Читать книгу The Dead Place - Stephen Booth - Страница 10
ОглавлениеTwenty minutes later, Cooper’s car was climbing out of Ashford in the Water. The River Wye took a sharp turn here as it came down from the north, so an observer standing at Monsal Head seemed to be looking up two separate valleys. A small road dropped down from a Bavarian-style hotel and an adjoining café before running north into the woods of Upperdale and Cressbrook Dale. To the south there was no road, only a footpath that clung to the slope for a while before slithering down to the river and crossing a bridge to the opposite bank.
A few walkers were on the five-arched viaduct that spanned the valley. The Wye narrowed as it ran underneath, and less adventurous visitors could be seen sitting on the banks of smooth grass enjoying an hour of September sunshine. But the walk down to the river was steep, and many people stayed to have lunch at the café or eat an ice cream while they enjoyed the view.
Fry shaded her eyes against the sun in the south-west. ‘What’s that place on the side of the hill up there? It looks like the ruins of a house.’
‘Hob Hurst’s House,’ said Cooper. ‘It isn’t really a house.’
‘And I suppose there was never really anyone called Hob Hurst?’
‘Well, no.’
‘How did I guess?’
‘It’s the name of a character in local folk stories. A goblin or a giant, I’m not sure which. What you can see there is actually the result of a landslip, but it does look like a ruined house from a distance, if you have a bit of imagination.’
‘Whoever built that hotel certainly had a bit of imagination,’ said Fry. ‘Some romantic Victorian, I suppose, fresh from a trip to the Alps.’
‘Probably. You know, when this viaduct was built for the railway line, there was a campaign against it. Everyone said it would ruin the view, just for the sake of getting from Bakewell to Buxton more quickly. Now it’s one of the most popular sights in the area.’
They almost passed the Infidels’ Cemetery without seeing it, although it was right by the roadside. Cooper had driven a few yards beyond it before he braked suddenly and reversed. Part of the wall that had once protected the graveyard had been knocked down. A wire fence was all that barred the gap, though the deep beds of stinging nettles behind it looked pretty hostile.
It was much quieter here than at Monsal Head. Across the valley they heard a shepherd calling to his dog, his voice a high, harsh cry like a moorland bird. Somebody was shooting on the opposite hill. As always in the countryside, the sound of gunfire didn’t seem out of place, let alone worth commenting on.
‘Well, nobody has been in this cemetery for months,’ said Fry. ‘Even I can tell that.’
‘They didn’t venture beyond the first couple of yards, anyway.’
Most of the ancient gravestones had fallen flat and were smothered with tangled goose grass and brambles. The stones that had stayed upright were coated in yellow lichen and shrouded in ivy that masked their familiar graveyard shapes. The only exceptions were the two stones nearest the road. Someone had cleared the ivy from them, revealing their inscriptions.
With difficulty, Cooper read the name and dates on one of the stones.
‘I don’t think this person was much appreciated in his day,’ he said. ‘“Though man’s envy may thy worth disdain, Still conscious uprightness shall fill thy breast.” I might suggest that one to Gavin for his epitaph.’
‘Why? Is he feeling under-appreciated?’
‘I think so.’ Cooper moved a few yards to the side. ‘Diane, look at this one.’
Only a small patch had been cleared in the ivy covering the second stone. It had been done quite recently, too. The broken stems were still shredded and oozing a little sap when Cooper touched them.
‘That’s a bit odd,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘Well, I was assuming that whoever cleared the ivy from these stones was an amateur historian, trying to confirm the names of people buried here. Or maybe a relative who wanted an ancestor to be remembered, not just lost in the undergrowth.’
‘Seems reasonable,’ said Fry.
‘But look at this – the name and dates haven’t been exposed, just the inscription after them. It’s only a short one, too. Caro data vermibus. What does that mean?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘You’re the educated one.’
‘Ben, I took a degree in Criminal Justice and Policing at the University of Central England. It didn’t make me fluent in Latin.’
Cooper walked backwards and forwards in front of the stones, but beyond the first few feet of ground from the road the blanket of nettles and brambles was dense and unbroken. He watched a butterfly flit among the nettles.
Impatiently, Fry walked back to the entrance and looked up the road. ‘How near is this to Wardlow, did you say?’
‘Only a couple of miles.’
In the language of Derbyshire place names, ‘low’ always meant ‘high’. So this particular village must have been named after the lookout hill, Wardlow Cop, whose flattened conical shape appeared on their left as they began the descent from Monsal Head.
Wardlow itself was just as DI Hitchens had described it – a series of farms and houses scattered along one road. It was bordered on both sides by long, narrow strips of pasture land, preserved in their medieval patterns by drystone walls, networks of them strung across the fields and climbing the hills. Some parts of the White Peak plateau were said to have twenty-four miles of wall for every square mile of farmland. Instead of regular field patterns, the eye was likely to see a confusing geometry of stone, long courses of wall exaggerating every contour in the landscape.
Some of the farms at Wardlow had been converted into homes, but others were still working. A tractor turned out of a yard as they reached the start of the village, where two Union Jacks were flying. Cooper noticed that the village pub was closed during the day, like so many in places without much tourist trade. The Church of the Good Shepherd was just beyond a cattery operating from a cluster of surplus farm buildings. It was a small stone church with a slate roof and leaded windows, but no tower. Anything bigger would have been out of place.
They finally found space wide enough to park alongside someone’s hedge without blocking the road completely, and they crossed to the church. Through double gates they walked into a grassed area, where a pair of stocks stood near the rear wall. Cooper didn’t think they were medieval – more likely erected for a village fête some time in the last few decades. A chance to throw wet sponges at the vicar, rather than rotten eggs at a convicted felon. Ritual humiliation, all the same.
Behind the church was the graveyard itself, small and under-used. There’d be no need to close this one to burials for a few years yet.
‘Melvyn Hudson said there were very few funerals in Wardlow,’ said Fry.
‘He’s from the funeral directors, Hudson and Slack?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, I’m sure Mr Hudson is right. A lot of these graves date back to Victorian times.’
Several large sycamores and beeches darkened the top end of the graveyard, and nothing grew underneath the trees. Even their own seedlings had sprouted and died in the barren ground. Dead branches, beech nuts and small stones crunched under their feet as they walked among the gravestones. Swallows swooped around them, diving almost to the ground in pursuit of the small flies that hung in clouds over the graves. The Victorian graves were surrounded by low iron railings, rusted and falling apart in the damp air.
‘Here’s the deceased councillor,’ said Cooper. ‘Mrs Sellars, right? It’s by far the newest burial here.’
‘OK. Now, where’s the phone box?’
‘The other side of the church.’
A small parish room was attached to the church, a kitchen visible through a window piled with jars, cutlery and old newspapers. As they walked past it towards the phone box, Cooper saw a movement inside a house directly across the road. It was no more than a shape against the light, but he knew they were being watched.
‘Has anyone spoken to the neighbours?’ he asked.
‘All those who had a view of the church or the phone box,’ said Fry. ‘Uniforms did it yesterday.’
‘The residents directly opposite have a good view.’
‘Unfortunately, they were attending the councillor’s funeral themselves.’
‘Pity.’
‘As you can see, there aren’t many others to talk to.’
Cooper looked at the red phone box itself, twenty yards away from where he was standing. It was more than a pity, wasn’t it? It was a big stroke of luck for the individual who’d made the phone call. There was no way he could have known that the occupiers of that property opposite weren’t watching every movement he made.
Although he hadn’t heard the tapes himself yet, Cooper was starting to have a sneaking doubt about the caller’s intentions. On the surface, he appeared to have taken care to conceal his identity, as might be expected. But some of this individual’s actions looked almost reckless – as if he wanted to be identified. Maybe the whole thing was no more than a cry for help. But there was no point in suggesting the idea to Fry.
Behind the churchyard, Cooper could see a sprawl of farm buildings and trailers, and a wandering pattern of drystone walls. A cockerel crowed somewhere nearby, though it was already afternoon. The phone box stood close to a footpath sign, its fingerpost so weathered that the lettering had worn away completely, and now it seemed to indicate a path that led nowhere.
Then the sun came out, and the limestone walls formed themselves into a bright tracery running across the landscape. Cooper wondered what he might find if he followed those white pathways. The instinct to pursue the light rather than return to the gloomy churchyard was almost irresistible.
Half a mile north, at the junction with the A623, there was a smaller collection of houses called Wardlow Mires. A petrol station and another pub called the Three Stags’ Heads sat among farms and some derelict buildings covered in honeysuckle.
The A623 took traffic through sheep pastures and across the plateau towards Manchester. Almost as soon as Cooper turned on to it, he sensed the landscape opening out on his left. In a gap between the hills stood a strange, isolated outcrop of limestone. Its distinctive shape looked almost artificial – straight, pillared walls of white rock split by crevices and fissures, and a rounded cap grassed over like a green skullcap. The slopes of short, sheep-nibbled grass around it seemed to be gradually encroaching on the limestone, as if reaching up to pull it back into the ground.
The rock looked familiar. Searching his memory, Cooper thought it might be called Peter’s Stone. He had no idea what the name meant, but guessed it was probably some biblical reference to St Peter, the reasons for it lost in the passage of time and the mists of folklore.
‘Can I listen to the tapes some time, Diane?’ he said.
‘Don’t imagine you’ll recognize the voice. It’s electronically disguised.’
‘I might have some ideas, though.’
‘Yes, OK. Remind me when we get back.’
‘Thanks.’
Fry tapped a finger on the map. ‘Ben, we should be going the other way. Eyam.’
Cooper pulled over and reversed into the Litton turning. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘my unidentified remains were found at Litton Foot, in Ravensdale.’
‘Yes? What about them?’
‘Litton Foot is less than three miles from Wardlow across country. It falls within your circle.’
Fry looked at the map. ‘But your body is eighteen months old, Ben.’
‘I know.’ Cooper shrugged. ‘I just thought I’d mention it.’
‘Tell me about Eyam.’
‘For a start, it’s pronounced “Eem”. The village was infected by the plague from some infected cloth, but the villagers quarantined themselves so they wouldn’t spread it to the rest of Derbyshire.’
‘When was this?’
‘Seventeenth century.’
‘OK.’
‘Well, three hundred and fifty people died in Eyam. The names of the victims are recorded on some of the cottages. Plague victims couldn’t be buried in the churchyard, so their graves are in the fields around the village. Whole families together sometimes.’
‘Are these places well known?’
‘Well known? They’re a tourist attraction.’
Back at West Street, Diane Fry disappeared for a meeting with the DI before the evening briefing, and Cooper didn’t get a chance to remind her of her promise. So instead of listening to the tapes, he took the opportunity to spread out the photos of the human remains found in Ravensdale.
The quality of crime scene photography had improved tremendously since the photographic department spent money on replacing its printing equipment. Colours had started to bear some relationship to reality, instead of looking like snaps taken by a passing tourist with a Polaroid. Now you could see that the stuff on the floor near a body was actually blood, not the corner of a donkey-brown rug.
Outdoors, they sometimes managed to get quite interesting lighting effects. In one of the Ravensdale photographs, Cooper could make out the dappling effect of sunlight through the canopy of trees. The sun had swung round to the south by the time the shots were taken, so it must have been around the middle of the day. The photographer would have been wondering when he’d get a chance for his lunch.
There was also a sketch plan done by one of the SOCOs, complete with arrows indicating the points of the compass. It confirmed what Cooper had noticed at the site: the feet of the victim had been pointing to the east and the head to the west.
He had a feeling there was some significance in that alignment. It was one of those half-remembered things, a vague superstition in the back of his mind. He couldn’t have said who had put the idea in his head, or when. Maybe it was only something he’d overheard as a child, a whispered conversation among elderly relatives at a funeral, a bit of local folklore.
East to west. Yes, there was some significance, he was sure. But the alignment of the body was just as likely to be a coincidence, wasn’t it?
From the fragments collected at the scene, the dead woman seemed to have been wearing a rather plain, light blue dress, underwear, tights and blue strappy shoes with one-inch heels. No coat, nothing worn outside the dress. It was unlikely that she’d walked down to the stream at Litton Foot herself, but not impossible.
The skeleton had been incomplete when it was found, with several small bones missing. And there was no jewellery that might have been used for identification. No engraved bracelets, no wedding ring. This woman had been someone’s daughter and mother. But had she been someone’s wife, too?
Cooper knew he might never be able to get a lead on how the woman had died. Not from the remains, at least. Forensics could perform wonders, but not miracles.
And there was the question of what had happened to Jane Raven Lee’s body after her death. The possibilities were bothering him. The dead woman hadn’t been buried, she’d been laid out and exposed to the elements. The whole thing had too much ritual about it. Cooper wished there was someone on hand who could tell him whether he was discerning a significant fact, or just imagining things again.
The evening briefing didn’t last long. There wasn’t much to report, after all. A forensic examination of the scene had found no signs of a struggle near Sandra Birley’s car, which suggested her abductor had given her no chance to make a run for it, and had probably used a weapon to subdue her quickly. The Skoda had still been locked, and there was no sign of the keys.
The concrete floor of a multi-storey car park was hell for a fingertip search. Who could say whether an item found on the oil-stained surface had been dropped by Sandra Birley, her attacker, or one of a thousand other people who had used Level 8 in the past few weeks? Scores of fibres had been recovered from the retaining wall and the ramp barrier. Partial footwear impressions were numberless. And the SOCOs had collected enough small change to pay their coffee fund for a week.
‘One question I’d like answered,’ said DCI Kessen, ‘is whether our man knew which CCTV cameras were dummies, and which weren’t. And if so, how? There’s no way of telling just by looking at them, is there?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said DI Hitchens. ‘Maybe he’d worked there himself, or he knows somebody who does. Anyway, DC Cooper is already on to the employees angle.’
‘What do we make of the husband? What are the odds we’ll find a green Audi on the CCTV footage?’
Hitchens shrugged. ‘He seemed genuine enough to me. He says he was at home when his wife phoned him. We should be able to confirm that from phone records.’
‘So not much to go on at this stage.’
‘We do have two confirmed sightings of Sandra Birley prior to her abduction,’ said Hitchens. ‘She was seen leaving her office and walking down Fargate in the direction of the multi-storey car park between seven fifteen and seven thirty. Even allowing for a margin of error on the part of the witnesses, she ought to have reached her vehicle by around seven forty.’
‘Hold on,’ said Fry. ‘When was the last sighting of her exactly?’
Hitchens consulted his notes. ‘No later than seven thirty. A shopkeeper in Fargate saw her passing his shop.’
‘He was in his shop at seven thirty? What sort of shop is this? I thought everything in Edendale closed by six at the latest.’
‘It’s a shoe shop. And yes, it was closed. As luck would have it, the proprietor was in the store room stock-taking – he’s closing down and selling up soon, so he’s doing a full stock check. But he could see through the shop on to the street. He said he’d seen Sandra Birley many times, and he knew she worked at Peak Mutual, though he didn’t know her name. We showed him the photos, and he’s positive about the ID.’
‘OK.’
Fry picked up the transcripts of the two phone calls. The fax sheets had been sitting on her desk only since this morning, but already they were getting smudged and creased at the corners. It was a plain paper fax, and they were supposed to be a lot better than the old thermal rolls. Maybe it was something to do with her hands. Too much heat.
She checked the information at the top of the first page, though she knew both messages almost by heart. Soon there will be a killing … All you have to do is find the dead place.
‘This second call was received by the control room at Ripley shortly after three thirty yesterday afternoon,’ she said.
‘What of it, DS Fry?’
‘He appears to be warning us of his intentions. “Soon there will be a killing.” That’s what he says.’
‘Yes.’
Fry dropped the sheets. ‘If Sandra Birley was the victim he was talking about in his phone calls, it means he had four hours to drive into the town centre and either set up an abduction he’d already planned in advance – or choose a victim.’
‘Still, it’s possible.’
‘What we don’t want to face is the possibility that Sandra Birley isn’t the victim he was warning us about. That his killing is yet to take place.’
‘We’ll probably get another call from him, Diane. He’s obviously an attention seeker, so he’ll want us to know this is him. No doubt he’ll think he’s being very clever.’
‘What did the psychologist say?’ asked Kessen.
‘She told us to listen to the phone calls,’ said Fry.
Hitchens scowled. ‘Actually, that wasn’t quite all Dr Kane said. She gave us some useful ideas about what the caller is trying to tell us.’
‘Are we expecting miracles from her?’ asked Fry.
Kessen looked at her for the first time that day. And Fry knew that he’d seen everything, heard everything, and taken it all in. She found herself fooled by his manner every time.
‘We can always hope, DS Fry,’ he said.
Then the DCI turned back to Hitchens.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘let me make one thing clear. Nothing goes from us to the media about these phone calls. Not a word. Otherwise we’ll have every lunatic in the country calling in. And one lunatic at a time is quite enough.’
A few minutes later, Cooper knocked on the door of the DI’s office to explain his problem. With the briefing over, Hitchens was already getting ready to go home. Cooper caught the chink of bottles, and saw that the DI was checking the contents of a carrier bag. From the frown on his face, he was wondering whether he’d bought the right wine for dinner tonight.
‘I could use some advice on the Ravensdale human remains case, sir,’ said Cooper. ‘If I might be allowed to consult –’
The DI held up a hand. ‘If you’re going to mention anybody who charges for their services, Ben, the answer is “no”. We’ve already met the cost of a facial reconstruction on your case. Forensic artists don’t come cheap, you know. Unless you can come up with enough evidence to turn the case into a murder enquiry, you’re on your own.’
‘But, sir, there could be unusual areas of significance – subjects I don’t know anything about.’
‘I’m sure everyone understands that, Ben. But you’ll have to cope for a while. We have other priorities at the moment.’
‘Well, mightn’t there be …?’
But the DI shook his head. He tucked the bag under his arm and rattled his car keys impatiently.
Cooper went back to his desk. He separated one of the photographs of the facial reconstruction from its stack and clipped it on to the copy holder attached to his PC screen. The room was emptying, and no one paid any attention to him, or noticed that Ben Cooper was talking to himself again. It was just one sentence anyway, spoken resignedly to the photograph next to his screen.
‘It’s just you and me then, Jane,’ he said.
The face of Jane Raven Lee gazed back at him silently – the muddy brown flesh, the random streaks against her skull, the blank eyes awaiting an identity.
