Dying to Sin bcadf-8

by Stephen Booth

  ‘I’m Mrs Greatorex,’ she said. ‘Annie Greatorex.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Greatorex. Nice to meet you.’

  ‘He’s gone a bit ga-ga, hasn’t he? Raymond?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘It’s no surprise. His brother went the same way. Well, not the same way — a bit different, I suppose. The result is the same. The place we all end up.’

  She winked at Cooper and edged a bit closer, scraping the rubber end of her stick on the carpet. When she was near enough, she touched his sleeve. He noticed a faintly mischievous gleam in her eye, behind the harmless smile.

  Diane Fry would have told him that he had work to do back at the office, and not to waste his time with batty old women just because he felt sorry for them. But there was something more than that about Mrs Greatorex. The glitter in her eye suggested that she wasn’t really batty at all. And old ladies … well, old ladies knew things that other people didn’t.

  ‘I lived near the Suttons before I came in here, you know,’ she said.

  ‘Did you? At Rakedale?’

  ‘One of the cottages on Main Street is mine. The one with the green door.’

  ‘I think I know it.’

  Cooper decided not to tell her that the cottage was standing empty and the paintwork of the door could barely be called green any more. He guessed she hadn’t been home for a long time.

  ‘I know them all in that village. Have you met the family at the pub, the Dains?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘Ada Dain is a friend of mine.’

  ‘It’s the Suttons I’m really interested in,’ said Cooper. ‘The Suttons of Pity Wood Farm.’

  ‘Pity Wood. Oh, aye.’

  The old lady glanced to one side and clutched his arm a bit more tightly. ‘I could tell you a few things about the Suttons,’ she said.

  ‘Could you?’ said Cooper. ‘Could you really? Shall we have a sit down in the sun lounge for a moment?’

  23

  Fry hadn’t been in a theatre for a long time. She thought it had probably been the Birmingham Rep, and it was a smart new theatre then, all glass and white walls. Nothing like the Royal Theatre, Edendale. This place looked as though it had hardly been designed to accommodate the public at all. The access was via narrow corridors, and flight after flight of shallow, plush-covered steps.

  She found Jo Brindley in a makeshift dressing room, waiting for her call to go on stage for a rehearsal. There were four or five other women there, but they left when Fry arrived and stood outside in the corridor, chattering.

  ‘We thought we had it all off perfectly, but the director and choreographer decided to make some changes after the first couple of nights,’ said Mrs Brindley. ‘It’s putting all the girls into a bit of a tizz. They’ll be nervous when we go on again. Sometimes it’s better just to leave things alone, don’t you think?’

  ‘I couldn’t really comment,’ said Fry, staring at the woman’s outfit and make-up. ‘So you’re a dancer, rather than an actress?’

  ‘Well, a bit of everything. The little group of us are a sort of comic turn, you see. We don’t dance exactly, but we do things together, so we have to be choreographed.’

  ‘I see. I came to ask you about the information you and your husband gave to the mobile police unit in Rakedale. About a Mr Jack Elder.’

  ‘Yes, Alex phoned to say that you’d called at the house. I don’t know what I can tell you that you don’t already know from my husband. It was Alex who spoke to this man, not me.’

  Over their heads, music began. Feet thumped on wooden boards. Fry had to raise her voice over the noise.

  ‘Mrs Brindley, I know you’ve been in Rakedale longer than your husband — you inherited the house from an aunt, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘So you must know more about the sort of beliefs and superstitions people in a place like Rakedale have. I’ve heard talk of something called the “Old Religion”.’

  ‘Oh, I remember the old people talking about things like that. I mean, the people who were already old when I was a child — my grandmothers, and their generation. But it doesn’t still go on now, does it? I’m sure it can’t do, Sergeant. Not in this age of TV and computers and mobile phones. I can’t credit that people still believe in those things.’

  ‘But there was an incident when you first moved to Rakedale, wasn’t there? A rather unpleasant incident, involving you personally.’

  ‘Oh. So someone has been talking, have they?’ Mrs Brindley gave a brittle laugh, causing the stage make-up on her face to crack and fall in a small shower on her costume. ‘I wonder who that could have been? As if I didn’t know.’

  ‘PC Palfreyman dealt with it at the time, in his own way. But you must have been disturbed by it.’

  ‘Yes, of course. To be honest, I’ve never forgotten it. It wasn’t the birds so much as the few minutes when I thought there was an intruder in my house. A real, human intruder.’

  ‘Well, there must have been a real intruder in the first place. Did Mr Palfreyman ever tell you who he suspected?’

  ‘No. And I agreed with him that it was best not to know. I would have found it difficult to behave normally with them, if I’d found out. And then it would have been me who was being odd and refusing to be friendly.’

  Fry knew from PC Palfreyman’s story that Joanne Stubbs, as she then was, had already been considered odd in the extreme by the villagers of Rakedale. But there were subtle and peculiar dynamics in rural relationships that had to be respected. There was certainly some kind of unspoken code that she didn’t understand. Probably that was why she had never been accepted the way that Joanne Stubbs finally had. It was because she refused to acknowledge the code.

  ‘A bit of a Catch-22 situation, Mrs Brindley.’

  Joanne tugged at her costume. It was only a short tunic, and she was wearing nothing but tights below it.

  ‘I got over it. There’s no need to drag it all up again now. It’s in the past, as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘Do you think the person responsible might have been Jack Elder?’

  She sighed. ‘Yes, it’s possible.’

  ‘Have you mentioned this to your husband?’

  ‘As I said, it’s in the past.’

  In Fry’s experience, the people who said ‘It’s in the past’ most often were those who couldn’t wipe out the memory of a traumatic experience. Repeating the mantra seemed to give them some degree of reassurance, like licking an open wound. They used the words as a defence against recollection.

  Yes, those bad memories could be a killer.

  Cooper had left Liz waiting in the car for him while he talked to Raymond Sutton. She was very tolerant, but by the time he came out of The Oaks, she was starting to sulk a bit. Understandably. He was neglecting her badly.

  Cooper apologized as best he could. ‘I came to the reception after the baptism,’ he said. ‘I ate some sandwiches and sausage rolls, because you said you had to stay for a while. Now this was something I had to do.’

  ‘All right. It’s the job. And did you speak to the old man?’

  ‘Briefly. They were having a Christmas party.’

  ‘I hope you stayed away from the mistletoe.’

  ‘I tried.’

  ‘So what’s next, Ben?’

  He hesitated, conscious of dangerous ground in front of him, but too late to avoid putting his foot right in it.

  ‘I’ve got to phone Diane Fry.’

  Liz was silent for a few moments, staring out of the window. Cooper watched her, fingering his mobile phone, wondering when it would be safe to start dialling. Though her face was turned away from him, he could practically see the conflict going on in Liz’s mind. It was visible in the tenseness of her shoulders, in the way she fiddled with the buttons of her coat, in the ragged breaths that steamed up the damp window. She knew it was the job, and she was aware of its importance to him. But even so …

  Finally, she turned back to him.
>
  ‘As long as we can go and sit in the pub while you do it, Ben,’ she said. ‘Then at least I won’t have to sit here twiddling my thumbs.’

  Fry was back in the office when she took Cooper’s call. While picking mince pie crumbs from the carpet next to her desk, she listened carefully to his account of his visit to The Oaks.

  ‘And what was it that made you go there this morning, Ben? I didn’t quite understand that part.’

  ‘It was the baptism service, Diane. “To follow Christ means dying to sin.”’

  ‘I’m not big on the Bible, Ben. I’ve read it, of course. But I always tended to skip the miracles and go for the begetting, and the killing of the first born.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

  Fry decided to leave it at that. Some things were always going to be inexplicable. It was the nature of communication between human beings. Or between her and Ben Cooper, anyway.

  ‘So what did this sweet old lady tell you?’ she asked.

  ‘A lot of stuff that wasn’t relevant,’ admitted Cooper.

  ‘Oh, surprise me.’

  ‘But I think there were a few snippets that might be of interest. I’ll need to check them out, of course. Get some corroboration.’

  ‘In case Granny is just wandering in her mind, as I warned you.’

  ‘I don’t think she was. She seemed quite lucid, though a bit too talkative.’

  There was a burst of noise in the background — laughter, female. Fry tried to picture the scene, but couldn’t quite fill it in. She could see Cooper himself, sitting perhaps with a drink in front of him, casual and relaxed, surrounded by his friends. In Fry’s mind, the friends were many, but vague and faceless.

  ‘Go on, then, Ben.’

  ‘Well, according to Mrs Greatorex, there was more going on at Pity Wood Farm than farming. She said there were often too many people there — far more than there should be on a farm, and not always at harvest time. It would confirm the impression I got from the farm accounts. And they weren’t always men, she says. Mrs Greatorex claims everybody knew this.’

  ‘So the Three Wise Monkeys are exactly what I thought, then.’

  ‘See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil?’

  ‘Yes …’ Fry hesitated. ‘No — that isn’t quite right, is it? They’re just sticking to the third part.’

  ‘Meaning they must have seen and heard things. They’re just not willing to talk about them.’

  ‘Right. That’s the way people are around here, isn’t it?’

  Somebody seemed to be speaking to him now, distracting him from the call. Fry had the impression that he might have put his hand over the mouthpiece for a moment to muffle the conversation with his friends.

  Of course, these people might not be what Cooper himself would call friends, but just acquaintances, the sort of people he sat with in the pub. Familiar enough to spend time with during his off-duty hours, without having to know anything about them, except what they drank when it was his turn to get a round. That kind of relationship was very shallow, wasn’t it? Not something to regret that she didn’t have herself.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Cooper. ‘But that saying is originally from a carving in a Japanese shrine. The three wise monkeys represent the principle “If we do not hear, see, or speak evil, we ourselves shall be spared all evil.” It’s a play on the Japanese word for monkey. But sometimes there’s a fourth part to the saying: “Do no evil.” Most people seem to miss that one off.’

  Cooper glanced across the pub to see where Liz had got to. She’d found some friends and was chatting happily to them at another table. He felt a momentary spurt of jealousy. But that was completely irrational. She’d left him alone to make his phone call in peace, which was exactly what he’d wanted her to do, wasn’t it?

  Fry was very quiet at the other end of the phone. And that was odd, too. Cooper felt she ought to be interrupting his thoughts by now and telling him what to do next.

  ‘Are you all right, Diane? Shall I come into the office this afternoon and we can talk it through?’

  ‘I’ve got a new assignment, Ben,’ she said.

  ‘A new — ?’ Cooper wasn’t quite sure what she meant.

  ‘You won’t be seeing me for a little while. I’m going on a trip. Mr Kessen wants me to fly to Dublin to interview Martin Rourke. I have to liaise with the Garda Siochana.’

  ‘Ireland? Well, that’s great.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘You ought to be delighted, Diane. Anyone else in the department would give their right arm to be off on a trip to Ireland. When do you fly?’

  ‘Tomorrow. I’ll be away until Wednesday probably. So you won’t see me around the office for a couple of days.’

  ‘We’ll manage without you for a while,’ said Cooper, trying to lighten the tone of the conversation without understanding why it was taking a downbeat note.

  ‘You know what’s happening on Tuesday?’ said Fry, a trifle impatiently.

  ‘Er …’

  ‘Our new detective superintendent is putting in an appearance. In person. She’ll be meeting the troops for the first time. Except, she won’t be meeting me, because I’ll be in bloody Dublin.’

  ‘But, Diane, that doesn’t mean anything,’ protested Cooper.

  ‘It doesn’t mean anything to you, Ben,’ she said. ‘But that’s because you never see what’s really going on.’

  When Cooper finished the call, he took a drink and wondered what he should do. The realization that even Diane Fry was worried about her position made him uneasy. This was one of those moments when anyone could be forgiven for covering their backs. He ought to take stock of the things he’d neglected to do, in case he was challenged on them some time.

  He looked at Liz. She met his eye, and stood up. Cooper wondered if there was something on his list that wouldn’t seem too much like work. If so, he might just get away with doing it today.

  As Liz came over to his table, he remembered. Time for a visit to a nice heritage centre, perhaps.

  24

  Two hours later, and the day had been disrupted for everyone. Units were arriving rapidly at Tom Farnham’s house near Newhaven. Cars rattled over the cattle grid, officers were taping off the breeze-block garage, the flash of a digital camera burst intermittently from behind the half-open doors.

  Cooper could see that the chiefs were out in force for this one. And on a Sunday afternoon, too. DCI Kessen and DI Hitchens stood conferring with the crime scene manager, Wayne Abbott, in the doorway of the garage workshop. The discovery of Tom Farnham’s body had been reported by one of his customers, calling to pick up a repaired lawnmower.

  ‘A totally senseless crime,’ said Fry. ‘Apparently, they didn’t get away with a thing.’

  ‘There’s no sign that they were disturbed in a burglary,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Apart from the deceased body of the householder lying covered in blood on the floor, you mean?’

  ‘I mean, what were they hoping to steal from the workshop?’

  Fry looked around. ‘Lawnmowers? There’s a good market for them, I’m told.’

  ‘Yes, there is. But they haven’t touched them. You can see none of them has been moved an inch. And who would beat the householder to death when they were only out to nick an old lawnmower?’

  ‘Like I said, totally senseless.’

  Cooper thought Fry had been much too quick to jump to conclusions about the attack on Tom Farnham. But he didn’t really blame her for it. Senseless crimes were all around them these days — there were stories in the papers every day. People didn’t understand the reasons for them, but they no longer doubted that such things happened. It was almost a first assumption.

  ‘There could be some other motive. It’s more than a coincidence, Diane.’

  ‘Oh, right. They were followers of the Old Religion, of course. And Tom Farnham had broken the faith.’

  Hitchens came towards them. ‘All hands on deck, chaps. The medical examiner says that the victim w
asn’t just beaten to death, he was shot. His attackers used something like a nine-millimetre pistol. They gave him a beating first, then finished him off with a couple of bullets.’

  ‘Bullets?’ said Cooper. ‘Firearms, not a shotgun?’

  ‘No, Ben. There’s blood splatter in the woods, and a trail across the drive where they dragged him back.’

  The search of Farnham’s house gave fragmentary glimpses into his lifestyle. His interests had run to anything mechanical or technical, from the innards of old garden machinery to simple computer programs. His PC system boasted a number of peripheral devices — scanner, colour printer, webcam, and some that Cooper didn’t recognize. Money had been spent on this system. Surely more money than could be earned by repairing lawnmowers.

  In the study, Cooper found a cork board on one wall of the bedroom, covered in photos. All of them showed Tom Farnham himself, smiling that hesitant smile in a variety of locations around the world. But these were no holiday snaps. There was one of Farnham dancing with Marilyn Monroe, another of Farnham shaking hands with Winston Churchill, and one of him standing behind Stalin on the balcony of the Kremlin. Over here, Tom was sharing a joke with Roosevelt, and in the bottom corner he had his arm around Frank Sinatra, like a previously unknown member of the Rat Pack.

  Cooper studied them more closely. ‘Mr Farnham was very skilled with Photoshop, Diane. But then, it looks as though he had a lot of practice.’

  Fry peered over his shoulder. ‘You mean he put himself into all these photos? Why would he do that?’

  ‘Some kind of celebrity obsession? He was never likely to meet these people in real life, but he could look at the photos and pretend he had.’

  ‘They’re all dead, Ben. Dead before he was born, in most cases.’

  ‘OK, an obsession with dead celebrities.’

  ‘Very sad.’

  ‘We all find our own ways of getting through life.’

  ‘Sinatra, Churchill, Monroe?’ said Fry. ‘I don’t suppose there’s a pattern?’

  ‘Not that I can see. It’s like a quiz question — what do all these people have in common?’

  ‘I don’t like questions without answers,’ said Fry.