The briefing that morning was relatively low-key. Detective Chief Inspector Oliver Kessen was present as crime manager for the division, though he was currently Senior Investigating Officer for a major enquiry in the Matlock area. It wasn’t uncommon for the same senior detective to be SIO for more than one case at a time, but right now Pity Wood hadn’t even been officially classed as a murder enquiry.
‘It’s too early to start combing through the missing persons reports,’ said DI Hitchens when the team had assembled. ‘Not until we have an idea of the age of the victim and the time of death. The list is too long otherwise — we need something to narrow it down. There are no records of incidents at Pity Wood Farm, or any missing persons reports anywhere in Rakedale. We have to cast the net wider. Any suggestions?’
‘We could still start with the owners of the farm. How long has the place been empty?’ asked someone.
‘Nine months. But there were no women recorded in the household. Pity Wood Farm was run by two elderly brothers, Derek and Raymond Sutton. Derek died twelve months ago, and Raymond is in residential care in Edendale, diagnosed as suffering from the early stages of Alzheimer’s. Perhaps the farm was sold to pay for his care. He wouldn’t have been able to run it now, anyway.’
‘They must have had some help with the farm work,’ said Fry. ‘The place is pretty run down, but two old men couldn’t have managed on their own, could they?’
‘Have you seen some of these hill farmers?’ said Cooper. ‘They’re a tough bunch. Some of them just keep on going until they wear out.’
‘Even so …’
‘Well, there was clearly some labour employed at Pity Wood from time to time, but there’s no indication so far that any of the help was female. The brothers must have cooked and cleaned for themselves, by the looks of it.’
Cooper remembered the state of the farmhouse, and didn’t answer for a moment. There might have been some cooking going on in that kitchen, but he was pretty sure cleaning wasn’t high on the brothers’ agenda. Maybe squalor would be called a lifestyle choice these days.
‘The trouble with that is, the more workers we trace, the more potential suspects it gives us.’
‘Is there actually evidence of a crime?’
‘Well, illegal disposal of a body, anyway. Someone dug the grave, then filled it in, didn’t they? But as for the cause of death … I can’t tell you. Also, I can’t say whether it was murder, suicide, accident or natural causes. Sorry.’
‘But what facts have we got, Paul?’ asked Kessen. ‘Apart from the presence of a body with an unknown cause of death, do we have any evidence of unlawful killing?’
This was a tough question, but the answer was crucial. If the SIO misinterpreted the scene and set up a murder investigation when it turned out to be a suicide or death from natural causes, he could find himself criticized for wasting resources. On the other hand, if he attributed death to natural causes and a subsequent postmortem contradicted him, then his decision could have serious consequences for the success of any future investigation. The SIO’s assessment had to be made under pressure, so it took judgement to get it right, to make an accurate decision based on limited information.
‘We’re reserving judgement at the moment,’ said Hitchens. ‘There’s no murder enquiry yet.’
Kessen grunted noncommittally. ‘So who’s going to look into the farming background?’
‘DC Cooper. He’s the man with his roots in the soil. All right, Ben?’
Cooper nodded automatically, not having been given any chance to think about it.
‘Meanwhile, I’m hoping the forensics teams can find me some fresh evidence. Fresher than the body, at least.’
‘Fresher than the body — that shouldn’t be difficult,’ said Murfin quietly to Cooper.
‘We’ve got house-to-house in the village today, and that means all hands to the pumps,’ said Hitchens. ‘Rakedale is a small village, so we’ll be hitting every household. And don’t miss the isolated farms. You all know what these places are like — local knowledge could be the key. Some old biddy will provide us with that vital bit of information. So let’s get to it.’
‘Before you go,’ said Kessen, raising his voice above the developing hubbub, ‘the Chief has an announcement to make. He wants to see the CID team in his office, as soon as we’re finished here.’
‘Uh-oh,’ said Murfin. ‘This sounds like bad news.’
In her official photograph, she looked stiff and humourless. She gave the impression of a woman who wouldn’t normally have worn make-up, but had felt obliged to make the effort when she posed for the photographer. Cooper thought someone ought to have given her a bit of cosmetics advice. But perhaps they’d all been too frightened of her to say anything. Instead, she’d applied lipstick and mascara with an unpractised hand, and the result was unnatural. He was beginning to feel nervous of her already.
‘And this is …?’ asked Fry.
Hitchens smiled a grim smile. ‘Our new boss.’
‘What?’
Their divisional commander, Chief Superintendent Jepson, was chairing the meeting of the CID team in his office. He gestured at Hitchens to hush him.
‘Ripley have finally made an appointment to the SMT,’ said Jepson. ‘E Division has a new detective superintendent.’
There was a moment of silence as everyone looked at the photo. The latest addition to the senior management team, another source of motivational emails.
‘DS Hazel Branagh,’ said Hitchens to break the tension. The tone of his voice was difficult to pin down, as if he’d made a particular effort to sound neutral.
‘She’s a ferociously efficient administrator,’ said Jepson. ‘And highly respected by her present team. All the people who work for her say the same thing. With Superintendent Branagh, they know exactly where they stand.’
‘Not within striking range, I imagine,’ whispered Murfin to Cooper.
Jepson frowned at the interruption, though he hadn’t heard what had been said. ‘You know, some managers aren’t able to keep their distance from the troops. They try to be too friendly with their junior officers. I know what a temptation it is to do that — you want to be all mates together, that sort of thing. Bonding, they call it these days. But it doesn’t work, you know — you just lose their respect, in the end.’
He was looking at Hitchens, and kept his gaze fixed in that direction until the DI felt obliged to respond.
‘Yes, sir. Absolutely.’
‘No matter how much you crave popularity, you’ve got to stand apart from the crowd to be a real leader. Now Hazel Branagh, on the other hand — she has tremendous respect from the officers in her team.’
Cooper looked at the photo again. Branagh’s badly applied make-up gave her the appearance of a recently deceased auntie who’d been prepared by the funeral director. In this case, the family had been so impressed that they’d propped Aunt Flo in a chair for one last photo before they buried her.
‘The word is that she won’t be with us very long anyway, sir,’ said Hitchens.
‘In tune with the canteen gossip, are we?’ asked Jepson.
‘Something like that.’ The DI didn’t bother to point out that they weren’t allowed to have a canteen any more, to discourage the formation of a canteen culture. ‘I’ve heard the possibility discussed, that’s all.’
‘Well, you’re right, Paul. Superintendent Branagh has already earned a reputation for herself all around the country. The next force that has an ACC’s job up for grabs, it’s certain somebody will come sniffing around here. You can bet on it.’
Diane Fry laid back her head and closed her eyes. Gradually, the stiffness began to ease, and the tension drained from her shoulders. For hours, she’d been staring at her computer screen, wading through figures and reports, checking online forms, reading endless emails from the SMT. It would take a while longer for the weariness to clear from her brain.
On this side of the building, they had to keep the lights on all
day in December, much to the frustration of the admin officer, who’d found it impossible to deal with the lack of daylight by writing a memo.
For Fry, the quality of the light was further hampered by the strings of glittery tinsel and concertinas of red-and-green decorations spelling out ‘Merry Christmas’ above the desks, as if no one would know what time of year it was otherwise. She was surprised that Christmas decorations were allowed under Health and Safety regulations. This was one occasion when she would have welcomed a memo. She was tempted to write one herself, but knew she’d be nicknamed ‘Scrooge’ for the rest of her career.
There was a desultory display of Christmas cards on top of the filing cabinets. Most of the cards were from other agencies, one from their local MP. Cooper had received a few personal messages from members of the public — ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done for us’, that sort of thing. Tasteless cards with teddy bears and glittery nativities, signed with little hearts. He’d put them among the general collection, but that only made it worse.
Fry sneezed suddenly.
‘Bless you,’ said Cooper. She wondered why he, like everyone else, couldn’t keep the note of surprise from his voice when he said it.
‘Damn it,’ said Fry. ‘I’d better not be getting a cold.’
‘Do you get colds much at this time of year?’
‘I never used to, when I lived somewhere civilized.’
‘Oh, really? So they lace the water with Lemsip in Birmingham, do they?’
Fry gazed out of the window. Well, not out of it exactly. She couldn’t see the outside world at all, only the blur of water running down the glass. Not that it mattered much, since all she could see on a good day was the back of the East Stand at Edendale Football Club.
She always tried to get into the office earlier than anyone else in CID, which in the winter meant when it was still dark. It gave her time to do the jobs she needed solitude for. First thing this morning, she’d been on her computer practising assessment techniques, ready for her first set of PDRs — personal development reviews for her DCs — next spring. PDRs were dealt with by the Human Resources manager, who had been known to return them with advice on improving their quality.
‘It’s this bloody weather,’ she said. ‘There’s no way of avoiding it. I’ve been soaked three times this week. Is it any wonder I’m getting a cold? I’ll probably be off with flu by Monday.’
‘It’s a weakness in the immune system, if you ask me,’ said Cooper. ‘It comes with urban life. You don’t get exposed to nature enough when you’re growing up.’
Fry found a tissue and blew her nose, which was starting to run. Hay fever in summer, and a permanent cold in winter. Welcome to the rural idyll.
There was no clear evidence yet of murder, but it could turn up at any moment. With no obvious offender, it would be a grade B enquiry, an initial maximum of sixteen officers, the DI probably doing the day-today co-ordination, with Kessen as nominal SIO. Fry knew she was second-guessing, but she liked to see if her assessments were accurate, whether she had learned the same grasp of priorities that her senior officers operated on.
Of course, there were other factors to be taken into account. Resources, obviously. A major enquiry would generate a ton of paperwork — statements, messages, telexes, personal descriptive forms, questionnaires, officers’ reports, house-to-house forms, transcripts of interviews.
She sneezed again. ‘Damn.’
‘The trouble is, the winters are too mild,’ said Cooper. ‘Bugs don’t get killed off the way they used to. It’s the same with pests on the crops. At one time, no one had to spray insecticide until the spring. Now, it’s a problem all year round.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘Global warming. I’m saying there are no frosts to kill anything off. We get a warm, wet summer and a mild, wet winter. It’s no good in the long term.’
‘I don’t believe in global warming.’
‘What?’
‘I think it’s all just a big scare, to distract us from more important things.’
‘What’s more important than the destruction of the planet?’ said Cooper.
‘You see? You’re exaggerating. People exaggerate about it all the time.’
‘Are we ready for the off, or what?’ said Murfin. ‘The fleshpots of Rakedale await, boys and girls.’
Fry stood up and brushed some silver glitter off the shoulders of her jacket.
‘Damn tinsel. I’m probably allergic to it.’
8
The mobile incident room was on site at Pity Wood. A thirty-foot trailer equipped with computers, drop-down screens and video and DVD equipment, and a ‘front office’ open to the public. It had on-board generators and floodlight masts. And, most importantly, it had heating, a fully equipped kitchen and toilet facilities. The cold rain falling steadily on the farm was enough to drive officers into the trailer on any pretext.
The initial body tent had been replaced by a larger crime scene tent to allow more space for working in. The digging team could be heard chatting among themselves sometimes, but they were more often silent and absorbed in their task, oblivious to the presence of the police waiting for them to finish their work.
As Fry and Cooper arrived, there was a burst of laughter from the excavation area, slightly brittle laughter, a release of tension.
‘Anybody want a Pyrex baking dish?’ said someone. ‘It’s still in one piece, just needs a bit of mud cleaning off. I’m giving it away. If you don’t want it, I’ll sell it on eBay.’
‘It might be evidence,’ said a police exhibits officer standing nearby with his clipboard.
The diggers groaned and went back to their task.
‘Hello, what is he doing here?’ said Fry as they reported in at the mobile incident unit.
Cooper looked around, but there were too many people to make out which of them Fry had picked out. ‘Who?’
‘Jamie Ward. The builder’s labourer.’
‘The one who found the body?’
‘That’s him. He’s over there, at the outer cordon.’
‘That’s odd.’
‘Normally, I’d say it was downright suspicious,’ said Fry. ‘Members of the public who find dead bodies shouldn’t still be hanging around the crime scene next day — especially when they live miles away, as Jamie does. It makes you look guilty.’
‘But Jamie can’t be a suspect. Maybe he’s come back with some more information.’
‘We’ll see.’
Fry strode over to the cordon. Jamie looked more relieved than startled when he saw her.
‘I didn’t recognize anyone else. I’ve been waiting to speak to you,’ he said.
‘Go ahead, then, Jamie. I’m here now.’
‘I want to show you something.’
Jamie led her to the back of the farmhouse, skirting the police tape that had been strung from gatepost to gatepost and unrolled across the top of a wall. Fry could only see the large yellow skip, a lot of digging, and a cement mixer and wheelbarrows left by the builders. She made a mental note to chase up that search of the skip. God alone knew what evidence could have been dumped in there.
‘See this area here?’ said Jamie. ‘Some of the crew have been getting ready to connect the new drains up.’
‘Yes, I see.’
‘But next to it there’s a disturbed patch of ground. It’s obvious when ground has been disturbed. The subsoil ends up on top, and it looks different. It’s one thing I’ve learned.’
‘So what do you think happened here?’ asked Fry.
Jamie frowned uncertainly. ‘I don’t really know. I think there must have been a change in the plans some time — there was a trench here, but it’s been filled in.’
‘When would this trench have been dug?’
‘One day last week, I suppose. I didn’t see it being filled in again. I reckon Nikolai must have got somebody else to do it while I was busy round the front.’
‘Well, thanks, Jamie. I’ll ma
ke sure it’s noted. Our diggers are a bit busy right now, but we’ll be at the scene for a good while yet.’
* * *
With Cooper at the wheel, they drove towards Rakedale on a dark, jungle-green road bordered by stone walls, muddy cattle and a rushing stream. When they reached the hill into the village, Cooper found water running towards him down the road, streaming into two rivulets under his wheels.
‘Oh, great,’ said Fry when she saw the water. ‘It’s like the village is pissing on us already.’
The road was very narrow, barely wide enough for one vehicle, and the stone walls left no room for error. It wasn’t used much, though — grass was growing down the road in the middle of the tarmac. There was better visibility on these roads in the winter than the summer, because the trees were so bare. But the surfaces were always slippery, especially if you had to pull over on to the verge to let another vehicle pass.
Cooper was taking care to look for any possible passing places as he went. Most of the wider verges and gateways that might have been usable in the summer were too muddy for the average car, which would be certain to get bogged down or slide off into the ditch. It was lucky he had four-wheel drive. Even luckier that Diane Fry had agreed to take his car. Her Peugeot would hardly have made it up the hill.
‘Why are you driving so fast on a road like this?’ asked Fry.
‘There are no passing places. We don’t want to meet anyone coming the other way on these straight stretches, or someone would have to reverse a long way.’
Fry sighed. ‘I suppose that makes sense, of a kind.’
The place everyone referred to as a village was no more than a T-junction where the side road from Pity Wood met the B5012. There were farms either side of the road, the entrance to an old quarry, fenced off and blocked with limestone boulders. On the southwest corner of the junction, a stile provided access to a footpath that snaked off across the fields between the dry-stone walls, probably heading towards High Peak Trail, the old railway line to Buxton. The grass verge had been flattened and worn away here — the signs of an unofficial lay-by made by hikers leaving their cars. They’d be less willing to do that in December, the rutted mud making verges treacherous for parking on.
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