Blood on the tongue bcadf-3

by Stephen Booth

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  short-sightedly as he tried to tighten the screws holding them together. Watching him, Cooper thought the job might take him a long time. His hands were too unsteady either to keep the screw in position or to At the screwdriver on to it.

  ‘Ah, well,’ said Lawrence. ‘So that’s another customer ^one, then.’

  Cooper hadn’t held out much hope of Lawrence. Even with so few people visiting his shop, it was asking a lot to expect him to remember a particular one. It was painful to watch him struggling with the screw, and it meant talking to the top of his head. But Cooper wasn’t going to volunteer to help.

  ‘I forgot to go and see your aunt about the flat,’ he said.

  ‘Not to worry,’ said Lawrence. ‘It probably isn’t your sort of place.’

  ‘No, I’m sure it’s fine. I meant to give her a call last night.

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  but I was busy.’

  ‘ There will be somewhere a lot better waiting for you. Have you tried the estate agent on Fargate? They’ve got some nice properties.’

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  ‘I can’t afford them.’

  ‘Aunt Dorothy is getting a bit eccentric anyway.’

  ‘No, I’ll go.’ Cooper looked at the board. ‘I see you’ve taken the postcard down.’

  ‘Oh, yes. The Hat has probably been let by now.’

  ‘Has ft?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Lawrence was mumbling over his counter, so that Cooper could hardly hear what he was saying.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I just thought the card was getting a bit faded.’

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  ‘It’s worth a try then. I’ll call round at Welbeck Street tonight.’

  It was in that moment of saying it that Cooper knew he had committed himself. If the flat was even half habitable, he wouldn’t be able to find a reason to get out of taking it not without long and impossible explanations to make.

  He left the bookseller still trying to fit the lens of his glasses back in. Near the counter, he saw a set of illustrated Thomas Hardy novels: faryrom (Ae WaJjin^ Growj, [nder taste Greenwood Tree, uJe f?c O&ru/c. Cooper had loved Thomas Hardy as a teenager, uje had been one of his A-level set books, and he had read all the rest one after another, drawn into the evocation of a remote yet familiar world. These editions were in gold covers with coloured panels, protected in a cardboard slipcasc, and they were priced at ^45. Cooper wondered what the profit on that was for Lawrence Daley. Assuming that he ever sold them, of course.p>

  It had already been dark for over an hour by the time Ben Cooper got to the house in Welbeck Street. It was across the river from the Dam Street area where Marie Tcnncnt lived. If it hadn’t been tor the houses behind, he might have been able to see the roof of the heritage centre in the old silk mill.

  Dorothy Shelley stood in the hallway of the ground-floor flat at number 8 and looked him over. She was a slender woman wearing a cashmere cardigan, with another slung over her shoulders. The cardigans looked a bit frayed round the edges, and they gave her an air of decayed gentility, which might have been natural, but could just as easily have been the image she

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  was aiming to present. Cooper was initially pleased with the look of the flat, which comprised the ground floor of a stone-built semi-detached house, solid and sympathetically converted, with the occasional incongruity of stud wall and plastic coving.

  ‘If you could perhaps tell me what’s included in the rent,’ he said. ‘What about Council Tax and water rates?’

  ‘Do you have any objections to cats?’ said Mrs Shelley.

  ‘None at all. We have several back home. Well, they’re farm cats really. They’re supposed to be outside, but they spend as much time in the house as they do in the outbuildings.’

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  ‘That’s good,’ said Mrs Shellev ‘Only, there’s a sort of a

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  lodger, you see.’

  ‘Oh?”

  ‘She stays in the conservatory, except to go out in the garden to do her duty. She’s no trouble at all.’

  ‘You mean there’s a cat? That’s all right, as long as the central

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  heating works and there isn’t too much damp. Who’s responsible for the maintenance work?’

  “I call her Miranda,’ said Mrs Shelley. ‘She’s a stray, but she seems to have moved in for a while. I’m glad you don’t mind, because I couldn’t throw her out. Not now.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure it won’t be a problem. Is the electricity supply on a coin meter? Or would 1 get a separate bill? 1 could do with an estimate of the running costs, so 1 can tell whether 1 can afford it.’

  ‘Actually, I’m worried about Miranda,’ she said.

  ‘Oh?’

  I know she’s only a stray moggie, but I took her in because I could see she was pregnant. I couldn’t bear the thought of her having her babies out in the cold and the snov.’

  Cooper opened a cupboard door, hoping to find the electricity meter. But the cupboard was full of cleaning equipment and empty boxes.

  ‘So I brought her into the conservatory and made her a little bed in there,’ said Mrs Shelley.

  Cooper sighed. ‘And has she had the kittens?’

  ‘No. That’s what I’m worried about.’

  ‘You wouldn’t mind if I bought a few small pieces of furniture,

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  oulcl you? The odd chair, a writing desk. And I need somewhere to set up a personal computer. Perhaps over here, near the power points. I’d have to move the sideboard a bit.’

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  ‘She seems to be getting bigger and bigger, but nothing’s happening.’

  ‘The sideboard would go nicelv in that corner, Mrs Shellev.

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  II I moved the table over a loot or two …’

  She wrung her gloves in her hands. ‘In fact, since you’re here, would you mind having a look at her? At Miranda, I mean.’

  ‘Mrs Shelley, if there’s a problem with your cat, I really think it would be a better idea to let a vet have a look at her.’

  ‘I know, but vets are so expensive, aren’t they? Won’t you please have a quick look? You said you live on a farm, so you must know about animals. I’m sure you’ll be able to tell whether I’m panicking tor no reason.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’ve got time. I only popped in from work. I really should be getting back. If you could just let me know a lew things. I was wondering about a parking space for my car.’

  ‘If you tell me the poor thing needs a vet well, I suppose I’ll find the money somehow.’

  Cooper sighed again. ‘All right. I’ll take a quick look.’

  Mrs Shellev led the way through the kitchen into the little

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  conservatory. Cooper followed, pausing to examine the electric cooker and the fridge. They looked reasonably new and in good condition, but there were hardly any work surfaces, and the cupboards were old and starting to look chipped around the edges.

  ‘Is there a freezer, or enough space to put one in?’ he said.

  ‘She’s in here,’ said Mrs Shelley, ‘the poor love.’

  Miranda was jet black, with thick fur that looked as though it had recently been groomed. The cat lay curled in a wicker basket padded with cushions and part of an old blanket. The basket was pulled up close to where the flue from the stove passed through the wall, and it looked the warmest and most comfortable spot in the entire house.

  ‘What do you think, dear?’

  ‘I think a free/cr would go better in the kitchen,’ said Cooper.

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  Mrs Shelley looked at him in complete bafflement. ‘You haven’t even looked at her/ she said.

  Obediently, Cooper bent down, and the black cat opened a wary eye at him. It was a sharp, yellow eye set in a broad face that was almost Persian. He could see that the cat’s stomach was pretty large. In fact, the animal had to lie sideways in the basket to acco
mmodate its bulk.

  Cooper put a hand out cautiously, fighting memories of cats that had taken exception to being touched by a stranger and had left their claw marks on the back of his hand to reinforce the message. But Miranda didn’t move as he stroked her side and felt the rounded swelling under the black fur. A faint, rumbling purr started up, like the revving of a tiny motorbike, and Cooper gently cased his hand underneath to where the cat’s belly rested on the blanket.

  ‘How long has she been this big?’ he asked.

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  ‘Well, she was quite large when I took her in,’ said Mrs Shellev. ‘And she seems to have got bigger and bigger since

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  then. It must be six weeks now.’

  ‘Six weeks? Arc you sure?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  Cooper moved his hand over the cat’s belly, feeling carefully for signs of engorged teats, then moved it backwards. Miranda didn’t protest as he raised one back leg and took a quick peck at the rear end hidden under the fur. He lowered the leg and

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  looked at the floor to the side of the basket, where there were several saucers, one containing fresh milk and the other three with various tasty-looking delicacies — one seemed to be tuna, and there were some scraps of chicken, too.

  ‘I hope you haven’t been spoiling Miranda too much,’ he said.

  ‘She has to cat properly,’ said Mrs Shelley, following his gaze. ‘It’s very important in the later stages of pregnancy. I make sure there is always plenty to tempt her appetite. I give her a few little tidbits. Nothing wrong with that, is there?’

  ‘Not within reason.’

  Cooper let the cat settle back into its position. It eased itselt over to allow space for its rounded belly and looked

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  up at him. The cat’s stare was faintly challenging, but full of conspiratorial knowingncss. A message seemed to pass between them, an acknowledgement by the cat that it had met someone who understood these things. A warm basket, as much food as you could want, a bit of affection and no demands made on you at all. It sounded idyllic to Cooper, too.

  ‘I don’t think Miranda will be having kittens any time soon,’ he said.

  ‘Oh dear, what’s wrong?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong really. Nothing that a little less rich food and a bit more exercise wouldn’t help.’

  ‘Oh, but poor Miranda

  ‘And you might think about changing his name as well,’ said Cooper.

  The cat gave him that look again. It was a steady gaze, resigned but with no hint of shame. ‘Man to man/ it said, ‘you’d have done exactly the same.’

  ‘Well, if you’ve <^uitc finished,’ said Mrs Shelley. ‘Are you going to tell me what you think of the flat?’

  Cooper hesitated. He looked at the side wall of the house next door, at the cat hairs tangled on the floor of the conservatory, and at a raffia chair with black specks of mould, which sat under the boarded window. He still had no idea as to the whereabouts of the electricity meter, the size of the Council Tax bills, or who paid for the maintenance. In the pause before he answered, Cooper could hear nothing in the house but the purring of the cat and the ticking of the radiators, like a faint background heartbeat, the sound of somebody sleeping.

  ‘It’ll do fine,’ he said.

  That night, at home at Bridge End Farm, Ben Cooper discovered that the Canadian woman, Alison Morrissey, had taken her story to the media. In fact, she must have contacted them in advance of her arrival with information on the purpose of her visit. It had been a clever move, and he wondered if someone had been advising her on a public relations strategy.

  The regional television stations had picked up her story and there were items about her that night. Morrissey was a gift

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  to the screen her face played well for the cameras, being striking as well as full of both passion and intelligence. There was a particular scene in a Ga/enJar piece on YTV that showed her against the backdrop of a snowcovered Irontonguc Hill, where the wreckage of her grandfather’s Lancaster bomber still lay. Morrissey’s face was flushed with the cold, and her dark hair was in constant movement in the wind as she spoke to the interviewer. Her voice came across calmlv and with absolute

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  clarity against the bluster of the wind on the microphone. She was an articulate woman, too. There were no signs of the usual stumblings and ‘ers’ and ‘urns’ that were so irritating in people unused to being interviewed.

  Cooper watched as the camera finally pulled awav and lingered on a shot of Alison Morrissey ga/.ing at the hill, her face in profile, her expression a picture of common sense and determination, but with a hint of strong emotion held in check. It wasn’t quite clear how she achieved that effect — it was something about the way she tilted her head, or the angle of her

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  neck. He didn’t think it was entirely an act for the camera.

  This woman wasn’t some nutcase whose life had been taken over by an irrational obsession. Determined and clever Morrissey certainly was, but she seemed to be sincere too. Sincere people could be the most trouble.

  The sight of Morrissey on the screen had made him forget for a while all the noise around him. The noises were the sounds of his brother Matt’s family going about their usual evening activities, which seemed to consist mostly of shouting and arguing, laughing and singing. But even these seemed to retreat into the background as Cooper watched the piece shot on the hillside. He could see it had been Rimed early that afternoon, with clouds already starting to build up in the east, but shafts of sunlight lit up the outcrops of rock on top of Irontonguc Hill. The producer must have been delighted with the effect, as well as with the performance in front of the camera by Alison Morrissey herself.

  She had certainly been a contrast to DC! Kcssen, who had made an appearance in the main news bulletin, appealing to the public for information about the whereabouts of Marie Tennent’s

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  baby. ‘We’re very concerned for the safety of this child,’ he said. In fact, he said it three times, and still failed to get any sincerity into his voice.

  When the next item came on the TV — a funny piece about a quaint rural tradition in North Yorkshire Cooper continued staring at the screen for a while without seeing it.

  There was so much happening in his life at the moment that it seemed inconceivable he should be developing an interest in something fiftv-sevcn wears old. But the signs were there of the

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  beginnings of a fascination. They always included a desire to find out everything there was to know about a subject, and a tendency to he thinking about it even when he was supposed to he on duty.

  He was lucky that he had survived this long in the job when his mind was so prone to (lights of imagination. Imagination was a trait that didn’t always fit with routine police work. Up to now, his supervisors had given him plenty of leew ay on the strength of his reputation. And, of course, because of who he was. He was Sergeant Joe Cooper’s son. Who wouldn’t find it understandable if he seemed to be a little distracted occasionally? But now, more than ever, Cooper was aware that he ought to watch his step.

  He turned off the TV and looked at his watch. The man he most wanted to talk to at this moment was Walter Rowland, the former member of the RAF rescue team who had been on the scene of the Lancaster crash. Aside from Zvgmunt Lukasz.

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  Rowland was the only surviving witness he knew of. But it had been a long dav and he was exhausted. Maybe tomorrow he

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  would find a chance to contact Rowland. Probably it would be a waste of time. It all happened a long lime ago, after all, and Rowland was an old man by now — no doubt he would have forgotten the whole thing.

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  Because he had turned off the TV, Cooper missed the news bulletin later that night, when it was announced that human remains had been found at the site of an old aircraft wreck on Irontongu
e Hill.

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  Ever .since he had retired, Walter Rowland liked to listen to the radio in his workshop. The sound of the voices soothed him as he

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  worked, helped him to forget the increasing pain that would knot his hands into claws for days. The news readers’ talk of events going on in and around Derbyshire was somehow reassuring; it made him feel that he was well off where he was, lucky to be out of the constant mad whirl of car crashes and house Hres and endless incomprehensible arguments about subjects he would never have to understand. But tonight, what he heard on the radio made him pause on his lathe. He stared at a curl of wood as it hung from the chair leg, ready to fall. He had forgotten what he was supposed to be doing.

  Rowland had been just eighteen years old when the RAF Lancaster crashed on Irontongue Hill. He had enlisted twelve months before the war ended, and had never seen any action. Instead, he had been recruited into the RAF mountain rescue unit based at Harpur Hill. Then he had seen a bit of action all right, and plenty of dead and injured men, too. Rut the bodies had all been from his own side British and American airmen, or Canadians, Australians and Poles. They had not been killed by enemy action, but had died on the hills of the Peak District. A lot of them had flown unwarily into the deadly embrace of the Dark Peak, into that old trap that lay between low cloud and high ground.

  They didn’t say much on the radio news late that evening. But he heard the newsreader mention human remains and an aircraft wreck on Irontongue Hill. The words were enough to take Rowland back over half a century, to a scene of carnage and a burning aircraft on a snowcovered hill. There had been human remains then, all right. There had been pieces everywhere, and men charred like burnt steaks in the wreckage.

  He thought about the possibility that there might, after all, have been another body the rescue team hadn’t found, a fatally injured crew member who had been overlooked. But then Rowland remembered how thorough the search of