Dying to Sin bcadf-8

by Stephen Booth

  Palfreyman shrugged. ‘That’s the way it is. That’s the way I like it, if the truth be known.’

  ‘They’re not local people, are they? I mean, they haven’t been in Rakedale very long?’

  ‘I know what you mean.’ Palfreyman eased himself into his armchair, like an old dog settled into its basket. ‘Well, they’ve lived in the village since they were married. And the oldest kid, Evan, is eighteen. So they must have been here twenty years or so. Not very long, as Rakedale goes.’

  ‘Twenty years?’

  ‘As a family, that is.’

  He looked at her expectantly, inviting her to ask the next question. No, that wasn’t what she was getting from his expression. He was challenging her. Challenging her to ask the right questions, if she wanted the answers.

  ‘One of them was here in the village before they married?’ she said. ‘Alex or Jo?’

  ‘Jo. She was Joanne Stubbs before she married. And that house they live in is hers — she inherited it from an aunt. She was only a lass when she first came to Rakedale, hardly into her twenties. I remember it well. Bit of a hippy, she was. All crystals and meditation. God knows where she picked that stuff up from. It certainly wasn’t from her aunt, or any of the other Stubbs family round here. They were all chapel-goers.’

  ‘So Jo actually is a village person. She said she wasn’t.’

  ‘Well, she’s right,’ said Palfreyman. ‘Joanne Stubbs has never fitted in, and never will. She knows that perfectly well.’

  Fry was trying to play along with the ex-PC’s game. ‘There’s some kind of history here. What has Jo done to upset the village?’

  ‘Well, when she first came to Rakedale, some of the local people thought she was a bit strange. They didn’t really take to her tarot cards and joss sticks, all that rubbish. Not to mention the stuff she kept trying to force on to people if she thought they showed signs of being ill. Herbal remedies, she called them. Me, I reckon they were mostly based on cannabis, but I never took any action on that suspicion. I never knew anyone accept her remedies, or it might have been different. I suppose you think I was wrong in that?’

  Neither Cooper nor Fry reacted. He looked slightly disappointed, but went back to his story.

  ‘And there were all those cats she had, as well. Too many cats to be natural. A woman living out there on her own? You can imagine what the gossips were saying about her.’

  ‘Only too well,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Anyway, one day she came home from doing her shopping in Bakewell, and her house had been broken into. It looked as though nothing had been stolen. But she thought the intruders must still be in the house, because she could hear noises somewhere. Not voices exactly. She described what she called surreptitious bumps and whisperings, scraping sounds and scratches. Sensibly, she called the police and got herself back outside the house to wait. When the FOAs went upstairs, they found three crows flapping about in her bedroom.’

  Cooper shivered. He knew what that meant. It was the old warning against witches. Until now, he thought it had died out in the eighteenth century. Someone in Rakedale had a long, long memory to remember that custom. And an even deeper well of superstition to consider putting it into practice.

  ‘What did you do?’ he asked. ‘I mean, I take it you were one of those officers responding to the emergency call?’

  ‘Aye. And a young lad who turned up from Edendale to assist. He was a bit wet behind the ears, but he had a bit of sense. He knew enough to leave everything to me.’

  ‘Like a good young copper.’

  ‘Like some, anyway,’ said Palfreyman, giving him a sly look.

  ‘And so …?’

  ‘We got rid of the crows without much damage. Just a few splodges of shit on the carpet, and she soon got that cleaned up. Then we checked over the house to see it was secure, and we left. Called it in as a false alarm. Listed as NFA.’

  ‘No further action?’

  ‘Not officially. Well, there aren’t many folk who have the know-how and the wherewithal to catch a set of crows, not to mention the nerve to turn them loose in someone’s house. I called and had a few words. It never happened again.’

  ‘But didn’t Mrs Brindley want to report the break-in?’

  ‘Look, you have to understand something about the eighties,’ said Palfreyman. ‘We were allowed to use our discretion then, and no one asked any questions, provided you got the job done. It meant we did things you would never dare do. You’d be too afraid of getting your arse kicked and losing your pension.’ He glanced sideways at Fry. ‘Or not getting that promotion you want so badly, eh?’

  ‘All right, it was different back then. We get the message.’

  ‘Well, just don’t judge me on your own terms. In those days, we always knew who needed a quiet word in the ear, and who needed something a bit more … robust.’

  ‘You’re living in a dream world,’ said Cooper. ‘Those days have been over a long time. You joined the force in — when was it, 1972?’

  ‘That’s right. The blokes who taught me the job were old school. But they’d all gone by the time I retired.’

  ‘That old-fashioned coppering had already disappeared in the eighties. My dad complained about it often enough.’

  Palfreyman smiled slyly. ‘Oh, aye — your dad. Sergeant Joe Cooper. Did you think I didn’t know who you were? Joe Cooper was my shift supervisor for a while.’

  Cooper felt the anger rising, and knew he was changing colour, the red flush rising uncontrollably into his cheeks.

  ‘He would never have tolerated a copper like you on his shift,’ he said.

  Palfreyman smirked. ‘That’s what you think.’

  Fry put her hand on Cooper’s arm. ‘Ben,’ she said, warningly. She was probably just in time.

  Palfreyman shook his head. ‘Anyway, Joanne wanted to go on living there, didn’t she? It wouldn’t have done her any good with the neighbours to kick off a burglary enquiry. Someone might have been arrested and charged, and she’d never have lived easy in Rakedale after that. As it was, she was left alone with her cats and her herbs, thanks to me. Nobody talked to her much, of course. But if you’ve seen some of the characters round here, you’d reckon that was a blessing.’

  ‘But she’s been here more than twenty years now.’

  ‘Aye. She’s married and she has children, and they’re all considered respectable enough. Alex Brindley seems to have done very well for himself. But don’t think that means people forget.’

  ‘Mr Farnham, now — he seems quite a different individual.’

  ‘You’ve talked to Tom Farnham as well, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  For a moment, Palfreyman weighed her up, as if taking her seriously for the first time.

  ‘I hope you know how to tell when someone is lying, Sergeant,’ he said.

  ‘Of course. We’re trained these days.’

  Palfreyman rolled his eyes. ‘Psychology seminars? Body-language recognition techniques? I thought so. Well, we didn’t need training. In my day, any good copper learned to develop an instinct for when someone was telling the truth.’ He slapped his stomach. ‘My gut always told me when I was hearing a lie. It was never wrong.’

  ‘If your instinct was never proved wrong, it was only because you were allowed to hide your mistakes,’ said Fry.

  Palfreyman tried to laugh, but couldn’t get the right shape to his mouth.

  ‘What do you know? You know nothing. You don’t belong to this part of the world, and you don’t belong in the job, if the truth be known. I bet you were a graduate entrant — am I right?’

  ‘I’m not ashamed of that.’

  Cooper watched Fry and Palfreyman as they faced each other across the room, with the light from the window falling on them both equally. Fry looked slight and brittle, perched on the edge of her chair in an attitude that was both tense and belligerent. In contrast, PC Palfreyman was enormous — twice Fry’s size at least, but soft and heavy, his weight crushing the sofa in a mor
e passively hostile manner.

  From where he sat, Cooper could see the outside world going on beyond them: birds flicking across the sky, lorries moving slowly up the hill into Rakedale. He was struck by how different these two were, the former village bobby and the ambitious DS. Not only physically different, but psychologically and technically, and in the way they’d been trained. Well, different in every way he could think of, in fact. Watching them was like seeing the past and future facing each other across a green rug and an IKEA coffee table.

  There was no question that policing had changed. It had been transformed in the few years since Palfreyman retired, and it was changing still. There weren’t any beat bobbies any more. In fact, there weren’t any beats, except under a different name. In Derbyshire, they were called Safer Neighbourhood police teams — a combination of police officers, special constables, PCSOs and local authority wardens, even some Neighbourhood Watch volunteers.

  Meanwhile, just across the border, Nottinghamshire had become the first force in the UK to have armed officers on routine patrol. In parts of Nottingham, officers were issued with Walther P99 pistols, just like the one James Bond used, and had Heckler and Koch semi-automatic carbines in their patrol cars for back-up.

  And that was before September eleventh and July seventh, and all the other landmark dates of terrorism. Cooper found the development worrying, an ominous sign for the future of policing in this country. But he couldn’t ally himself with the Palfreymans of the world, either.

  ‘Yes, I do have the training to spot a liar,’ said Fry as they walked back down Palfreyman’s drive to the car.

  ‘I’m sure you do, Diane,’ said Cooper.

  ‘I know all the indications to watch for.’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me. You know David Palfreyman was just trying to wind you up back there, don’t you?’

  ‘Bastard.’

  Cooper looked across the road. ‘Hold on a minute, Diane. I won’t be long.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘There’s a Range Rover parked at the Brindleys’ house. Is it theirs?’

  ‘Yes, I think it’s Mr Brindley’s. Why?’

  ‘It’s a TD model.’

  ‘So? You’re not that interested in cars, Ben.’

  ‘Do you know what TD stands for, Diane? It means Turbo Diesel. I want to ask Mr Brindley if he’s ever been offered cheap illegal fuel.’

  When Cooper came back, Fry was sitting in the car, still fuming.

  ‘They’re called the Ten Signs,’ she said. ‘Lack of eye contact, a change in the pitch of the voice, clearing the throat. And then there’s the body language — tapping the foot, fidgeting with the hands, blinking too much.’

  Cooper got behind the wheel. ‘Turning the head or body away, changing the subject, attempting to deflect questions using humour or sarcasm.’

  Fry looked at him. ‘Have you done the same course?’

  ‘Er, I sort of picked it up on the job,’ he said, trying not to sound too much like Palfreyman.

  ‘What did Mr Brindley say?’

  ‘He’d never even heard of illegal diesel.’

  Fry watched the landscape going by as Cooper drove over the plateau towards Edendale. On the highest points, the drizzle and mist became almost indistinguishable from low cloud, and Cooper had to put the headlights on. Spray from passing lorries made visibility even worse.

  ‘Ten Signs,’ said Fry. ‘Put all those techniques together, and only a really good actor can get away with an undetected lie. And PC David Palfreyman is not that good an actor.’

  Back at the office, they found DCI Kessen in the CID room with Hitchens. He had put in an appearance from his other major enquiry and was catching up on progress.

  Kessen studied Fry as she entered the room.

  ‘Ah, DS Fry, glad you could join us.’

  Fry seemed to go stiff and awkward, as if she’d been caught out doing something she shouldn’t. But that wasn’t the case, was it? She’d been following a reasonable line of enquiry that might have produced some useful information. Cooper wanted to speak up in her defence, but no one would have appreciated that, least of all Fry.

  ‘Your DI has brought me up to speed on the Rakedale enquiry. You did a good job recovering the crucifix from the grave site.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Hitchens held up the evidence bag containing the cross. ‘Examination reveals scratch marks on the back, near where the arms and the upright meet. They’re probably initials, Diane. We think they look like an “N” and possibly an “H”.’

  ‘The owner’s initials?’

  ‘Could be. They do match a set of initials from the list of employees at Pity Wood, but unfortunately that doesn’t help us to make an identification. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘But it might do,’ said Fry.

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  Kessen nodded. ‘Yes, that’s very helpful. As I said, a good piece of work. However, DS Fry, we’ve agreed your energies would be best employed from this point on exploring the missing persons angle. It’s being neglected at the moment.’

  ‘Missing persons? But, sir, I think I could be more productive pursuing some other lines — ’

  ‘No, DS Fry, I think I’d prefer you to concentrate on the missing persons check.’

  Fry hesitated too long before she responded, and Kessen registered it.

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  Cooper looked across at her, but she refused to meet his eye. Was it just coincidence that he’d been thinking only yesterday about the DCI’s apparent even-handedness? Was that why he’d noticed this little incident? Or was it that Kessen’s attitude had changed since the arrival of a new superintendent over his head?

  Cooper didn’t know how to interpret what he’d witnessed, but he was sure that Diane would be filing the incident away in that very efficient mental filing cabinet she carried around inside her head. He pictured it as the equivalent of one of those old-fashioned green cabinets, heavy and fire-proof, with drawers that slid out on strong, steel hinges.

  For a moment, he wondered what was written in his own file — the one pushed to the back of the bottom drawer, slightly dog-eared and crushed out of shape by the more important information in front of it. Nothing he’d want to read about himself, probably.

  18

  ‘SOCOs collected a lot of samples from the kitchen at the farm,’ said Hitchens, assembling the team when the DCI had left. ‘Some old blood traces that the lab is working on, and lots of other stuff, the kind that you might expect in a kitchen. But analysis also found substantial traces of a chemical compound, KNO3. Potassium nitrate.’

  ‘Potassium nitrate?’ asked Fry. ‘What is that used for?’

  ‘The lab thought we might want to know that. Killing tree stumps, for a start. You can get it in most garden centres, or hardware shops. It’s an ingredient of some fertilizers. Also toothpastes that are formulated for sensitive teeth. And gunpowder.’

  ‘Versatile stuff, then.’

  ‘Wait — you haven’t heard the best one. Potassium nitrate was considered for many years to be an anaphrodisiac.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘They thought it suppressed sexual desire. It was added to food in all-male institutions. Did you ever see One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?’

  ‘The film with Jack Nicholson?’

  ‘Right. Well, in the film, Nicholson’s character mentions that’s he’s afraid of being “slipped” potassium nitrate in the mental institution where he’s committed. It was a common practice at the time, a way of controlling the behaviour of patients.’

  ‘Cool. But I’m not sure it helps us.’

  ‘Is potassium nitrate a natural product, or artificially manufactured?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘It’s a naturally occurring mineral,’ explained Hitchens. ‘Traditionally, the major sources were the deposits crystallizing on cave walls, or the drainings from dung heaps. Ammonia from the decomposition of urea — you know.’

&n
bsp; ‘We get the picture,’ said Fry.

  ‘But it can also be manufactured. The old method was to mix manure, wood ash, earth and organic materials such as straw.’

  Cooper nodded. ‘A compost heap, in fact.’

  ‘Exactly. But they were known as nitre beds, which sounds nicer, I suppose. A heap was kept moist with urine in the, er … traditional manner, and turned to accelerate decomposition. After a year, it was leached with water, and the resulting liquid was rich with nitrates, which could then be converted to potassium nitrate, crystallized and used in gunpowder.’

  ‘Potassium nitrate is an explosive, then?’ said Fry.`

  ‘Not on its own. It does have another useful property, though, particularly for fireworks manufacturers. A mixture of potassium nitrate and sugar produces a smoke cloud six hundred times its own volume. Just great for smoke bombs.’

  ‘How does it kill tree stumps?’

  ‘It doesn’t really kill them. You have to kill the stump first — then the potassium nitrate makes it decompose faster.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Cooper. ‘Those compost heaps — did you say they were called “nitre beds”?’

  ‘That’s right. One of the common non-scientific names for potassium nitrate is — ’

  ‘- saltpetre?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Cooper found that he wasn’t in the least surprised. It seemed to fit so naturally with what he’d learned already of the owners of Pity Wood Farm, and the other residents of Rakedale.

  ‘Potassium nitrate is used in Edgar Allan Poe’s story “The Cask of Amontillado” as the lining of the crypt where Montresor buries Fortunato alive. It’s why he has so much trouble with his breathing in his last moments. “For the love of God, Montresor!”’

  ‘Didn’t the IRA use saltpetre in their bomb-making operations at one time?’ said Fry. ‘I had a feeling it had been put on a restricted list, not available for sale to the general public.’

  Hitchens laughed. ‘You can make bombs from sugar and fertilizer, so why would anyone worry about saltpetre?’

  ‘Also, it’s been implicated in having carcinogenic properties.’