Dancing with the Virgins bcadf-2

by Stephen Booth

When they finally located Keith Teasdale, he was digging a solidified mass of dead leaves out of a drain cover behind the abattoir. There was a curious smell on this side of the building, more reminiscent of a butcher’s shop than a hospital. But the brush Teasdale clutched in one hand looked particularly unthreatening.

  ‘I’ve already told you I’ve been up to Warren Leach’s place,’ he said.

  ‘Known him for long?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘Yes, years. How old is his eldest lad, Will? Eleven? I remember when he was just a nipper. He wanted to help me with the rats once, because he took a liking to the terriers. But his dad stopped him coming near me. He always was a bit of a sour bugger, Warren.’

  ‘Would you say you know him well?’

  ‘No one knows Warren well. It doesn’t do to get too close to him. Nasty temper, he has.’

  Teasdale folded his hands over the end of his brush. His fingers that had turned brown and creased and faintly shiny, matching his corduroy trousers.

  ‘But you’re still doing work for him. You were at Ringham Edge Farm on Sunday,’ pointed out Cooper. ‘I was. But Warren sent me packing, like I said. No

  money to pay for rodent control, he said. Can you believe it? That’s no good on a farm, no good at all. You can’t have rats round a milking parlour. It should be clean, like this place is.’

  ‘When was the last time you went before that?’ Teasdale rolled his eyes and chewed the tips of his moustache. ‘Can’t remember exactly. It’d be a month or two, anyway. Is it important, then? Am I a witness?’

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  ‘Have you noticed anything unusual going on at the farm?’ asked Fry.

  ‘Unusual? There’s nothing much usual about Warren Leach.’

  ‘What about Mrs Leach? Do you know her?’

  ‘Her you never see. Well, maybe just a passing glimpse now and then. But she never speaks, never wants to say hello. She’s unsociable. But then, she is married to Warren, so you can’t blame her, I reckon.’

  Teasdale seemed to get bored with the conversation suddenly and tossed his clump of leaves into a wheelbarrow, where they landed with a wet thud.

  ‘Did they tell you in there what they call me?’ he said, watching the leaves shift and settle in the barrow. ‘Yes, they did,’ said Cooper.

  Teasdale nodded. ‘They love it. They think it’s a great laugh here, and at the mart. They usually tell people to ask me to demonstrate. Did they tell you that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cooper. ‘But don’t bother.’

  On the way to Ringham Edge, they had to slow down as they came up behind a tractor towing a trailer stacked high with bales of straw. Golden flakes spiralled off the load and drifted across the windscreen of the car.

  ‘When we get to the farm, I think we should make a point of trying to see all the Leach family,’ said Cooper. ‘What’s the purpose of that?’

  ‘There’s something wrong there.’

  ‘We’ve had no reports of anything wrong.’

  Cooper glanced at her face, thinking again how thin she was becoming. It made her look gaunt and haunted

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  rather than tough and angular, as she had been when she arrived a few months ago from West Midlands. Fry’s hair was shorter, too, as if she had taken scissors to it and hacked off a couple of inches in a bored moment. There was one other thing that Cooper noticed about Diane Fry, though. She never mentioned his father now, not since that first time they had met. Sergeant Joe Cooper meant nothing to her. He wondered what Fry did these days when she went off duty. He wondered what she would be doing tonight, after work. But, for once, Cooper found that his imagination failed him completely. He had already agreed to go out for a drink with Todd Weenink that night. Weenink called it ‘a session’, which meant he intended to drink a lot of beer. Cooper wasn’t really looking forward to it. He would miss a rehearsal for the police male voice choir, and it was getting to their busiest time of year, when they performed at community halls and old people’s homes in the area. Besides, he had seen how morose and aggressive his colleague could become under the influence of alcohol. But they were partners, and Cooper understood that these occasions were necessary, a kind of bonding. He thought Weenink had no one else to talk to since his marriage had ended. His relationships with women were probably not noted for their conversation. ‘A session’, he sensed, was code for Weenink needing someone to talk to, an admission that he was feeling lonely. That was why Cooper couldn’t refuse.

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  In the crew yard at Ringham Edge Farm, Warren Leach spoke to his sons in a voice thick with suppressed anger. ‘Bring that beast down here,’ he said. The boys stood open-mouthed; Dougie was close to tears. They both knew about the death of animals. They had both seen the huge pit that the excavator had dug behind the barn a while ago, and had heard the shots as the ewes were dispatched one by one. Afterwards, they had crept out of the house to stand in horrified fascination on the edge of the newly turned earth. They had tried to imagine the lifeless bodies of the sheep below their feet; they had pictured them lying on their backs with their eyes blank and their thin legs stiff and pointing upwards, and the wet soil thick in their fleeces and in their mouths. ‘No. Please, Dad,’ said Will. Leach lost his temper at the pleading tone, driven beyond patience. ‘Am I talking to that wall? Now shift your arses and get that beast down here! Do as I say! If I have to say it again, I’ll be saying it with this belt.’ Will pulled Dougie’s arm and dragged him reluctantly away. Leach dug into an old canvas satchel and checked the captive bolt pistol that Keith Teasdale had given him. The steel casing of the gun was heavy and solid in his hand. ‘Bloody animal,’ he muttered to the gun. ‘Draining money from me like water. Not any more.’ There was no one in the yard to hear him. He was thinking of the day they had bought the calf at Edendale cattle market. It had been Yvonne herself who had

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  picked it out, and it had been her idea to buy it for the boys. It had been a fine young animal, too, and would have made a handsome heifer. But for weeks, Leach had found he couldn’t bear to see the calf. Its eyes rolled at him accusingly, like the eyes of another bloody martyr; its coat gleamed with the gloss of an extravagance that he couldn’t afford. Now he couldn’t even stand the thought that the animal was on the premises. He couldn’t concentrate on any of the pressing problems that were piling up on him because of the time he spent dwelling on the calf. It had to be disposed of before he could work out how to get the farm and his life out of the mess they were in. It had to go. It was standing in his way. ‘We’ll sort this out once and for all,’ he said, and snapped a cartridge into the gun. Finally, the boys dragged the calf, protesting, on a rope halter into the yard. ‘Dad ‘ ‘Just shut up. Just bloody shut up!’ He snatched the halter from Will’s hand and led the calf a few feet away. The boys stood fixed to the spot, unable to take their eyes away. Dougie winced and put his hand to his mouth to stifle a cry as his father lashed out with a boot to take the calf’s front legs from underneath it. The animal folded up on to its knees in the dirt with a frightened gasp. As it struggled to regain its feet, Leach stood astride its neck to pin it down and grasped its halter firmly in his left hand. Then he pulled the gun from his pocket and centred the barrel against the top of the calf’s skull, in the centre of its forehead.

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  He worked the barrel through the hair and adjusted the angle between the horn buds. He needed a clear path for the bolt to penetrate the layer of bone and enter the brain. The calf, sensing the uselessness of its struggles, suddenly relaxed in his grasp, resigned to an inexplicable end. ‘It has to be done,’ said Leach. ‘It can’t go on like this any longer. You’ve got to understand these things. It’s part of your education.’ Leach looked up at the boys. But he barely saw their faces. Instead, he saw a small cloud of dust behind their heads. It was drifting above the stone wall that bordered the lane. Then he became aware of the noise of an engine, and a second later a red Toyota bounced t
hrough the pothole by the gate and entered the yard. Leach kept the barrel pressed to the calf’s head, fingering the trigger. He smiled at the thought of the look that would be on his visitors’ faces, when he pulled the trigger in front of them. Then he recognized Ben Cooper at the wheel of the Toyota and saw Diane Fry get out of the passenger seat as the car slid to a halt. She had a clipboard in her hand, and she didn’t seem to notice the boys or the calf as she walked up to Leach. Surprised, the farmer let go of the animal. It scrambled away, leaving him standing straddle-legged, with the bolt pistol still in his hand. ‘Mr Warren Leach?’ said Fry. Leach stared at her, making a tiny, abrupt movement of his head that she could take for a nod.

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  IqqI’Acting Detective Sergeant Fry, Edendale Police. According to our records, you do not have the required licence entitling you to possess that captive bolt pistol.’ Leach looked at the gun, baffled. ‘I must have forgotten to get one.’ ‘We have to apply the rules, I’m afraid, sir.’ ‘What does that mean?’ ‘You’re in possession of an unlicensed weapon.’ She held out her hand. ‘You’ll be given a receipt. Then you can reclaim the weapon if and when you obtain the appropriate licence.’ ‘I don’t believe this. Do you think I’m going to give my gun to you just like that?’ Fry raised her eyebrows at him. ‘Are you refusing to surrender an unlicensed weapon, sir?’ Ben Cooper got out of the car and ambled towards them. He nodded at the farmer. ‘Give it up, Mr Leach. Be sensible.’ The three of them looked at each other for a minute. Fry was beginning to get impatient. Cooper could see her muscles tense. He turned to the boys waiting to one side with wide eyes. ‘Better clear off, lads,’ he said. ‘You really don’t want to see this.’ ‘No,’ said Leach. He turned the pistol round and gave it to Cooper. Fry began to fill in a receipt. ‘Now, if you’ve quite finished,’ said Leach, ‘I’ve got work to do.’

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  Out of tradition, Ben Cooper and Todd Weenink started their evening at the Wheatsheaf. There were three pubs that stood close together around the market place, and three or four more down the side streets that they could take in without walking more than a few yards. But the Wheatsheaf had a whole range of guest beers on the bar, strong ales with names like Derbyshire Black and Old Sheep Dip. Weenink was the one drinking harder and faster, and he soon reached the stage where he wanted to share his personal insights. ‘There’s just no excitement in the job any more,’ he said. ‘Every day you come into work and they tell you to go and detect a burglary or something.’ ‘Several burglaries,’ said Cooper. ‘Six burglaries and four car breakins. Every morning.’ ‘And a criminal damage or two, as well.’ ‘That’s it. The same day after day. It’s mind numbing. We don’t even get a good ram-raid now. Not for ages.’ Weenink had spilled some beer on his leather jacket, and his sleeve stuck to the table when he moved his arm. Cooper was struggling to keep up with his

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  consumption. He hadn’t seen Weenink drink quite so hard since his marriage had broken up after less than two years. Weenink’s wife had said she hadn’t realized what she was tying herself to. And she hadn’t just meant Todd. She had meant the police service. ‘Ram-raiding has pretty well been designed out in the town centre,’ said Cooper. ‘Well, it’s a shame. They were a bit more exciting than the other crap. All you get now is shoplifting. Where’s the fun in that, Ben?’ They moved on to the Red Lion, a comfortable pub with somebody’s choice of seventies pop music piped discreetly into the bar, and a row of computer games. The landlord knew them both, and they got the first round on the house. It disappeared too quickly for Cooper’s peace of mind. ‘The CCTV cameras have cut out a lot of the other stuff, too,’ he said. ‘Bloody cameras. It’s a bit too much like Big Brother, if you ask me.’ Cooper was impressed by Weenink’s literary knowledge. He wouldn’t have put him down as a George Orwell fan. 1984 was one of Cooper’s favourite novels, along with Lord of the Flies. Then he frowned. ‘We are talking about George Orwell, aren’t we?’ ‘Never heard of either of him,’ said Weenink, and belched. ‘Is he from another division? I suppose you’ve met him at Police Federation meetings, or something.’ Cooper took another sip of beer. So Todd Weenink

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  only read the TV pages in the Eden Valley Times, after all. The third pub was the Station Hotel. They were heading downmarket now. There was no piped music here, no TV screens or bar meals - only a pool table and saltandvinegar crisps, and a jukebox full of heavy metal CDs. The customers all seemed to be wearing old Iron Maiden Tshirts. A woman walked past towards the bar in a pair of leather trousers. ‘Eat my pants, look at the arse on that,’ said Weenink. ‘Don’t say that. It’s disgusting.’ Over the next beer, Weenink studied Cooper with exaggerated care. ‘You’re a fucking poofter, you are, Ben. Do you know that? A fucking poofter. But I love you. You’re my mate.’ They nodded at each other, bleary-eyed. There was no need for words, really. The beer fumes drew them together in a warm, sentimental embrace. Weenink took out a packet of cigarettes and offered Cooper one. Cooper took it. He hadn’t smoked since he was sixteen years old. He looked at it for a minute. Weenink tried to give him a light, but Cooper shook his head and laid the cigarette carefully on his beer mat, lining it up alongside his glass. This particular mat had a picture of a female pop singer on it. Cooper laughed and laughed. It looked as though she had a cigarette up her nose. ‘You know, Ben,’ said Weenink after sufficient silence. ‘You and me, we won’t take any shit from anybody.’ ‘Right.’

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  ‘Am I right?’ ‘You’re right, Todd.’

  Weenink watched the woman with the leather trousers walk back across the room and took a drag of his cigarette. ‘What was I saying?’

  ‘Let’s go somewhere else, shall we?’

  Cooper and Weenink walked out of the pub, across the street and through Market Square, staggering slightly as their feet slithered on the cobbles.

  ‘Here, we can play leapfrog on these,’ said Weenink, swinging on the black cast-iron street furniture, not noticing when he banged his shin on the metal. His voice sounded unnaturally loud in the square. A middleaged couple getting into their car turned to look at them. Cooper could almost hear them tutting. For once, there were no noisy groups of youths in the square to distract attention.

  ‘Come on,’ he said.

  Weenink allowed himself to be led away from the square, down the passage by the Somerfield supermarket. They came out on the riverside walk under the nineteenth-century bridge across the River Eden.

  ‘Not much life down here,’ said Weenink. ‘Isn’t there a night club open or something?’

  ‘Night club? On a Thursday?’ ‘I need another drink.’

  ‘It’s closing time.’

  ‘But we’ve missed some pubs out.’

  Weenink slowed down and stared at the river. Dark shadows lurked just below the surface of the slowmoving water. They were only stones, though. The

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  water was too shallow here for them to be anything else. You could walk across and barely get your feet wet.

  ‘Those ducks are asleep,’ said Weenink. ‘Let’s wake them up.’

  ‘What for?’ ‘It’s too quiet.’

  Weenink picked up a handful of gravel and began to throw it at the mallards resting in the reeds with their beaks under their wings. His actions were totally uncoordinated, and the stones fell harmlessly into the water with small plops.

  ‘I need something bigger.’

  Cooper looked round, a vague anxiety creeping through the haze of alcohol. There was little traffic passing over the bridge. The only lights were those that burned in the supermarket. There were probably staff on the night shift in there, stacking shelves and taking deliveries. At any moment, one of them might come outside for a fag break.

  ‘Let’s move on a bit,’ he said. ‘What for?’

  ‘We have to get home.’

  ‘I thought we were going to a night club.’ ‘No.’

  ‘That’s what we want. Have another drink,
a bit of dancing. Let’s go to Sheffield. We could go to a casino.’ ‘You can go on your own.’

  ‘Oh, Ben.’

  Cooper wasn’t impressed by the sudden wheedling tone. But he knew that he wouldn’t be able to leave

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  Todd to go anywhere on his own, all the same. Weenink sat down suddenly on a bench. The wooden slats creaked under his weight.

  ‘God, I’m knackered,’ he said. ‘Totally knackered. I could just go to sleep right here, Ben.’

  ‘Come on, Todd. We’ve got to keep going.’ ‘Sit down, Ben.’

  Cooper sat reluctantly. He was cold, and he could feel the first spots of rain. The insulating alcohol was wearing off already.

  ‘Ben,’ said Weenink in a suddenly different voice. ‘I’ve done something really stupid.’

  Cooper’s heart sank. Not now, please, he thought. Any time except now. He was tired. He had to get home.

  ‘Really, really stupid,’ said Weenink. ‘And I think I’m going to be found out.’

  On the way out of her house in Grosvenor Avenue that night, Fry caught a glimpse of a figure lurking in the shadows under the overgrown hedges near the streetlight across the road. It wasn’t unusual. The female students and nurses staying in her own house and the ones on either side attracted a motley selection of boyfriends, some of whom wouldn’t look out of place in a cell in Derby Prison.

  Fry studied the figure carefully. If she hadn’t been alert on a professional level, she -wouldri t have seen him. He was wearing dark clothes, and standing quite still, so that his movement didn’t give him away. Nine out of ten people would have passed by without

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  noticing him at all. Fry shrugged. It was nothing to do with her. When she was off duty, she didn’t feel any obligation to concern herself about the dangerous private lives of her fellow flat-dwellers. She had plenty of concerns of her own to think about.