‘It looks as though Farnham was on the dole,’ said Cooper. ‘There’s a calendar here, but all it shows are the dates of his giro cheques, once a fortnight.’
‘But he was making money on the side, wasn’t he?’
‘Illegally, of course.’
‘I’m betting his visitors last night were some criminal friends of his that he fell out with.’
‘Friends with nine millimetres in their pockets? They sound like some kind of street gang from Manchester or something.’
Fry laughed. ‘Who do we know from Manchester that has a connection to this case?’
‘Mr Goodwin, the solicitor? Surely not?’
‘Stranger things have been known,’ said Fry.
The kitchen reminded Fry of Pity Wood Farm, though only in its amount of clutter. Gavin Murfin had found another door on the far side.
‘Where does that lead, Gavin?’
‘I don’t know, it’s too dark to see.’
Murfin fumbled for a switch on the wall. ‘Ah. Let there be light.’
‘A utility room of some kind.’
The chest freezer in Farnham’s utility room was full of neatly wrapped packages. Fry lifted a few out and fingered their contents. She knew the shape of a joint of meat, or a packet of frozen sausages. But these were strangely sharp and lumpy. She put on a pair of latex gloves and unwrapped the nearest freezer bag. Even before she’d peeled off the final layer, she could see a line of exposed teeth grinning through the film. A second later, she uncovered a single, dark eye.
‘Jesus. What’s this?’
Cooper came to stand at her shoulder, and watched as she slowly exposed the frozen object. Patches of fur had darkened and stiffened around the head. A pair of tiny, clawed feet were held rigid, close to the chest.
‘A rat,’ said Fry. ‘What sort of person would keep a dead rat in the freezer?’
‘No,’ said Cooper. ‘It’s a squirrel.’
Fry’s hands shook a little as she placed the frozen body on top of a plastic Wall’s ice cream box. She covered the animal’s eyes, though she knew it was a mad notion to be afraid that it might turn its head and stare at her accusingly for disturbing its rest.
‘Oh, sorry,’ she said. ‘There I was, thinking there might be something odd about having a rat in the freezer. But keeping a frozen squirrel among your pork chops — that’s perfectly normal, of course. Doesn’t everybody do it?’
‘Well, it depends what it’s for, Diane.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘Mr Farnham probably knew a taxidermist. There’s one quite near here, in Bakewell. They’re always on the lookout for well-preserved animals.’
The DCI entered the house and watched them working for a few moments, not being critical but assessing their performance.
‘I understand you have a suspect in custody, DS Fry,’ said Kessen at last.
‘Yes, sir. Mr Jack Elder. But he’s being questioned on allegations of the sale of illegal fuel, and his vehicle was logged by patrols monitoring a dogging site near Sheldon. He has no connection with Tom Farnham that we know of.’
‘He does now,’ said Kessen. ‘We ran the registration number of Farnham’s Subaru pick-up through the intelligence system. One of the other vehicles monitored at the dogging site was his. Mr Farnham and your suspect were present at the same time.’
A few minutes later, Fry and Cooper were heading north towards Sheldon. Cooper didn’t know Godfrey’s Rough, but he had a vague idea where it was, somewhere near the White Peak village of Sheldon.
‘The monitoring patrols recorded Farnham’s pick-up and Elder’s lorry at this Godfrey’s Rough at the same time, but there were no other vehicles present,’ said Fry when she finally came off the phone.
‘So much for the idea that they were out dogging, then,’ said Cooper. ‘I think you need a few more participants, don’t you?’
‘Exactly. And it’s the wrong time of year anyway.’
‘What do you think they were up to?’
‘I wish I knew, Ben. But now that Elder has a confirmed connection with Tom Farnham, he’s involved in a murder enquiry. We’ve got to dig out what his involvement is.’
Cooper shook his head. ‘If they were just meeting at Godfrey’s Rough, we won’t be any the wiser.’
‘They were a long time, according to the log,’ said Fry. ‘The patrol logged their registration numbers at six twenty-five p. m., and again at eight fifteen. That’s more than just a quick chat.’
The car was constantly ploughing through seas of muddy water. Not floods exactly, just a general consequence of wet weather, the result of rain pouring down from the hillsides on to the roads. Here, the dry-stone walls were held together by a sheath of green moss.
A hundred yards in front of them was an Arla Foods milk tanker, heading for one of the dairies at Manchester or Ashby de la Zouch after its daily farm collections. Cooper felt these limestone areas of the White Peak were a more friendly landscape than the moors further north. It felt lived in, shaped by human activity. The White Peak was a particularly satisfying landscape, somehow. Psychologically satisfying.
‘But what else is there at Godfrey’s Rough?’ asked Fry. ‘What would have taken the two of them there for so long?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Cooper. ‘We’ll have a look round when we get there.’
Seeing that his tank was getting close to empty, Cooper took a diversion through Hartington and pulled into a little filling station — old-fashioned personal service, and just two pumps to choose from, unleaded or diesel.
When he was getting his wallet out to pay for the petrol, Cooper found an envelope in his inside pocket that he’d forgotten about.
‘Oh, by the way, Diane, with all the excitement, I didn’t get round to showing you this.’
‘What is it? A photograph?’
Cooper got back behind the wheel and drove out of Hartington, glad that he was familiar with the locations of remote filling stations in this area.
‘I borrowed it from the heritage centre,’ he said.
Fry studied the photo. ‘I can see three men standing in a farmyard. Is that Pity Wood?’
‘Yes. It was taken in the 1960s. When I went to the heritage centre, I wasn’t really looking for anything that old, but still … It was a bonus.’
‘Why?’
‘There’s a caption on the back. Names and a date — I wish more people did that. Here on the right is Raymond Sutton, standing in the doorway of the barn. See him?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s changed a lot, but I can just about recognize him. There’s a look around the eyes and the shape of the jaw. It’s quite distinctive. A Sutton chin. I think there are Sutton ears, as well. A little bit protruding.’
‘They’re like jug handles,’ said Fry bluntly. ‘But the hair cut doesn’t help, I suppose. I’ve heard rumours of those short back and sides.’
‘Right. The man sitting on the tractor is Derek Sutton, who died twelve months ago.’
‘Yes, I can see the ears. He was the superstitious one.’
‘That’s right. He was a few years younger than Raymond, but he seems to have gone a bit strange over the years.’
‘He never married, did he?’
‘No. Nor Raymond, either.’
‘Old bachelors living together. They were bound to go a bit funny, as you call it. Especially at Pity Wood Farm.’
‘His older brother didn’t have much influence over him anyway, so far as I can gather. In fact, Derek’s superstitious beliefs seem to have been a kind of rebellion against Raymond’s piety. It suggests to me that Raymond was a sort of father figure — their real dad died when they were only boys, you know. Old Mr Sutton was killed in the Second World War, serving with the Sherwood Foresters in North Africa. I suppose Alan wouldn’t even remember his father at all.’
Fry looked up. ‘Alan?’
‘Alan Sutton.’
‘Who?’
‘There were three brothers. Alan wa
s the youngest.’
Cooper took one hand off the steering wheel and put his finger on the photograph. ‘He’s here, behind the tractor. Unfortunately, we can’t see him very well, because he’s standing in a shadow from the barn. It was summer — you can tell that from the way they’re dressed, even if the date hadn’t been on the back. August 1968. I bet they were about to start the harvesting.’
‘Why has no one mentioned a third brother? And where is Alan now?’
‘I phoned Ned Dain while I was at the heritage centre. He was very evasive, and when I pressed him he had to go away to consult his mother. But they finally agreed that Alan Sutton just upped and left the village one day, seven or eight years ago. They reckoned he couldn’t bear living with the other two. The Dains hinted that they treated him badly.’
‘Why have they been so shifty about mentioning a third brother? They could have come straight out with that information when we first visited the Dog Inn.’
‘Yes, they could.’
‘But Dain was deliberately vague and misleading when I spoke to him,’ said Fry, starting to sound angry. ‘I know damn well he and his mother haven’t just suddenly remembered this Alan Sutton. In a place the size of Rakedale, it’s inconceivable that they wouldn’t know exactly who was in the family at Pity Wood. So what have they been trying to hide?’
‘I don’t think they’ve been trying to hide anything really,’ said Cooper. ‘I think they were protecting him, in their own way.’
‘Protecting Alan Sutton? From what? Interest by the police?’
‘Possibly. Or from being found by his brothers.’
Fry considered it, her mouth tight with irritation. ‘You think the Dains took sides in some sort of dispute between the Suttons? Maybe they know where Alan is, and they’ve made a promise not to tell anyone.’
‘It would explain their behaviour. They would have been worried that we’d go off and find him.’
‘On the other hand, they might be taking Raymond’s side.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, Raymond seems to have sold the farm without any reference to his younger brother. Shouldn’t Alan be due a share of the proceeds? But if he’s disappeared to the other side of the world and lost touch, Raymond could be hoping that he never gets to hear of the sale — or at least, not until it’s too late.’
‘That’s a theory, too,’ said Cooper.
Fry was silent for a while as they drove, but Cooper knew she wasn’t going to let the question drop. He could almost hear the calculations going on in her mind as she gazed at the photograph of the three brothers.
‘So what really happened to Alan Sutton?’ she said at last.
Cooper looked at her. ‘What makes you think something happened to him?’
‘Well, given the recent history of the family, it seems a good bet.’
‘I don’t know. You could be right. But all we really know is that Alan went away. I had a quick check through the records — there was no report of him missing at the time.’
‘But who was likely to put in a misper report?’
‘His brothers.’
Cooper thought of the plan of Pity Wood Farm, with the grave sites cleared marked on the eastern boundary. Fry might be right in her suggestion. If one of the victims they’d found had been male, he could have a guess at the identity, too.
‘But if Alan Sutton met an unpleasant end somewhere, it wasn’t at the farm,’ he said. ‘The search would have turned him up by now, wouldn’t it?’
‘We could try to find him, wherever he’s got to. But it would take an awful lot of work. A common name like Sutton … And if he hasn’t been around at the farm for nearly ten years, he’s out of the time frame, anyway.’
‘I don’t think anybody actually saw him leave,’ said Cooper. ‘The Dains were full of dark hints, especially the old lady.’
‘Mr Dain didn’t even lower himself to a hint when I spoke to him. But I knew there was something he wasn’t saying. He must have thought I was a fool because I didn’t know there were three Sutton brothers. And he made no attempt to enlighten me.’
Cooper nodded. ‘He told no lies when he was asked a direct question, but he didn’t volunteer information either. It’s the way a lot of people are, I’m afraid.’
‘And why hasn’t anyone else mentioned Alan Sutton?’ said Fry. ‘Palfreyman, for example.’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Cooper. ‘It is a bit odd.’
‘In a place the size of Rakedale, everyone must have known him, or at least have been aware that there were three brothers at Pity Wood, no matter how much they kept themselves to themselves.’
‘I wonder if they’ve been protecting someone,’ said Cooper thoughtfully.
‘Protecting who?’
‘I couldn’t say. It just makes me think of one of those family tragedies or misfortunes that no one talks about. It might not be for the protection of anyone living, even. It might be out of respect for the mother, old Beatrice Sutton.’
‘But she’s been dead a long time, surely?’
Cooper shrugged. ‘It doesn’t mean that people in Rakedale won’t still respect her memory.’
‘It must be great to have such caring neighbours,’ said Fry.
‘I suppose the best option is to ask Raymond directly about Alan, and see what reaction we get.’
‘Old people,’ said Fry. ‘Even when they aren’t in the early stages of Alzheimer’s like Raymond Sutton, they don’t always talk sense, you know. Their minds wander, and their memories let them down. Because they know that perfectly well, they make things up. They don’t really intend to lie, they just want to keep the conversation going, they desperately want to be interesting. It’s because they’re lonely.’
‘I’m aware of that. But I don’t think it’s true of all old people, Diane.’
‘I’m just suggesting,’ said Fry, ‘that if you’re at the care home again, take anything you’re told with a pinch of salt. Whether it’s something you’re told by Raymond Sutton, or anyone else.’
‘Old ladies are useful sources of information,’ said Cooper. ‘Old ladies know things that other people don’t. Look at old Mrs Dain. Her memory goes back a long, long way.’
‘Ben, I’m fully aware that you don’t take a blind bit of notice of any advice I give you. But I’m warning you that if you go off and do your own thing regardless one more time, you mustn’t be surprised if I say “I told you so” in no uncertain terms. And if I record it on your Personal Development Review next April.’
‘OK, OK. I get the message.’
He could feel Fry staring at him until he started to flush, but he wasn’t going to rise to her baiting.
‘Have you noticed,’ he said, ‘how quickly Pity Wood Farm went on the market after Derek Sutton died? Raymond must have phoned the estate agents at the same time he called in the funeral directors.’
‘He wanted to be busy,’ suggested Fry. ‘One of the main reasons we have funerals is to give bereaved people something to do. The way it was explained to me, you have to continue doing things that are in the present tense, otherwise your life would just stop when a loved one dies.’
‘We were told that, too, when Mum went. But it’s funny that Raymond didn’t really do that when Derek died. Well, not for long. He seems to have had the farm up for sale pretty quick, doesn’t he? That was certainly a “past tense” action, if you like. It brought everything to a stop. The whole of the life that he and his brother had been living at Pity Wood for decades — it was just ripped up and thrown in a skip by a Polish builder.’
‘Yes, it does sound very final, when you put it like that. But he might have had reasons.’
Cooper finally remembered what else was near Godfrey’s Rough when they were still more than half a mile away. He could see it, standing gaunt and eerie on the skyline, framed by skeletal trees. Stone ruins like the keep of a medieval castle. Steel winding gear like a rusted scaffold. Deep shafts that drove eight hundred feet into the i
ce-cold water below the limestone.
‘Magpie Mine,’ he said. ‘Beware of the widows’ curse.’
25
Minerals had been a key element in the wealth of the Peak District for centuries. The remnants of the lead-mining industry were widespread, their impact on the landscape had been so dramatic that it would be many centuries yet before their traces disappeared.
Magpie Mine was the best preserved of the hundreds of lead mines that had once been visible everywhere, rumpling the surface into bumps and hollows, piercing it with hidden shafts, scattering it with centuries of miners’ spoil. Its heyday was in the nineteenth century, but it had finally closed in the 1950s, and it was heritage now, one of the youngest protected sites in the national park.
‘I don’t think it was the picnic site that interested Farnham and Elder,’ said Cooper. ‘I think it was this.’
‘Why, Ben?’
‘A remote location, easy to access, and unlikely to be disturbed for development, because it’s a protected site. Yet look at these spoil heaps from the old mine workings, Diane. Heaps? They’re small mountains. You could bury anything here, and no one would notice any disturbance. Half of the remaining structures are underground anyway.’
A cloud of starlings swept across the road, twisting and turning, dipping until they almost skimmed the tarmac before settling all at once in a ploughed field. They immediately vanished, camouflaged against the brown earth. When Cooper parked and got out of the Toyota, the wind rattled the buckle of his seat belt against the side of the car. Ash keys hung in damp clumps from the branches of a tree, too wet even to rattle in the wind.
They stepped carefully over the bars of a cattle grid. Beneath the bars, the pit was filled with a black sludge of leaves and stagnant pools of water. Past the cattle grid, the sheep pellets scattered on the ground changed to cow pats, though Cooper couldn’t see any cows.
The wind scything across the plateau felt cold enough to slice off an ear if you turned the wrong way. As they walked on to the site, loose sheets of corrugated iron could be heard banging incessantly in the wind.
The former agent’s house was the first building, now a field centre for the mine’s historical society. Beyond the agent’s house, the old mine buildings crowded in suddenly, clustering on either side and looming overhead on a high mound.
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