‘Stride’s right,’ said Cal. ‘The moor was here long before us. The Fiddler will still be playing long after we’ve gone.’
‘The who?’
‘The Fiddler. Don’t you know the story?’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Have you seen the stones?’ said Stride. ‘Don’t you know what they are? Nine virgins, turned to stone for dancing on a Sunday. Punished for their sin. They desecrated the Sabbath with their dancing. But that single stone, outside the circle … They say that’s the Fiddler, who played the tune for the dancers. He was turned to stone, too. But he wasn’t dancing. Do you think the Fiddler got justice?’
‘What nonsense.’
‘Is it? Don’t underestimate the power of nature. The spirits don’t forget.’
Fry was concentrating on the manner of the two travellers as much as on their words. She already knew she was never going to be able to ask the right questions, no matter how long she stayed here. There was something rehearsed about their performance that only reinforced her scepticism.
‘But what do you believe in?’ she said, voicing the real question that was on her mind.
‘Stride talks to the Fiddler at nights, sometimes,’ said Cal. ‘He tells him about things like that. The Fiddler knows the truth.’
‘The truth? And what truth is it you’re looking for?’
Stride only smiled. The smile became wider, and turned into a laugh that filled the van. He leaned forward, and laid a hand on Fry’s knee. She flinched, but was unable to pull back from his touch in the confined space. Stride’s hand lay still and steady, as if he were trying to calm her thoughts, to transfer some of his own contentment by direct contact.
‘How can you know the truth until you find it?’ he said.
For a moment he stared directly into her eyes, as if seeking a shred of understanding, willing her to share a bit of enlightenment. But she kept her face expressionless, resisting. Even Stride finally realized the futility, repulsed by the rigidity of her muscles beneath his hand.
Then Cal stepped in. ‘Stride believes there may be a vengeful spirit of the moors, driving intruders away.’
‘And what the hell does that mean?’ said Fry angrily.
Cal didn’t even seem to have heard. He looked at Stride, who was still staring at Fry and seemed to be attempting to drive his thoughts into her head by willpower.
‘Well, if you find this vengeful spirit has a physical body and a face, let us know,’ she said.
Stride looked unperturbed. ‘It’s the Fiddler himself,’ he said. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? It’s the Fiddler who makes the women dance.’
Ben Cooper turned right at the Fina petrol station and dropped the Toyota down a gear to go up the steep street. He wasn’t familiar with this estate on the southern edge of Edendale. It was a fairly recent one, with cheap housing built to provide somewhere that local people could afford to live without having to move out of town. The houses were small stone semis, with narrow alleyways and car ports.
The homes on Calver Crescent looked like all the others, and the only thing that distinguished number 17 was a slightly neglected air. The paintwork on the front door was starting to peel, and part of the car port’s Perspex roof had come loose and split, leaving a gap plugged by a sheet of polythene that flapped and rattled in the rain.
Mark Roper was waiting outside, under the light of a bare bulb. He ran down the short drive and climbed into Cooper’s car. He was wearing jeans and a denim jacket, and Cooper hardly recognized him.
‘Can we go somewhere?’ asked Mark.
‘Sure. Anywhere in particular? A pub?’
‘No, somewhere quiet, where we can talk. I’ll show you where.’
‘OK.’
Mark told him to drive westwards out of Edendale until they left the street lamps behind and there was only the reflection of the Toyota’s headlights from the Catseyes in the road and from the rain that drifted across the bonnet. Two miles out of town they turned and headed uphill until they were rising through the dark, dripping fringes of Eden Forest. They saw few cars on the road and passed even fewer houses – just the occasional farmstead wrapped in its own little bowl of protective light.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Cooper.
‘Not far now.’
After a few more minutes, Mark directed him off the road. Cooper found they were in a gravel car park with litter bins and a map in a glass case pointing out the major features of the view that must lie somewhere out there in the darkness. He turned the Toyota round so that it was pointing back towards the road.
‘Well?’
Mark hesitated. Cooper knew better than to try to push him. It was better to let him take his time, now that they had come all this way. Gradually, his eyes started adjusting to the darkness. There were faint strings of light floating in mid-air in front of him, marking a hamlet or a village on a hillside across the valley. Then the hills themselves began to come into focus, black humps against the sky. Directly ahead, he had the sensation of a steep drop into a vast hole in the darkness.
Eventually, Mark felt the moment was right.
‘You know I told you this morning about something going on at Ringham Edge Farm.’
‘The big shed,’ said Cooper. ‘Vehicles arriving at night.’
‘That’s right.’
‘We haven’t had a chance to look into it, Mark. We’ve all had a lot of other things on our minds. You’ll just have to wait. Give us time.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘It will probably turn out to be nothing, anyway.’
Mark chewed his lip. The rain was beginning to obscure the Toyota’s windscreen. Cooper turned on the wipers to clear it, so that they could see the car park. There were no other vehicles, not even passing on the road. He almost turned the ignition on to drive back to Edendale, disappointed in what Mark had brought him out here to say. But something held him back.
‘There’s more to it than that,’ said Mark. ‘Things I haven’t told you.’
Suddenly, Cooper felt that old surge of excitement rising through his chest, leaving him short of breath. ‘Mark? What are you talking about?’
‘Dogs,’ said Mark.
‘What?’
‘I think it might be dog-fighting.’
‘You’re joking. Does that still go on?’
‘Oh, dog-fights take place every week, somewhere. And it’s on the increase. The RSPCA have made a few prosecutions, and a few fights are broken up now and again. The thing that’s most difficult for these people to find is a safe venue. There’s money in dog-fighting – a lot of cash changes hands in bets on the dogs. Just by renting his shed and keeping his mouth shut, Leach could have been doing quite well out of it, whether he joined in or not. The winning dogs are worth something, too. But the losers – sometimes the losers just die from their injuries.’
‘How do you know about this sort of thing, Mark?’
‘There’s a Rangers’ liaison group with the RSPCA. They showed us a video once that had been seized by their Special Operations Unit. It was sickening. These people film the fights so that they can show off the success of their dogs to buyers, you see. This one had been filmed in the attic of a house somewhere, with armchairs and an awful blue carpet and a colour TV in the corner. They normally use pit bull terriers. Those things are bred for fighting, and nothing else.’
‘It’s illegal to breed pit bulls,’ said Cooper. ‘Since the Dangerous Dogs Act, they all have to be neutered. The breed should be dying out by now.’
‘Oh, sure. And is cancer dying out, too? How much time have your people got to go round the Devonshire Estate checking whether anybody’s breeding pit bulls in the kitchen or out the back in the garden shed?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘And the police in Sheffield and Manchester have even less time, I suppose.’
‘So you think they’re using Ringham Edge for dog-fights? Are these local people involved?’
<
br /> ‘They come from all over the place. A lot from the Manchester area, I think. If Warren Leach has a dog-fighting pit in there, he’ll be mixing with some pretty unpleasant people. And they won’t take kindly to anyone sticking their nose into what’s going on.’
A Peak Park Ranger’s Land Rover pulled into the car park for a few minutes. Mark looked at the driver, but didn’t seem to recognize him. The thin red stripe on the silver side of the vehicle could have been a streak of drying blood, caught in Cooper’s headlights.
‘It was the captive bolt pistol that made me think I was right,’ said Mark.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The point is, those dogs will fight and fight until they’re half-dead. You can’t take them to a vet, because – like you say – they’re illegal. And you don’t put an animal like that out of its misery by wringing its neck. You need to have somebody there with a gun, or preferably a captive bolt pistol, if you can get hold of one. They’re a lot safer than having a free bullet flying around inside a shed somewhere. Dangerous, that is.’
‘I can see that.’
‘Very dangerous,’ said Mark. ‘That way, somebody could get themselves killed.’
The Land Rover drove off again. Maybe the Ranger had just stopped to use his radio or to have a drink of tea from his flask. Maybe he was checking on the Toyota. Everybody was suspect these days. Cooper watched the vehicle’s lights heading further west, following the tight bends until they disappeared into a dark band of conifers. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a sudden flicker of movement, and saw a stoat run across in front of his bonnet into a clump of gorse.
‘I know this spot,’ he said. ‘It’s the place they call Suicide Corner.’
‘That’s right. It’s where all the suicides come.’ Mark pointed up the valley towards Castleton and Mam Tor. ‘Owen says the view sometimes makes them change their minds.’
The unstable slopes of Mam Tor looked like a melted chocolate cake in the darkness. Erosion of the soft shale underneath its gritstone bands meant that its sides were in continual movement, long cascades of stone sliding and slithering into the valley, where the landslips had closed the A625 many years before. Now cars struggled over Winnats Pass to where the River Eden and the River Hope sprang up on the bleak moorlands of the Dark Peak. The locals called Mam Tor the ‘Shivering Mountain’. Its vast, soft outline dominated the head of the valley. And on the very summit, the defensive ramparts of a Bronze Age hillfort could clearly be seen against the sky, even from this distance.
‘I don’t want to see Owen here,’ said Mark. ‘He might not change his mind.’
‘Mark …?’
‘I think Owen’s involved. He must be.’
‘But why?’
‘He’s worked in that area a long time. He must have noticed what I noticed. But he’s never said anything to me about it. He always talks about Warren Leach as if they hate each other, but I’m not sure about that.’
‘There seemed to be no love lost between them when I was there,’ said Cooper.
‘I know. But I’m almost certain that Owen goes down to the farm on his own sometimes, when he should be somewhere else. I think that might have been where he was when I found the woman on Ringham Moor. It was the TIP that made contact with him in the end, you know. I couldn’t get through to him. I think he was away from his radio.’
‘I can’t see it. Not Owen.’
Mark looked at him. ‘I knew you wouldn’t believe me. You want to defend him, like everyone else. You think Owen’s a good bloke. They all say that – Owen Fox is a good bloke. Well, he is. But I think he’s got mixed up in something he shouldn’t have done, and now he’s frightened and he can’t see any way out. I don’t like the way he’s been talking these last few days. He is a good bloke. And he’s done a lot for me. I want to save him.’
‘And how exactly are you going to do that?’ asked Cooper.
The young Ranger wound the window down a few inches, just enough to let the cool wind in and blow away the fug they had built up in the car.
‘I want you to arrest him,’ said Mark, ‘before he ends up here. I want you to keep Owen away from Suicide Corner.’
Diane Fry jumped up from the cushion, banging her head on the metal roof as a burst of flame lit up the quarry. A small explosion rocked the van and the blast echoed backwards and forwards off the rock walls.
‘What the hell was that?’
She pulled the sheet aside to look through the cab. Black smoke poured into the sky, and the air was filled with an acrid smell and the sound of sizzling, like a huge barbecue. The blaze was clearly petrol-assisted, and it flared dramatically for a few moments before dying to a hiss.
In the light from the flames, she saw something begin to creep over the quarry edge. Whatever it was, it slid in a slow liquid movement. Fry turned on her torch and shone it through the windscreen. She saw a series of small rivulets running free, breaking apart, then slowing and congealing, until they had stopped, frozen on the rock. More rivulets followed, their bright colours twisting and mingling until the quarry face looked like psychedelic curtains picked out by the light of her torch. She remembered the phallus farm that Cal and Stride had created on the cliff edge, and she realized that she was seeing the multi-coloured wax melting in the flames.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’
There was a thump on the back of the van, and the vehicle jerked as if it had been hit by a heavy object.
‘Oh Jesus,’ said Cal.
Stride folded his head into his arms and began to mutter unintelligibly, repeating a phrase over and over again.
Fry peered cautiously out through the windows of the cab, but could see nothing in the surrounding darkness. She went to the door and pulled it open a few inches. A cold gust of rain blew in. All she could see through the blackness was the faint glow of the interior light in the patrol car, where PC Taylor was reading about skimmers and wagglers, or more likely had fallen fast asleep and was only now wondering what on earth had woken him up.
In a narrow path between the van and the car, Fry could see the rain hurtling past. The ground was glistening alarmingly as the sand began to turn to mud.
Then she saw vague shapes moving in the darkness.
‘Taylor!’ she called. But she got no response.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Cal from behind her.
‘Stay in the van. Shut the door. Lock it.’
‘It won’t lock.’
‘For God’s sake.’ She struggled desperately with the door as she felt it slip off its bottom runner and jam two feet short of the frame. ‘Try to get it shut. Stay inside.’
‘But –’
Fry stepped outside and was immediately drenched by the rain. She slid on the ground as she set off towards the patrol car.
‘Taylor!’
The noise of the downpour in the quarry drowned her voice. She tried to set off at a run, but her feet slipped and slithered. She turned to look back at the van, and saw figures surrounding it. They were dark, shapeless forms – human, but only just. The van began to sway. Glass smashed as a window was shattered.
At last a beacon flashed as PC Taylor woke up to what was going on and revved the engine of his car at the incline. Near the top, his wheels began to spin in the mud, and the bonnet slid sideways towards the drop, its headlights swaying drunkenly across the quarry.
Then Fry found herself suddenly in the midst of a crowd. They gathered close around her, silent but for the sound of their breath and the damp rustling of their clothes. All she could see were their eyes.
‘I’m a police officer. Stand clear.’
She was grabbed from behind and dragged further from the van. She felt a weight on her back, and arms clutched round her chest. She was aware of the other figures all around her, none of them speaking. Fry struck backwards with her right hand to grasp her assailant’s testicles, and missed. Twisting, she found herself facing him, though barely a glint of the white of an eye wa
s visible through the holes in the mask he wore. She hesitated as she felt a frisson of familiarity.
And that hesitation was her mistake. Pain shot through her leg as a blow landed on her right knee. Her leg gave way and she slid to the ground, still hanging on to the man’s coat. Then she saw something swinging towards her again from the side, a shape like a baseball bat. She put her hand out to ward it off as she threw herself to one side, gasping from the agony in her leg.
Fry rolled over in the mud, glimpsing feet around her and covering her head in anticipation of boots coming in. She fetched up hard against a rock and pushed herself into a crouch ready to jump up, but realized that her leg was not going to support her. Only one dark figure still stood in front of her, watching her for a moment, before it turned and ran off to join the others around the van.
Now the noises came to her through the night. She could hear the van being trashed. She could hear other sounds, too. Shouts and curses, and thumps.
Taylor had switched on the siren in his stranded patrol car. But the noise didn’t help at all when the scream came. It was so high-pitched that it ought to have been female. But Fry knew that it wasn’t.
27
‘There has to be something in the damn computer, Stewart,’ said Chief Superintendent Jepson. ‘That’s what it’s there for, to come up with the right answers. You’ve got a multi-million pound guaranteed Mastermind winner. All you need is Bamber Gascoigne to ask it the right questions.’
Normally, Jepson loved to be kept up to date on the progress of a major enquiry. It made him feel involved, instead of just a man sitting in an office with a lot of brass on his uniform. And sometimes Tailby found that talking a case through with him could put it in a different light. But not this morning. This Sunday morning there was no light to be found of any kind, not even from a phallus-shaped candle. The reports of the incident in the quarry the night before made painful and depressing reading. Three people had been injured, one of them a police officer. And the perpetrators had come and gone like a flurry of dead leaves in the wind, vanishing back on to the moor before PC Taylor could dig himself out of the mud.
Dancing With the Virgins Page 29
