Dead in the Dark

by Stephen Booth

  ‘And he spits their bones into the river,’ he said quietly.

  ‘What did you say, Ben?’

  He turned and saw Carol Villiers had come within earshot. Embarrassed, he pointed at the cave.

  ‘We need to get this checked out.’

  ‘How far in does it go?’ asked Villiers.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never been inside.’

  The controller rubbed his beard. ‘We’ll take a look,’ he said.

  Across the trail, a muddy path strewn with dead leaves led up to the remains of the mine itself. Cooper noticed signs along the edge of the trail marking the locations of abandoned shafts. The signs said ‘Danger, please keep out’. They were polite, anyway.

  Further up the dale, Lathkill Head Cave was still dry this morning. A few feet inside, the roof lowered suddenly, leaving only space for a tight, muddy crawl over huge boulders. That crawl might be possible for a fit person when the river was dry, but in wet conditions you would probably need breathing apparatus to avoid drowning in the icy cold water pouring over your head.

  ‘Someone find out what the weather was like in October ten years ago,’ said Cooper.

  ‘I’ll get right on to it,’ said Irvine, pulling out his phone.

  ‘I remember,’ said Murfin. ‘It had been chucking it down off and on for a couple of weeks. It was like monsoon season. It was one of the reasons the SIO held off starting a search in Lathkill Dale. She was hoping for the rain to stop.’

  ‘Superintendent Branagh didn’t mention that.’

  ‘It would have been a nightmare trying to slide about in the mud on those slopes,’ said Murfin. ‘Our blokes would have been trampling any forensic evidence out of existence in that quagmire. And besides, there was water pouring out of those channels.’

  ‘The soughs.’

  Murfin nodded. ‘Trust me, it was wet.’

  ‘Thanks, Gavin.’

  Right now, you would never imagine that a river emerged here. Yet on that day in October ten years ago, a huge volume of water would have been gushing out over these rocks. There would have been no way of getting to the mouth of the cave without getting your feet wet, and battling across the rush of the water.

  Carol Villiers came up and saw Cooper staring at the cave entrance.

  ‘No, Lacey Bower said it was a cave with a lot of water flowing out of it. She was quite clear about that.’

  Cooper bit his lip. ‘This is it. This is the cave the water flows out of. It’s just not flowing now, not at this time of year. Water seeps down into the limestone, and there hasn’t been much rain, so at the moment it’s dry. In the winter, in wet weather, the rock can’t absorb all the water that runs into the dale. So it emerges here, from this cave. That’s why it’s called Lathkill Head. It’s where the River Lathkill starts.’

  ‘I’ve checked the weather anyway,’ said Irvine. ‘The day that Annette Bower actually disappeared was relatively fine. Rain early in the morning, but it cleared up. The next day was wet, and so was the rest of the week. Gavin was right. The climate was against the inquiry team.’

  ‘And in favour of Reece Bower,’ said Cooper.

  25

  For a few minutes Diane Fry stood and watched young Eastern European men and women file in and out of the Zabka supermarket in Shirebrook.

  After a while she walked inside and looked at the shelves of sauerkraut and sour cabbage. All the adverts by the door were in Polish. A notice said ‘Zakaz – Spozywania Alkoholu w Obrebie Sklepu – Consumption of alcohol prohibited in the shop.’ Shelf after shelf of tins and packages had unfamiliar names. From what she could hear, there seemed to be few British shoppers around, and none of them entering the polski sklep.

  She felt conspicuous. Though she hadn’t opened her mouth, she had the feeling that everyone knew she wasn’t Polish. She didn’t feel comfortable staying any longer. She wasn’t planning on buying anything anyway.

  Jamie Callaghan was waiting for her when she came out of the shop.

  ‘I just wanted to remind you,’ he said, ‘according to the files, Geoff Pollitt also owns four other properties in and around Shirebrook. They’re all HMOs.’

  ‘It sounds as though they’re due for a visit.’

  Callaghan looked puzzled. ‘If Pollitt is a right-wing extremist, why is he renting out property to migrant workers?’

  ‘I guess money overcomes prejudice,’ said Fry.

  ‘He’s an unpleasant piece of work, isn’t he?’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘What a pity we can’t connect him to the Krystian Zalewski murder.’

  ‘There’s time yet.’

  Fry watched a couple of hatchbacks slowly touring the marketplace, then driving out again past the tattoo studio on Market Street.

  ‘What kind of vehicle does Geoff Pollitt own?’ she asked.

  Callaghan checked his notebook. ‘He has a white Saab registered to him. He also drives a plain blue Renault Trafic panel van. He uses that for his business, but there’s no signage on it.’

  Fry pursed her lips as she looked at the deserted marketplace. There weren’t any children at this time of day, and even the cat was missing. She noticed a young man wearing jeans and a hoodie knocking on the door of Pollitt’s shop, glancing over his shoulder as he did so. After a moment, the door was opened and he slipped inside. What could he be buying in that shop?

  Of course, Geoff Pollitt was probably just inviting people in to look at the bloodstain on his ceiling. She wondered how much he was charging for the privilege.

  The thought made her feel sick. There was prurience, and there was exploitation. And Geoff Pollitt had crossed the line. But then, according to the intelligence on him, Mr Pollitt had crossed the line several times.

  Fry left Jamie Callaghan still canvassing shoppers at the polski sklep with the assistance of a Polish-speaking community worker. That should keep him busy for some time.

  Geoff Pollitt answered the door of his shop when she knocked. She’d wondered if there was some secret knock, but whatever she’d done seemed to have worked. Pollitt’s face peered at her with no recognition at first, then disappointment, then irritation.

  ‘I’m busy,’ he said.

  ‘The shop seems to be closed, Mr Pollitt,’ said Fry. ‘What are you doing, stocktaking?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘It’s all right. You can lock the door again once you’ve let me in.’

  He grumbled to himself as he took the security chain off the door and opened it a few inches further.

  ‘It’s not very convenient.’

  ‘That’s a shame. But I’m sure your community spirit will overcome any inconvenience.’

  ‘Community spirit,’ sneered Pollitt. ‘That’s a joke.’

  ‘I’m not laughing.’

  ‘I’ve kept a diary, you know,’ said Pollitt. ‘A record of all the incidents. All the East Europeans who’ve been up in court. Years of it, all logged.’

  Ah, so Geoff Pollitt was the record keeper DCI Mackenzie had referred to. All the court cases and newspaper reports cut out and kept in a scrapbook. That shouldn’t have been a surprise to her, but it was. She hadn’t pictured him reading newspapers.

  ‘Did you know that eight million people living in this country were born abroad? Getting on for a million of them are Poles. Polish is the second most spoken language in England. You’ve seen all the signs written in Polish. You’d think you were in Warsaw.’

  ‘Have you ever been to Warsaw?’

  ‘Don’t talk daft. Before we had the protection order, gangs were constantly hanging around in the marketplace. They intimidated women and old people. There were groups of men sitting on walls and benches and under the trees drinking all day. It frightened a lot of folk off from coming down into town. It’s bad for business. Shopkeepers were having to clear up cans and bottles every morning, and it was all Polish booze. Drinking in public is part of their culture, the Poles and Lithuanians. They even have sessions in the canteen at the
distribution centre now to teach them about English laws, about our culture and the way to drink alcohol.’

  ‘Is that a good idea?’ said Fry. ‘I’m not sure our culture and levels of alcohol consumption are much of an example for anyone.’

  But Pollitt was in full flow. It was if she’d turned on a tap of bile and now she couldn’t stop it.

  ‘Why should folk here put up with it?’ he said, ignoring her comment.

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Antisocial behaviour. Isn’t that what you lot call it? The fact of the matter is, they’re making noise, they’re smoking weed, they’re threatening people with knives,’ he said.

  ‘Can you give me an example?’

  ‘Example?’

  ‘A specific incident when someone was threatened with a knife by a Polish worker. It was reported to the police, surely? But we don’t have anything on record.’

  ‘Folk here don’t always talk to the police,’ said Pollitt. ‘They haven’t always helped. Like by trying to hide the identity of foreign criminals.’

  Fry knew the notorious incident he was referring to. The previous year, Derbyshire Constabulary had gone to court in an attempt to withhold the identity of a young Polish man convicted of a sexual offence in his own country, because they feared reprisals against him in Shirebrook. His offence had only come to light after he was fined for breaching the ban on drinking in public.

  On that occasion, the police argued that the rapid rise in the migrant population had created a deep-seated mistrust of foreign nationals among many of the local population, and that tensions were running high following incidents involving drunken Polish men, culminating in the stabbing of a British man and a knife attack on one drunken Pole by another. The judge had taken a different view, ruling that the young Pole was in no immediate danger. The man had left Shirebrook nevertheless. Maybe he felt the risk to his safety was greater than the judge suspected.

  ‘So you want to get rid of all the East Europeans?’

  ‘Aye. But that’s just the beginning,’ scowled Pollitt.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t need to spell it out. Everybody knows what’s going on. We’re just not allowed to say. We’re not supposed to speak the truth these days. So we say nothing and take action instead. That were always the way of it, right through history. Nobody takes any notice of ordinary people until we get out in the streets, smashing their windows and giving them a good kicking.’

  ‘So who’s next for a kicking after East Europeans? Black people? Muslims? Anyone who happens to be mixed race?’

  ‘Mixed race?’ spat Pollitt. ‘What does that mean? Nothing. It’s one of your mealy-mouthed words. Fact is, you’re either white or you’re not. Anything else is just pollution.’

  Fry felt herself growing hot. She gritted her teeth and her fists clenched in her pockets. This had been a big mistake. She would have to leave the shop soon or she might regret the consequences.

  ‘I want you to know we’re watching you, Mr Pollitt,’ she said. ‘Just in case you had any plans for putting your ideas into action.’

  ‘Oh, like I’m going to let you lot know if I do.’

  With a smile he watched her leave, as if he’d won the encounter. Glad to be out of the shop, Fry went to sit in her car and looked for something to distract herself. She opened the intelligence file she’d been given on Shirebrook. What sort of place was this really?

  A summary of statistics showed a population density here almost three times that in Derbyshire as a whole, and a high percentage of lone pensioner households. It was the most deprived area of the county, with worrying levels of child poverty and a large proportion of adults without qualifications. Mortality rates were considerably higher than average too, with early deaths from cancer being prevalent.

  Fry nodded to herself. So life expectancy was low in Shirebrook? Krystian Zalewski probably hadn’t known that. But he’d soon found out.

  Also in the file was a map of the area affected by the PSPO, with the whole of the town outlined. A thick red line ran all the way around Shirebrook, taking in the town centre, the Model Village, and even the business park where the distribution centre was located.

  On paper, the shape of the PSPO resembled an enormous sack, narrowing to a neck at Upper Langwith, as if all the problems could be contained within it. She sighed. Some hopes.

  Twenty-six miles away Lacey Bower was standing on the trail in the depths of Lathkill Dale. She hunched her shoulders right up to her ears and shook her head at Ben Cooper.

  ‘I told you, I just have this vague memory,’ she said. ‘Really vague, but it’s there in my mind.’

  ‘Lacey, you were at school that day,’ said Cooper.

  She looked completely out of place in Lathkill Dale with her pale features and her lock of black hair over her face. She’d thrown on a huge baggy sweater which hung off her shoulders. It was odd that she should look so incongruous, when this dale had been one of her mother’s favourite places.

  ‘I know, I know. It’s weird, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I was sure I could remember it, but when I asked Aunt Frances about it she told me it wasn’t possible. She said it couldn’t be from that day, just like you. Yet I remember being there with my father. I see it quite clearly. How can that happen?’

  ‘It must be a false memory,’ suggested Carol Villiers. ‘It happens sometimes after a traumatic event.’

  Lacey just shook her head even more vehemently.

  ‘No. Do you know what I think it is? I think Dad went back there later, to the same place. And that time he took me with him.’

  Cooper was watching her closely.

  ‘You’ve got to show us the exact spot, Lacey,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t think I can, though.’

  ‘Think carefully. Cast your mind back to that day. No matter how young you were, there must be some more detailed impressions.’

  ‘There was just this cave.’

  ‘And water pouring out of it.’

  ‘That’s right. I was standing with my dad, looking at the water. I’ve told you all this.’

  Cooper felt frustrated. It was like trying to drag a coma patient back to consciousness with familiar objects and sounds, attempting to jolt their memories with a favourite tune. He needed to find a way of inserting a catalyst into the brain through the functioning senses.

  ‘Try harder, Lacey, please.’

  Lacey stood on the trail and turned in a full circle, staring at her surroundings as if she was seeing the valley for the first time. Or perhaps she was reliving a distant memory that she’d thought was a dream, or a nightmare. Cooper hoped the recollections were becoming clearer, but he didn’t have any great hopes.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Absolutely nothing.’

  It was time for a bigger prompt. Cooper gestured for her to follow him.

  ‘Come with me a little way up the trail.’

  ‘If I’ve got to.’

  ‘It might help.’

  ‘Yeah. And it might not.’

  He led her a few hundred yards up the dale. She followed slowly, with Carol Villiers coming up in the rear. They reached the spot where Lathkill Head came into view.

  ‘Was it this cave, Lacey?’ he said.

  She peered at the gaping entrance and the slabs of rock.

  ‘There’s no water,’ she said.

  ‘Sometimes there is,’ said Cooper. ‘It’s been dry, recently, but at the time your mother went missing, there would have been a lot of water flowing out of this cave. A whole river of it. Try to picture it.’

  Lacey screwed up her face, stared hard at the cave, looked all around her, touched the stone wall by the entrance. At least she was trying. Cooper kept his fingers crossed.

  ‘No, this isn’t it,’ she said finally. ‘Definitely not. I’ve never seen this cave before in my life.’

  Cooper knew he had no justification for keeping Lacey Bower any longer. She was adamant that she couldn’t remember anything more that
would be useful. He went back to the rendezvous point where the DCRO were still actively engaged in a search.

  A few yards from the track was the tail of a deep sough, one of the channels built for draining water out of the mine. The top of the sough must be somewhere up the hill near the ruins of the mine buildings. The route of it seemed to pass under the trail to emerge here and discharge into the goit, a long walled channel that fed into the river. Some levels of Mandale Mine had been lower than the valley bottom, though. There, water had to be pumped up to reach the sough.

  Pheasants cackled in the woods and chased each other through the undergrowth. A buzzard cried plaintively overhead. As he reached the edge of the goit, a vole scuttled out of sight into a hole in the rock.

  The goit alone was about three hundred and fifty yards long with walled sides. How long was the sough tunnel itself, though?

  Cooper dropped down into the goit between the stone walls and entered the portal of the tunnel. As he stepped inside, something touched the top of his head. He raised a hand to brush away a cobweb, but found something more solid. He shone his torch upwards and found a small forest, tendrils of vegetation hanging from the roof, the roots of nettles and ivy that grew on the surface. They’d crawled their way between the stones looking for nutrients, only to find themselves hanging in futile darkness.

  In places the stonework gleamed with moisture. Just as the tunnel turned and lost the light from the entrance, it became rougher underfoot and he found himself stumbling over stones. Ahead, the sough appeared to be blocked. As he walked carefully back to the entrance, he estimated he’d walked about eighty yards to the blockage.

  Cooper pulled a strand of vegetation from his hair and found the DCRO controller standing on the trail, watching him.

  ‘It’s dry at the moment, but that sough flows with water in the winter,’ he said. ‘It drains water out of the mine workings.’

  ‘Can we get to the other end of it?’ asked Cooper. ‘There must be another section past the collapse.’

  ‘Yes, we can reach it from the adit. That’s a horizontal entrance into the mineshaft. Deeper in from the adit there’s a winze, a passage connecting two levels of the mine.’