06.The Dead Place

by Stephen Booth

  ‘Definitely a man?’

  ‘She was fairly confident about that.’

  ‘It’s very vague, Diane.’

  ‘That’s what the coroner thought. There was no convincing evidence that anyone was in the van with Richard Slack. The staff at the firm were interviewed, but they all said the same thing – Richard hadn’t asked them to go with him on the call.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  Cooper was still standing by his car when the organ started up in the crematorium chapel. Not ‘Abide With Me’, but something else that he couldn’t identify at first. The voices of the congregation coming in on the opening lines disguised the tune, rather than making it clearer.

  ‘It was a very late call,’ said Fry. ‘Three o’clock in the morning. I think Richard Slack wouldn’t have wanted to call out one of the casual staff. A family firm like that, I think he would have phoned his partner to do the job.’

  ‘Melvyn Hudson.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Diane, even if your theory is correct, a passenger leaving the scene of an accident isn’t a major crime. If Hudson was in the van, he might have been injured himself. He might have been in shock or something.’

  ‘Like I said, this was a really late call. Early hours of the morning, in fact. There was no traffic around on that road at three a.m. The lady who found the crash was only on the road because she had to catch an early flight from East Midlands Airport and it was a shortcut from her home to the M1. As the coroner said, the absence of traffic was unfortunate. Because Richard Slack wasn’t killed immediately. He died from loss of blood, and from choking on his own vomit, as a result of the position he was left in after the crash.’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘Exactly. The medical reports said he would most likely have survived, if only somebody had been on hand to put him into the recovery position and phone for an ambulance. But nobody was. And so Richard Slack died.’

  At last, Cooper recognized the hymn drifting from the chapel: ‘The Lord’s My Shepherd’. Two lines floated clearer than the others across the garden of remembrance. ‘Yea, though I walk in death’s dark vale, Yet will I fear no ill.’

  A few minutes later, Cooper drove on to the Devonshire Estate. He went a few yards past Vivien Gill’s house, checking the number of cars on the street, before he parked at the kerb and walked back to her front door.

  ‘I thought you’d finished with me,’ said Mrs Gill. ‘It’s all over and done with now, as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘You’re not interested in finding out who stole your daughter’s body?’

  ‘That’s up to you. The general opinion is that you won’t get anywhere.’

  ‘The general opinion? Do you mean among your family?’

  ‘We talked about it after the funeral on Saturday, obviously.’

  ‘I’ll bet you did,’ said Cooper. ‘A few drinks in the pub and the talk got a bit heated, I imagine?’

  ‘Some of my family were upset. I was upset, too. We can’t believe what happened, and you people aren’t likely to do anything about it, are you?’

  ‘I see. So you decided to take matters into your own hands.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Oh, not you, Mrs Gill. But I’ve met some of your relatives, remember.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear you talk about my family like that.’

  ‘Are you related to Micky Ellis?’

  ‘Yes, but only by marriage through my eldest daughter. What of it?’

  Cooper sighed with exasperation. ‘Mrs Gill …’

  ‘I think you’d better go now,’ she said.

  ‘I need to know –’

  ‘You’re wasting your time. I’m not going to tell you anything about them. Not even their names or where they live.’

  ‘We’ll be able to find out, you know.’

  ‘Do it, then. Arrest me, and lock me up. I still won’t tell you anything. Nor will anyone else.’

  Cooper nearly swore with exasperation. The woman gazed at him defiantly, her chin lifted, her mouth turned down in an expression of stubbornness, verging on contempt.

  ‘And if you’re not going to do that, I want you to go,’ she said. ‘If I ask you to leave my house, you have to, don’t you?’

  He stood up, and turned angrily on his heel. ‘Mrs Gill, don’t you realize what they’ve done? They’ve destroyed the records that could have helped us to find out who stole Audrey’s body.’

  Her expression slipped a little then, revealing a flicker of doubt. But in a moment her face closed again, and she walked to the door.

  ‘I’ll say goodbye,’ she said. ‘And that’s all I’ve got to say.’

  DI Hitchens called Fry into his office and asked for an update. He listened with interest while she ran through the possible scenarios.

  ‘Have the media shown any interest in this enquiry yet?’ he asked.

  ‘They used the appeals we gave them with the facial reconstruction, and a bit of stuff on Sandra Birley. But nothing else seems to have leaked out.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘It’s odd, really.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I’d have put our man down as the type who badly wants publicity. Needs it, even. He must have realized by now that we aren’t going to share what we have with the press. Wouldn’t you expect him to do something to get the attention of the media? A call to a journalist or something.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be a bit risky?’

  ‘Not as risky as his calls to us. He obviously doesn’t mind taking a bit of a risk.’

  ‘You’re right, Diane. Let’s think about that for a minute. It might give us a lead on him. What sort of person would take the risk of communicating directly with the police, but avoid the press?’

  ‘Sir, we don’t know that he has avoided the press,’ said Fry. ‘What if he’s phoned one of the newspapers or the local radio station, and they’ve done nothing about it or haven’t taken him seriously?’

  ‘He wouldn’t be very happy about that.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is there any way we can enquire discreetly of our media contacts whether they’ve had a call?’

  ‘Discreetly? No, there isn’t. No matter how we approached it, they’d sniff out a story. We’d be defeating our own object, unless we can put pressure on them to keep it to themselves.’

  ‘OK. Maybe it’s not worthwhile. But make sure the press office is briefed on how to deal with the issue if the media do get a call from him.’

  ‘With discretion?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘From our point of view, it’s possible that a lack of response from the media is the best thing that could happen. If he is a publicity seeker, it will infuriate him not to be taken seriously. Then he’s likely to go to greater lengths to attract attention. That’s when he’ll make a mistake.’

  ‘We hope.’

  Hitchens nodded. ‘Thank God we only have the locals to deal with. The last thing we want is to bring the nationals down around our ears.’

  ‘Amen to that.’

  Diane Fry’s phone rang. ‘It’s Pat Jamieson.’

  ‘Oh, Dr Jamieson. Thanks for getting back to me.’

  ‘No problem. I’ve dug out the records you were interested in – the Alder Hall bone collection.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘But I think I can do better than that. I’ve asked around, and it turns out my predecessor who did the inventory is still in the area, though he’s long since retired. I’ve even got a phone number for you. You can talk to him directly about it.’

  ‘That’s great,’ said Fry, though the feeling in her stomach prevented her putting the right enthusiasm into the words.

  Dr Jamieson sounded disappointed at her restraint. ‘Oh, well, here’s the number, if it’s any use to you,’ he said.

  Fry wrote down the phone number that was dictated to her. Then she disappointed Dr Jamieson even more by not bothering to ask him for the name of his retired colleague. She al
ready knew who it was.

  ‘And what about the remains from Litton Foot?’ she said instead.

  Jamieson coughed and muttered for a few moments, and Fry thought she’d probably offended him. Then he began to prevaricate, like a defendant in the dock when asked a particularly probing question.

  ‘We don’t want to make a mistake with this one, Sergeant, so we’re not going to jump to any conclusions. There was no skull present, as you know. And in the absence of the skull, it’s much more difficult to provide a definite identification of human bones. Some of these remains are fragmentary, so … Well, we propose to carry out precipitin tests.’

  ‘Precipitin tests?’

  ‘It’s the only way to determine species.’

  Fry could hear her own voice getting louder as she lost patience. ‘What exactly are you telling me, Doctor?’

  ‘I’m telling you that I can’t tell you anything until we’re absolutely certain,’ snapped back Jamieson.

  It wasn’t clear which of them slammed the phone down first. When the door of the CID room opened, Fry looked up angrily, ready to take out her irritation on the first person she saw.

  But it was DI Hitchens. He walked slowly into the room, like a man suffering a living nightmare.

  ‘Diane,’ he said, ‘we’ve got another body. And this time it’s a fresh one.’

  32

  The Ravensdale woods were silent. The damp foliage muffled every sound, except for the rushing of the stream somewhere below. It had been raining all morning, and once he was past Ravensdale Cottages, Cooper found the muddy track covered in stones, leaves, dead branches, and all the other debris washed down by the rain.

  At Litton Foot, Cooper walked slowly through the long grass of the paddock and paused by the abandoned car. Tom Jarvis stood at the door of the house, watching him but saying nothing. He was trying to weigh up in his mind why Cooper was here again, and he was taking his time about it.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Jarvis,’ said Cooper. Wiping a layer of mould from the glass of the car’s windscreen, he peered inside. Then he moved to the boot. ‘Is it all right if I take a look, sir?’

  ‘Be my guest,’ said Jarvis. ‘Don’t mind me.’

  The dogs had noticed Cooper now, and they came lumbering around his feet as he lifted the boot lid. Water had leaked through the seals, and the spare wheel sat in several inches of water in the well. He slammed the boot again, and moved on to the chest freezer. It opened with a sucking of rubber, and he knew he’d find nothing inside, except more mould coating the aluminium sides.

  Without a word, Jarvis walked towards the old trailer and let down the ramp. The wooden floor had rotted, and the nearest wheel arch was corroded into more holes than a lace handkerchief.

  ‘See anything interesting?’ said Jarvis. ‘Or is it just routine?’

  Cooper held his hand out for the dogs to sniff, and they wagged their tails.

  ‘Mr Jarvis, I understand you once worked for the funeral directors, Hudson and Slack.’

  ‘Aye. Well, get it right – I did some work for them.’

  ‘You mean you were never actually an employee?’

  ‘No. I was a carpenter by trade, see. That was my main job. But I helped out with other work when they were short-handed.’

  ‘You worked on coffins, then? And you were a bearer sometimes, perhaps?’

  ‘If they needed me. What’s this all about?’

  ‘You must know Melvyn Hudson?’

  ‘Yes, I reckon I do. Haven’t seen Hudson for a long time, though. Probably we’ll meet up again when he does my funeral.’

  ‘Did you get on with him all right?’

  ‘Aye.’ Slowly, Jarvis walked to the rail of the porch and looked towards the woods. ‘A damn sight better than I did with that bastard who was his partner.’

  Cooper was unprepared for the vehemence in Jarvis’s voice. ‘Richard Slack? You’re the first person I’ve heard say a bad word about him.’

  Jarvis turned back and looked at him. ‘Well, most folk don’t care to speak ill of the dead. I wouldn’t normally do it myself. But I’ll make an exception in the case of Richard Bloody Slack.’

  The 999 call had come into the control room half an hour earlier. By the time Diane Fry arrived at the scene, the machinery of a murder enquiry was already getting up to speed. SOCOs in their white paper suits were rustling and squeaking around the house, an inner cordon had been set up across the doorway, and a safe route marked through the garden and past the conservatory. Police vehicles filled the drive and blocked off the street, while officers deterred inquisitive members of the public.

  Even worse, a TV crew had arrived and were setting up across the road. They must have been in town on another assignment to get to the scene so quickly. Fry felt a stab of irritation to find herself trailing after the media. The place was already turning into a circus.

  DI Hitchens was standing near the crime scene van. He was banned from the house until the senior SOCO allowed him in.

  ‘Well, you got your wish, Diane,’ he said, hunching his shoulders against the drizzle. ‘This is a murder enquiry now. Mr Kessen has been appointed SIO. He’ll be arriving shortly – not that we need him on this one. But at least we’ll get our resources. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

  ‘It looks as though most of the available resources are here already,’ said Fry, as a scientific support van backed up to the gate and began unloading equipment.

  ‘It’s a walkthrough,’ said Hitchens. ‘If we let these lads do their thing for a bit, we can all pack up and go home early.’

  ‘It can’t be, sir.’

  The DI inclined his head towards the house. ‘Forget about your phone calls. This is nothing to do with them.’

  Wayne Abbott put his head out of the front door and gave them a nod. They climbed into scene suits handed to them from the van, and went into the house.

  Sandra Birley’s body lay face up in the conservatory. She appeared to have fallen on to the raffia matting from just inside the sliding doors. Blood had soaked into the matting from a serious head wound. Well, at least one wound. Of course, the amount of bleeding from the scalp could be out of all proportion to the seriousness of the injury. But the main source of the blood seemed to be an area just above the left temple, which had left Sandra’s hair almost as thick and matted as the raffia she lay on.

  ‘She was in the dining room when she was struck,’ said Abbott. ‘See the blood splatter on the glass panels of the door? That splatter is on the inside. So it looks as though the victim was standing on the carpet, about here. When she was hit, the blood sprayed in this direction, on to the glass. She staggered back a few steps, probably tripped over the runner, then fell backwards. There’s more blood on the wall of the conservatory, see. But it’s low down, near the floor. That’s secondary splatter – spray from the impact of her head on the matting.’

  ‘Do we have a weapon?’ asked Fry.

  ‘We certainly do. A wooden carving of a dolphin. Here we are – it’s made of some kind of tropical wood. Very hard, and very heavy. Nicely balanced for a good swing, too. It looks as though the dolphin probably stood on this table right here, near the fireplace.’

  ‘That’s right, it did.’

  Abbott looked at her in surprise. ‘Oh, you’ve been in the house before? I don’t suppose you can tell us if there’s anything missing, then?’

  Fry gazed around the Birleys’ house.

  ‘Yes, there is,’ she said. ‘The husband.’

  When her mobile phone rang, it sounded embarrassingly loud inside the house.

  ‘How’s it going down there?’ asked Gavin Murfin.

  ‘Don’t ask, Gavin. What do you want?’

  ‘I’ve got some news. I think you might be going to curse the experts again.’

  ‘Oh? Who this time?’

  ‘The anthropologist that we sent the cremains to for analysis.’

  ‘Surely he can’t have produced a report yet, Gavin?’

&
nbsp; ‘No, just an initial finding that he thought we might want to know about.’

  Fry felt her heart sink. ‘What?’

  ‘Well, apparently he sifted the ashes and found a few teeth.’

  ‘But that’s what we were hoping for. It gives us the possibility of an identification through dental records, like the one we got for Audrey Steele.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s what he was so keen to let us know. A bit too keen actually, if you ask me. Cheerful, he was. Like he wanted to rub it in.’

  ‘Spit it out, Gavin. There aren’t enough teeth left intact for us to use, I suppose?’

  ‘Plenty of them. The trouble is, these teeth aren’t human.’

  Cooper recalled that he had never actually been inside Tom Jarvis’s house. He wondered if he was going to be invited in now, to get out of the wet. But he only got as far as the porch, where a couple of old beech carver chairs stood near a window. From this elevation, he could see a small mound of fresh earth to the side of the house, dark from the continuing rain.

  ‘Hudson and Slack was already in trouble by then, you know,’ said Jarvis.

  ‘Financial trouble?’

  ‘Aye. They couldn’t compete once the Americans starting buying up funeral directors in Derbyshire.’

  ‘Is that what Melvyn Hudson and Richard Slack fell out about? They did fall out, didn’t they?’

  Jarvis nodded. ‘Hudson wanted to compete by being different, selling the firm as local and traditional. He’d worked in the USA, and he knew what the American approach would be.’

  ‘But Mr Slack?’

  ‘He was always the financial brains, so they said. He ran the business side, while Hudson organized the funerals. But as soon as things started to look bad, Slack had only one solution – he wanted to sell up.’