Blood on the tongue bcadf-3

by Stephen Booth

  Fry watched Caudwell and Nash leave to check themselves into a local hotel.

  ‘Can I see the list, please, sir?’ she said.

  Hitchens gave it to her, and Fry looked through the names. The list felt like a direct challenge, and she had an overwhelming desire to find out as much information as she could about all the people on it before she met Caudwell again. She could see the MDP were a problem, without a doubt. Anyone who was allocated to work with them would be on difficult ground. It would be like throwing someone to the wolves.

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  Ben Cooper had been trying to persuade Fry that Alison Morrissey’s story was connected to the Snowman enquiry, and yet when the evidence wras presented to him, it came as a surprise. Subconsciously, perhaps, he had been convinced that the connections he was makinp were imaginary, that he had

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  been making them up because he wanted a reason to continue

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  the McTcague investigation. But Fry hat) no reason for making these things up.

  ‘So what do you say to that, Ben?’ she asked.

  ‘It was after Easton’s visit that Zygmunt Lukasz started his journal/

  ‘Journal? What’s this?’

  ‘According to his son, Zygmunt is writing his account of the crash of Sugar Uncle Victor,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Oh, that.’

  ‘Dianc, don’t you think it’s time we conceded the possibility that the two things arc connected?’ he said.

  Fry stared at him for a moment. ‘What are you saying, Ben? Do you think Alison Morrissey might have keen involved in the death of Nick Easton?’

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant. She wasn’t even in the country

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  at the time. She arrived after Easton was found.’

  ‘Are you sure? Have you confirmed the time of her Might from Canada? Have you checked she was on the passenger list?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s about time you did, then.’

  Cooper stayed silent.

  ‘It shouldn’t be a problem,’ said Fry. ‘As long as you don’t feel any personal involvement, that is. And I’m sure you don’t feel that, do you, Ben? It wouldn’t be like you at all. Not a competent and dedicated detective like yourself.’

  Cooper felt himself flush. It was a habit he hated in himself, a ridiculous thing for someone approaching thirty years of age. Diane Fry had the uncanny knack of doing it to him. But, of course, it was usually because she was right.

  ‘The connection is there,’ he said. ‘The link is the Lukasz family. Sergeant Caudwell knew the name — and I bet it’s on the list she gave us.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘I think Nick Easton was looking for Andrew Lukasz. though.

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  not Zygmunt.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Cooper. ‘But it seems more than a coincidence that Andrew disappeared the day before Easton

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  arrived. Ant) something upset Zygmunt. His family have been worried about him. They say he’s stopped speaking English. Personally, I think he’s being damned awkward. But then, he hasn’t got long left to live, they say.’

  ‘Is his son very close to him?’

  ‘They’re all close. Yes, very close.’

  ‘Peter Lukasz — what docs he do (or a living?’

  ‘He’s a doctor, works in the A&E department at the hospital.’

  Fry opened a folder full of postmortem photographs of Nick Easton. Cooper still thought of him as the Snowman, since Easton had arrived in Derbyshire with the snow.

  ‘According to Mrs Van Doon, the fatal wound on Easton was caused by a small, very sharp instrument. It could have been a scalpel.’ ‘OK, I can sec what you’re thinking. But Peter Lukasz is supposed to have been on duty at the hospital. We can easily check if he was where he ought to have been at the time Easton was killed.’

  ‘Do it, then. What sort of car does Lukasz drive?’

  ‘A blue BMW, three or four years old.’

  ‘Good in snow?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘But there’s a close little community there, you said.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean they’d conspire together to murder somebody. That would take a serious shared motive.’

  ‘Yes.’ Fry thought about it for a while, looked at the lists in front of her. and thought again.

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  ‘Ben, where else have you been?’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘On this business of Alison Morrissey’s. Who else have you been to see? There was Zygmunt Lukasz, and the old RAF rescue man, Rowland. Who else is there? Tell me.’

  ‘Well, there’s George Malkin.’

  Fry’s face was grim. She looked as though she wanted to grab the lapels of his coat and shake him.

  ‘Tell me who George Malkin is, Ben.’

  ‘He was a farmworker, but he’s been retired for years. The

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  place he lives in at Harrop was his father’s farm in those days, but there’s only the old farmhouse left now. He was a child at the time of the Lancaster crash, but he went up to the site with his brother that night. Malkin is a lonely old man solitary, going a bit strange, but he remembers the crash all right.’ Cooper paused, thinking of Zygmunt Lukasz and Walter Rowland. ‘Well, Malkin is not so old, reallv. Only in his sixties. It just happens that he remembers the crash very well.’

  Fry continued to stare at him. ‘It just happens?’ she said. ‘It just happens?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘This would be George Malkin, of Hollow Shaw Farm, Harrop?’

  ‘Yes. What’s all this about?’

  Fry waved the file at him. ‘Ben, George Malkin is another one of the names on Nick Easton’s list. You’ve been wandering backwards and forwards across their enquiry, without knowing what the hell you were doing.’

  Cooper felt a little surge of excitement, as if all his instincts had been justified.

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘Have you got anything on for the rest of today?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘And have you got a phone number for the Lukasz family?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Try them. We’ll go and see them.’

  Cooper rang. There was no reply. ‘They’re not in.’

  ‘Malkin, then.’

  He tried another number. George Malkin was in. but said he

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  would be busv.

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  ‘We’d really like to come today, Mr Malkin,’ said Cooper.

  ‘If you must. But be warned you’ll take me as you find me.’

  Cooper nodded at Fry. ‘He’ll see us.’

  ‘Let’s go, then,’ she said. ‘I’ll let DI Hitchcns know the situation, and we’ll see how your friend Malkin comes into this.’

  But Cooper still wasn’t sure where they stood. The arrival

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  of the Ministry of Defence Police had confused him, and so did Diane Fry’s sudden interest.

  ‘Diane, do you think I’m right, then - that there might he some connection with the Lancaster crash?’

  ‘If it was just you, Ben, I’d say it was definitely your imagination,’ said Fry.

  ‘But it isn’t just me?’

  ‘No. When the MDP phoned this morning, one of the first things they asked for was to be shown the site of the wreck of Lancaster SUV.’

  Ben Cooper had never had any contact with the Ministry of Defence Police before, except when he had met some members of their surveillance unit on a training course. But he did have an old acquaintance in the RAF Police. Carol Parry was a local woman. Soon she would be finishing her time in the RAF, and she had been talking about applying to Derbyshire Constabulary for a job. Derbyshire would welcome her with open arms — officers with experience would be vital to balance the number of new recruits who were filtering into the ranks.

&nbs
p; o

  While he waited for Diane Fry, Cooper gave Carol Parry a call.

  ‘The MDP arc an entirely different animal to us,’ said Parry. ‘They have a much wider remit, and they deal with civilians. All our customers are servicemen, and most of them end up with the provosts in the Military Correctional Training Centre at Colchester. If the Court Martial gives them more than eighteen months, they transfer to a Home Office prison. So we’re not really concerned with punishing serious crimes.’

  ‘Who is, these days?’

  ‘Well, don’t tell the MDP you’ve spoken to me. They won’t like it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There’s no love lost between the services. It’s like we take the mickey out of the Royal Military Police, and the RMP call us “snowdrops”. But the MDP, they don’t like either of us. Their numbers arc being hacked all the time, because we’re finding other ways of doing the job. It’s the way of the world.’

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  ‘But we work together with the RAF Police when it’s needed. We cooperate.’

  ‘Ah, but that’s because we need you. The RAF Police have no powers of arrest. You have the constabulary powers. But so does Sergeant Caudwell. By the way, are Caudwell and her staff armed?’

  ‘What? I have no idea.’

  ‘Seventy-five per cent of MDP officers are permanentlyarmed.’

  ‘In Derbyshire we have to be specially trained before we’re approved to carry firearms,’ protested Cooper. ‘We have to pass regular tests.’

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  ‘So do they,’ said Parry. ‘Every one of them is fully weapons trained. It makes you remember what they’re really there for. Of course, the only time the general public is likely to notice them is when they’re escorting nuclear convoys up the Al. It’s

  a very British way — if you don’t make a fuss about it. nobody

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  notices.’

  ‘That’s been a help,’ said Cooper. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘What’s the weather like there, anywav, Ben?’

  ‘ j j

  ‘Warming up a bit,’ he said.

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  At least Diane Fry had the sense to let Cooper drive them to Harrop in his Toyota. She had glanced at the road map and seen the clustering of contour lines that indicated the steep descent on the other side of the Snake Pass and the even steeper climh to Harrop. There were still patches of snow and lurking corners of black ice that would be worsening now as it grew dark again.

  On the way to Harrop, they passed an empty patrol car parked in a lay-by near Irontongue Hill. The car displayed the force’s website address on the side — www.derbyshire. police.uk. Members of the public were able to visit the site and read the Chief Constable’s report and news of the Bobby of the Year Award. Cooper’s favourite was the recruitment section, which stated that candidates had to be proficient in the use of ‘everyday technical equipment’, like telephones and riot shields.

  A few yards further up the road, two officers in fluorescent jackets were walking up and down the road opening the yellow grit bins placed on the verges by the council. They were still looking for Baby Chloe.

  ‘I was thinking about Marie Tcnnent yesterday,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ said Fry.

  ‘I was trying to understand why she did it. Why she went up there, I mean, to leave the baby clothes.’

  ‘And did you succeed in understanding, Ben?

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It didn’t seem enough of a reason to me.’

  ‘Nor me,’ said Fry.

  ‘I wish there were more time to spend on her. I’d like to be able to understand.’

  ‘Finding the baby is what’s important, for now. We can leave that to others.’

  Despite Fry’s words, Cooper didn’t think she sounded entirely convinced. She, too, wanted to know about Marie Tcnnent. But there were procedures to be followed, priorities to be observed.

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  A need to understand why people behaved the way they did was not enough to justify their time.

  They drove on in silence for a while, following the twists and turns of the Snake Pass.

  ‘So how’s the new place?’ said Fry. ‘Settled in OK?’

  ‘Sure. It’s very handy.’

  ‘You won’t have any (.rouble getting into work on time, anyway.’

  ‘I never did/ said Cooper.

  ‘A lot of people don’t think it’s a good idea to live on your own patch. The customers can get to know where your home address is. It’s been on my mind out at Grosvenor Avenue, but you’re really in the thick of it where you are. Right on the doorstep for any tankcd-up hooligan who staggers out of a town-centre pub and fancies throwing a brick through a copper’s window. I know you’re everybody’s favourite bobbv, but even you must have a few enemies, Ben.’

  ‘I don’t mind that,’ said Cooper. ‘I’ll put up with that risk. I prefer to feel part of the community.’

  ‘Oh/ said Fry. ‘Community.’

  ‘It’s not a dirty word/

  ‘It isn’t something real, though, is it? It’s a word that we use in the titles of reports. Community liaison. Working with the community. Understanding the ethnic community. It’s a word, Ben. It’s not something you actually live in, not these days. You’re living in the past. You should have been born fifty years earlier. You’d have loved that, wouldn’t you? The days when a bit of friendly advice or a clip round the ear would solve most things.’

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  ‘Friendly advice still doesn’t go amiss now and then.’

  The Toyota crested the hill above Glossop, and the view over Manchester opened up in front of them. From here, the road wound down over western-facing moors to where the drystone walls ended and it became a different kind of country.

  ‘Ben, I’m concerned that your mind seems to be on other things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wondered whether it was something to do

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  with moving nut of the farm. I know it’s a big wrench for you.

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  I know it’s not easy living on your own (or the first time.’

  Cooper looked at her in amazement. This sounded horribly like a caring Diane Fry. Rut it wasn’t really him she cared about. It was a question of doing the job right. No doubt she had been told to take an interest in the personal welfare of the officers under her supervision. He was probably her first attempt, a bit of practice.

  ‘Ben? You were miles away again. What were you thinking about?’

  ‘Nothing/ he said.

  ‘And that’s the trouble,’ she said. Her voice had changed suddenly.

  ‘What is?’ asked Cooper, surprised.

  ‘You never want to share what you’re thinking. I don’t know what’s going on in your head, Ben, but sometimes it’s obviously nothing to do with your job. There’s a part of your life that you won’t let anybody into.’

  It was difficult to know what to say to her. So Cooper just kept quiet, and drove on.

  Diane Fry was appalled by Harrop. It was like an outpost of the Wild West, without the cowboys. For a start, there didn’t seem to be any roads, only potholcd tracks, some of them barely wide enough for the car. There were no street lamps and no facilities of any kind. Nothing. Not a pub or a shop or a school, no village post office. Not even a phone box, as far as she could see. Just a few clusters of houses made of blackened stone, sheltering behind high walls.

  The back of Irontongue Hill loomed over the village like the carcase of a dead whale, the outcrops of gritstone like patches of barnacles encrusted on its sides. Around Harrop, there was still deep snow lying in the fields, getting deeper as the grazing land deteriorated into open stretches of heather and dead bracken. The space between the houses and the rocky hillside was crammed with sheds and outbuildings, barns and derelict hen huts. In some cases, the supply of stone must have

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  run out, because their builders had i
mprovised with breeze-block and corrugated iron.

  It was so desolate up here. Uninhabited and uninhabitable. But at least Fry had been able to see Manchester from further up the hill - a rare indication that civilization wasn’t all that far away, after all. Down in the city, there would be restaurants and theatres and anonymous crowds, and concrete and tarmac instead of the relentless cold wind snatching at her clothes in this isolated moorland landscape. She had never felt so exposed in her life.

  ‘We have to turn right and go up the hill a bit,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Up the hill? Aren’t we high enough yet?’

  ‘Hollow Shaw is the top farm, on the brow of the hill there.’

  ‘I see it.’

  Amazingly, the road got even worse as they approached Malkin’s home. At one point, a ragged sheep stood in the roadway, chewing at a branch of a tree growing in a gateway. The animal turned and looked at the car as the headlights hit it. The light reflected from its eyes as if they were mirrors. Reluctantly, the sheep trotted away, its hooves slipping on the compacted snow.

  ‘Do you know, if you’d told me what it was like, this is the last place 1 would have wanted to come in the dark,’ said Fry.

  “I expect it looks a bit better in the daylight,’ said Cooper.

  ‘You mean it Joe.s get light here sometimes?’

  When George Malkin answered the door, he had his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms, the hair on them stained with what looked like streaks of blood. He had taken his boots off in the house, but was wearing thick socks, as well as a brown sweater full of holes and plastic over-trousers on top of his blue boiler suit. His clothes were wet and sticky.

  Cooper could sense Fry staring at Malkin’s stained forearms, ready to jump to some wild conclusion from the man’s appearance. But he could smell that unique odour of blood and birth

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  fluids, both fruity and metallic at the same time the scent of new life.