I’m on the Laura Vernon enquiry, as you know, sir.’

‘Those Vernons. They’re not all they’re cracked up to be, you know.’

‘What do you mean, sir?’

‘They’ve got a lot of money and they reckon to be posh, but they’re not. They’ve been bad for this village.’

‘People like that will always be resented.’

‘Oh aye, but everybody knows …’

‘Knows what?’

Wilford shrugged and lifted his cap, running his hand through his hair. The uneven white patch that had refused to catch the sun stood out on his freckled scalp.

‘It doesn’t matter, I suppose. You’ll be asking more questions about the girl.’

‘Of course we are. That’s what we’ve been doing all week. If you know anything –’

‘No, no. But it’s true, though, isn’t it?’ He looked at Cooper to seek reassurance. ‘A sin will always catch you out. Like we used to say in the mines, it’ll always come to day.’

Cooper didn’t know what to say to that. But Wilford wasn’t expecting a reply in any case. They passed several of the makeshift buildings along the track and came to the stone-built shed where the nanny goat had been on Tuesday when it had escaped.

‘The goat’s gone quiet,’ remarked Cooper.

‘Aye. Quiet enough.’

He poked his head round the corner of the goat’s shed, but it was empty. There was no sign of the animal in the paddock either. Harry had disappeared behind another shed in a wire enclosure, and emerged with the black Labrador on a leather lead in one hand and a plastic carrier bag in the other.

When they reached the Toyota, Harry sat on a wall and took off his dung-covered wellingtons and a pair of thick socks, exposing thin white feet. He took a pair of clean shoes and socks from the carrier bag and put them on.

‘I’m not over-fond of the job, you understand,’ he said. ‘But it’s only natural stuff, manure. The missus’ll moan, though, when I get in.’

When Harry got into the passenger seat of the hot car, Cooper realized exactly why Gwen Dickinson was likely to complain.

Andrew Milner drove up the gravel drive of the Mount and parked in front of the mock pillars, close to Graham Vernon’s Jaguar. He looked enviously at the sleek blue car, conscious of its importance as a symbol of the difference in status between himself and his employer. Andrew merited only a three-year-old Ford Mondeo, like any ordinary salesman.

He picked up a document case from the passenger seat, took a deep breath and walked towards the front door. There was a closed-circuit TV camera high on the front wall, pointing down towards where he stood. Andrew kept his face turned away from its lens as he approached the steps. The sun reflecting from the white walls of the house created a protective barrier of heat and glare that he had to fight his way through.

‘Excuse me. Mr Milner?’

Andrew looked around, startled. He found a dark, intense young man staring at him from the other side of the Jaguar. He looked dirty and unkempt, and for a moment Andrew thought he must have been trying to steal Graham Vernon’s car, until he recognized him.

‘Oh. It’s Daniel, isn’t it?’

‘We met once, didn’t we?’

‘Yes. Look, I’m sorry about, you know –’

‘It’s not your fault. You work for my father, but you’re not like him, are you?’ Daniel walked round the Jaguar. He was carrying a bunch of keys with a remote control device for the door locks and alarm. ‘I was going to borrow Dad’s car, but I’ve changed my mind. I think I’d rather walk.’

Andrew watched in astonishment as Daniel tossed the keys into a stone urn standing by the front steps. They vanished into the roots of a small shrub.

‘I thought somebody around here ought to say sorry to you,’ said Daniel.

‘To me?’

The young man came closer. ‘Sorry that you got involved. You and your family. I don’t suppose my parents would ever mention it. They don’t care, you see. They don’t see the effect on anyone except themselves.’

Andrew didn’t know what to say. He clutched his document case closer, searching his reserve of social small talk for a reply. ‘You’re studying at university, aren’t you?’

Daniel laughed, then looked away, as if suddenly losing interest. ‘I’m at Exeter, doing political science. A different world.’

‘Such a dreadful thing to happen,’ said Andrew, exhausting his stock of phrases.

When the young man spoke again, it was as if he was addressing the blue Jaguar, as if he had forgotten that Andrew Milner was there.

‘They had already rung me at Exeter as soon as Laura disappeared, you know. But I just thought she’d gone off with this bloke, the boyfriend, Simeon Holmes. It was bound to happen sooner or later, I thought. I intended to come back home, but only after Mum and Dad had got over the shock of finding out their daughter was a secret nympho.’

‘I see.’

‘I should have come back straightaway. Shouldn’t I? Don’t you think so?’

‘It’s not for me to judge. Really –’

‘No, not for anybody to judge but me,’ said Daniel bitterly. ‘Sorry to have bothered you.’

He set off to walk down the drive, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans and his shoulders hunched angrily. Andrew watched him until the young man stopped a few yards away and turned back to shout in derision.

‘Don’t just stand there, go on in! I’m sure you’ll find my mother available!’

Andrew shook his head, bewildered, but went on up the steps to ring the bell. Charlotte Vernon answered the door, looking smart in a cashmere sweater and cream slacks. She stared at Andrew for a moment, then broke into astonished laughter that carried a hint of hysteria.

‘You! What on earth are you doing here?’

Andrew flushed, pulling nervously at his tie. His forehead was creased in permanent anxiety. ‘I’m sorry, Charlotte. I’ve got some papers that I need Graham to sign.’

‘Oh, really? Important papers?’

He waved a hand helplessly, hardly daring to look at her, conscious of the sweat running down inside his collar. He suddenly remembered the car keys in the urn outside, and wondered how he could mention them.

‘Lost for words?’ said Charlotte. ‘You’d better come in, I suppose. But it’ll have to be quick.’

‘I’m sorry. Are you going out?’

‘We’ve got our big moment of fame.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

She stood close to him, touching his arm, widening her eyes instinctively as she enjoyed his embarrassment.

‘Graham and I are doing a television appeal. The police seem to think it will do some good.’

‘Oh, I see.’

Andrew clutched his document case closer to him, so that it covered his groin like a protective talisman. His eyes roved round the hallway, looking towards the doors as if hoping for rescue. He tried to sidle gradually towards where he knew Graham’s office lay.

‘I’m sure Graham will be wonderful on TV, aren’t you?’

‘Oh yes. He’s very articulate.’

‘Articulate. That’s good. Yes, he talks very well, doesn’t he? Very convincing. But what do you think, Andrew?’

He found himself almost squashed against the wall, close to an antique inlaid cabinet he had always admired. His hand slid across its lid as he groped for support, leaving a sweaty palm print on its polished surface.

‘About what happened to Laura, you mean?’

‘Yes – that, Andrew.’

‘They’ve taken Lee Sherratt in for questioning, haven’t they?’

Charlotte laughed. It was a deep, throaty laugh, roughened with cigarette smoke and tinged with hysteria. Then she stopped laughing suddenly and tightened her grip on the sleeve of his jacket.

‘Is that the best you can do? Is that what you’re relying on? It won’t be enough, believe me.’

Andrew Milner felt her eyes leave his face and move away, staring over his shoulder. He turned his head and saw Graham Vernon watching from the door of his study, a sardonic smile on his face. Andrew became horribly aware of Charlotte’s body pressed close against him, her breast squeezing into his arm, her pelvis thrust against his hip.

‘Did you want to see me, Andrew?’ asked Graham. ‘Or is Charlotte looking after you?’

Once in his own home, cleaned up and seated in his chair in the front room with his pipe, Harry looked much more approachable than he had among his friends. He had a copy of that morning’s Buxton Advertiser on the table by his chair. On the front page was a colour picture of the well-dressing ceremony at Great Hucklow. This year the villagers had created a picture from flowers on the theme of the millennium – Two Thousand Years Since the Birth of Christ. According to the story, the team had worked through the night to finish the display for the opening ceremony.

‘It says here the police are assessing the result of forensic tests,’ said Harry, tapping a story at the bottom of the page. ‘And they expect to make an arrest soon. Is that right?’

‘I suppose it must be.’

‘Detective Chief Inspector Stewart Tailby, who is leading the enquiry, said: “I remain hopeful.” Is that just a lot of rubbish, or what?’

‘I want to ask you about Saturday night,’ said Cooper.

‘Oh aye? Any particular Saturday?’

‘Last Saturday night. The night we believe Laura Vernon was killed.’

‘That Saturday. Well, let’s see. It was warm.’

Cooper had read the transcript of the initial interview with Harry Dickinson, and he was determined not to let Harry divert him from his questions.

‘Tell me what you did that evening, Mr Dickinson.’

‘From when?’

‘Let’s say, six o’clock.’

‘Took the dog for a walk,’ said Harry straightaway. ‘Six o’clock regular. Jess likes her routine. We go down the path on to the Baulk. Under the cliff on Raven’s Side, that’s her favourite spot.’

‘Do you always go there?’

Harry sucked on his pipe. ‘Sometimes I vary it a bit. If I’m feeling a bit rebellious, like.’

‘But that night you walked towards Raven’s Side?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Go on then. What did you do while you were out?’

‘Do? Not much. The usual. Smoked a pipe. Let Jess off the lead for a run, and to do her business. Sat for a bit. Walked back.’

‘Who did you see while you were walking your dog?’

‘Oh, just the usual bunch of murderers,’ said Harry.

By the old man’s chair was a little mahogany cabinet, well polished and worn with age. On the upper level was a shelf with a pipe rack, a leather tobacco pouch and the other paraphernalia of a pipe smoker. Below it was the door of a small cupboard. A tin of black shoe polish, a cloth and a shoe brush stood on the floor in front of it. Cooper glanced at Harry’s gleaming shoes and looked back up to meet his eyes again.

‘It was a serious question, Mr Dickinson.’

‘Ah, but you made an assumption. You assumed that I saw someone. Are you trying to trick me, or what? Because it won’t work, I’ll tell you that.’

‘No tricks, Mr Dickinson.’

Try silence, thought Cooper. The use of silence is a powerful tool. It puts the interviewee under pressure to speak. So he waited, expecting Harry to claim that he had seen no one. But Harry puffed at his pipe, staring into the distance, shifting to a more comfortable position on his chair. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the carriage clock. Outside, a van went by. The babble of the television came from the next room, where Gwen was watching a quiz show. Cooper started getting restless. Harry looked as content and self-contained as if he were still sitting on the Baulk with his dog at his feet, gazing at the outline of the Witches, thinking perfectly calm thoughts of his own.

‘Did you see anyone?’ said Cooper at last.

‘Some hikers,’ said Harry, ‘now that you ask.’

‘Did they see you?’

‘I doubt it. They were down by the stream. Young folk, they were, larking about. The young ones don’t notice much, do they?’

‘How long were you out?’

‘Half an hour, until I came back here. Gwen had my tea ready, and I fed Jess.’

‘And later in the evening?’

‘I went out again, to the Drover. About half past seven. I met Sam and Wilford, and we had a few pints. Lots of folk there know me. Ask Kenny Lee. That’s what they call an alibi, isn’t it?’

‘Did you go straight there?’

‘Why shouldn’t I?’

‘You didn’t take a long way round – via the Baulk, for instance?’

‘Why should I do that? I’d already been once.’

‘Did you take the dog?’

‘Jess was with me. But Kenny makes you put the dogs out the back when you’re in the pub. He says they upset the tourists.’

Cooper wondered whether Harry would get round to asking him the purpose of the questions. He decided he wouldn’t.

‘We have a witness who saw someone answering your description at about seven-fifteen, in the area where Laura Vernon’s body was found.’ The description had been vague enough, so he wasn’t actually being misleading.

‘Have you now?’ said Harry. ‘That’s handy then. That’ll help you no end.’

‘But you’ve just told me that you were back here in the house at about six-thirty, Mr Dickinson. Is that right?’

‘Aye, that’s right. My tea was ready.’

‘And you said you didn’t go out again until seventhirty. So, according to you, you were here in the house at seven-fifteen. Is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘You can’t have been in both places at once.’

Harry shrugged. ‘That’s your problem, I reckon.’

‘What about Sunday?’ asked Cooper, desperate for a change in the conversation.

‘What about it?’

‘Did you go out on the Baulk with your dog that day?’

‘Nine o’clock in the morning and six o’clock at night. Regular.’

‘On the same path? To Raven’s Side?’

‘Yes.’

‘And on Monday morning the same?’

‘Nine o’clock.’

‘It’s a bit odd then, isn’t it, that you didn’t find that trainer before Monday night? When you had already made four visits to the area. One about the time Laura Vernon was killed, and three afterwards. Without seeing a thing?’

Harry tapped his pipe into the fireplace, stared at the empty grate, and looked up at Cooper. He narrowed his eyes and set his jaw. Cooper thought he was in for another uncomfortable spell of silence.

‘I was going to talk to Vernon,’ said Harry suddenly.

‘What?’ Cooper was taken by surprise, both at the information and the fact that Harry had actually volunteered it without having to have it dragged out of him with red-hot pincers.

‘On Saturday night. I thought I saw Graham Vernon while I was out with Jess. I was going to talk to him.’

‘Why was that, sir?’

‘I had something I wanted to discuss with him. Personal.’

‘What about?’

‘Personal.’

‘How well do you know Mr Vernon?’

‘I don’t. I’ve never met him.’

‘So why did you want to speak to him?’

‘I’ve said it twice. I’m not intending to say it again.’

‘I could insist, Mr Dickinson. I could ask you down to the station to help with enquiries, and we’ll conduct a formal interview and ask you to make another statement.’

‘I’m making a statement,’ said Harry. ‘It was personal. That’s a statement.’

‘But you do see that if it was anything to do with Mr Vernon’s daughter –’

‘I can tell you that. It wasn’t.’

‘To do with your own family perhaps?’

Harry smiled benevolently, as if at a clever student. ‘Happen so, lad.’

‘Where did you meet Mr Vernon?’

‘Assumptions again.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I said I wanted to talk to him. But I couldn’t find him. He’d disappeared again.’

Cooper’s mind was setting off on a different track now. He saw Harry Dickinson out wandering on the Baulk at the same time as both Laura Vernon and her father, not to mention whoever had killed Laura. And he pictured the bird-watcher, Gary Edwards, who had been in a wonderful vantage point, but had only seen one of them. And then he realized that, if Harry had met Graham Vernon while he was out, then their conversation would surely have meant that Harry would have been later back at the cottage than usual. But would it have kept him out until after seven-fifteen? Gwen would have to be lying too. But then she would, wouldn’t she, to protect Harry?

‘Next question then,’ said Harry.

Cooper decided he was getting into deep water. ‘No more questions for now, Mr Dickinson.’

‘No?’ Harry looked suddenly disappointed. He pursed his lips and cocked his head on one side. ‘That’s a poor do. I was hoping for a proper grilling. An interrogation. You know, like Cracker.’

‘Sorry?’

‘That fat bloke that used to be on the telly.’

‘Robbie Coltrane, you mean. He played a criminal psychologist.’

‘Aye. He always used to give ’em a proper grilling. Shouting and swearing at ’em and all. Threatening to thump ’em if they didn’t tell the truth.’ Harry squinted at Cooper critically. ‘Aye well. You’re not him, though. Are you, lad?’

‘No, Mr Dickinson, I’m not Cracker. I’m not Inspector Morse either.’

Cooper got up to go, shoving his notebook in his pocket. ‘Somebody will want to talk to you again, probably, Mr Dickinson.’

‘Fair enough. You’ll no doubt find me without any trouble.’

‘Thanks for your time then.’

Cooper reached the door and looked out at the village, struck by the contrast between the bright sunlight hitting the street and the cool, shady corners and heavy furniture of the room behind him. Passing through the door of Dial Cottage was like stepping out of the entrance to a deep cave. In ancestral memory, caves must have represented security. But there was always danger too. There was always the possibility that a dangerous wild beast might be lurking in that cave. Cooper turned to say goodbye to the old man and found the sharp blue eyes fixed mockingly on his face.

‘No. And you’re not even Miss Marple,’ said Harry.