‘You mean the travellers in the quarry, Paul.’
‘It’s time we did something about them. Bring them both in. Their initial statements are useless. We should make them go through everything again and let HOLMES sniff out some inconsistencies.’
‘What’s the relationship between those two?’ asked Tailby. ‘Is there a sexual liaison?’
‘Possibly, sir. There’s certainly something not quite right there,’ said Fry.
‘No,’ said Cooper.
‘Ah? Why do you sound so sure, Cooper?’
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‘It isn’t in their philosophy. They have different beliefs to us.’
‘Well, that sounds interesting, Cooper. Could you explain what these beliefs are? Might they just have some bearing on the enquiry, by any chance?’
‘I don’t think so, sir.’
‘It doesn’t do to be too credulous, Cooper. For a start, are we supposed to believe they live just on the benefits claimed by Calvin Lawrence?’
‘They hardly have an extravagant lifestyle.’ Hitchens interrupted. ‘I can show you fifteen or sixteen reports of stuff being nicked from cars parked on the roadsides around Ringham Moor. Radios, cameras - you name it. Somebody’s cleaning up from the tourists round there.’
‘You think it’s Cal and Stride? But what would they do with that sort of stuff?’
‘Well - sell it, right? That’s the usual idea, as far as I understand it.’
‘Sell it to who?’ said Cooper, starting to get agitated. ‘These aren’t your average local yobbos who can flog it in the pub. If these two had stuff they wanted to sell, they’d have to take it on the bus with them to Bakewell or Edendale. Or hitch with it by the roadside. Can you see that? And neither of them is local anyway, so who is there they would know? We’d have picked them up straight off if they’d been trying that. And Stride never leaves the van anyway, except to go on the moor.’
‘Do we have sufficient grounds to turn over the van?’ asked Fry.
Tailby looked around. ‘Not unless someone can give
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me any evidence that puts them under suspicion of a crime. Something that would justify a warrant.’
‘Unfortunately, we can’t even move them on, unless the quarry owners get their injunction,’ said Hitchens. ‘We’d need a tow truck to get the van out, anyway.’ ‘More than that. The van hasn’t moved for months. We’d have to winch it on to a flatbed.’
‘Mmm.’ Tailby looked round at the officers. ‘Nobody’s offering me anything.’
‘Drugs,’ said Hitchens. ‘Grounds for suspicion?’
‘Strange behaviour - they’re uncoordinated, incoherent. I say we take a dog down and we sniff ‘em out.’ ‘I’ve been in the van,’ said Cooper.
‘What?’ Hitchens stared at him. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing? Any defence lawyer will have a field day.’
‘I was invited.’
‘Oh, did they throw a party? Sorry I missed it. I mustn’t have got my invitation.’
‘I was with Mr Fox.’
Some officers looked around, unfamiliar with the name. Attention settled on the Ranger, whose face went a shade of pink that clashed horribly with his jacket. ‘Mr Fox?’ said Tailby.
‘I’ve known Cal and Stride since they arrived,’ said Owen. ‘They talk to me.’
‘What’s your view on this drugs issue? Are they users?’
‘No, I’m sure they’re not.’ ‘Cooper?’
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‘I agree. There was no evidence that I saw. And there aren’t many places to hide the stuff. They stick to beer and tobacco, I think. Addictive, but legal.’
Tailby looked unimpressed. ‘Check up on the progress of Peakstone’s injunction, Paul. It would be ironic if they got moved on before we’ve finished with them.’
Cooper raised his hand tentatively. He could feel that Todd Weenink was staring at him. More than that, he was using his famous glower. He managed to avoid Weenink’s eye.
‘Yes, Cooper?’
‘There’s Warren Leach as well,’ he said. ‘He does have a link to Maggie Crew. We shouldn’t forget that.’
‘We could put that surveillance on him for a while, I suppose,’ said Tailby. ‘We can spare the resources.’ ‘How do we put surveillance on that farm?’ asked
Fry. ‘There’s nowhere we can position somebody where he won’t see them.’
Tailby considered it. ‘It doesn’t matter. In fact, it might be better if they do show out. It’ll put some pressure on him. Fry, Cooper - you know the ground.’
‘But surveillance? Are you sure? There’s nothing to see up there, except cows.’
‘In that case,’ said Tailby, ‘watch every cow that moves.’
‘Meanwhile, we’ve got Wayne Sugden coming in again,’ said Hitchens. ‘In fact, he should be downstairs now.’
‘Why?, ‘That burglary at the Westons’ cottage. It isn’t so simple. When we looked at the files, it turned out that
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the officers dealing with the incident report called out a key-holder, because the Westons themselves were away in Cyprus. And the key-holder wasn’t their neighbour. It was Jenny Weston.’ Wayne Sugden was working himself to a peak of outraged innocence. He had been easily prompted to it by the first questions about the burglary. It had turned on a tap, the flow gradually becoming hotter until the steam began to rise. ‘That tart, why did she say all those things? She said I nicked jewellery and all sorts of stuff. She said I pissed on her carpet and chucked some kind of sauce at her walls. Why would I want to do that?’ DI Hitchens explained patiently: ‘It was done by whoever burgled her parents’ house, Wayne. The court said that was you.’ ‘It’s rubbish. I wasn’t even there.’ ‘Come on, Wayne. There was enough evidence to convict you.’ ‘I don’t care. It was all crap.’ Hitchens sighed. ‘We can’t help you if you’re so stubborn.’ ‘That bitch got me sent down. The things she said, they were wrong. She turned the magistrates against me, otherwise I could have got off with probation or something. Pissing on the carpet - I mean. That’s not me.’ ‘How well do you remember Jenny Weston? Did you see her in court?’ Sugden’s face went pale.
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‘She got done, didn’t she? I saw it on the telly.’ ‘Yes, she got done.’ ‘You’re never going to try and fit me up for that! You’re bloody not!’ Sugden peered nervously at Hitchens. ‘No, you’re not. I can see you’re not. Even you lot, you know better than that.’ Hitchens looked at Ben Cooper, inviting him to change tack. ‘Wayne, how did you feel when young Gavin was killed on that school trip?’ Now Sugden really did look confused. ‘What?’ ‘You remember the accident to your nephew?’ “Course I do.’ ‘They had to turn his life-support machine off. How did you feel about that?’ ‘I was upset. Obviously. We were all upset. Gavin was a good lad. But ‘ ‘Who did you blame for his death?’ Sugden closed his mouth. His eyes flickered. He looked at the tapes. ‘Wayne? It would be normal to blame somebody for what happened. To hold somebody responsible. Maybe even to want revenge on them,’ said Cooper. ‘Look, don’t mess about with me,’ said Sugden. ‘I know it was Weston who was in charge when Gavin got hurt.’ ‘Do you still say you didn’t burgle the Westons’ cottage?’ asked Cooper. ‘And do you still say you don’t know anything about their daughter?’ added Hitchens. ‘Yeah,’ said Sugden. ‘I do say that. Still.’
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Sugden’s insistence worried Cooper. If the man lurking around Jenny Weston’s house wasn’t Martin Stafford or some boyfriend, it had to be Sugden. The description was vague, but it did fit him. And he had a motive for wanting to do Jenny harm. But Cooper trusted his own ability to judge when somebody was lying and when they were telling the truth, even if he could never prove it. Of course, Sugden might have dwelt on the idea of revenge long enough while in prison, with no one to contradict him, for it to have festered in his mind. Cooper could even imagine the conversations with other prisoners that would have taken place, full of mutual self-pity and recrim
inations against those on the outside. Sugden had alibis for the day Jenny was killed. But might he have made some jail-cell pact? It seemed unlikely, though the things that went on in the minds of men in prison were far worse than that. As he walked out of the station towards his car, Ben Cooper became aware that he was being followed. He thought at first it was Diane Fry coming after him, determined to open some new argument. But then he recognized the jacket, and he saw that it was Mark Roper. Cooper stopped. ‘All right, Mark? Still here? Do you want a lift or something?’ ‘I came with Owen, but he’s stayed to have a word with the inspector. They want us to put on more patrols round Ringham.’ ‘I know.’
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I ‘There’s something I wanted to tell you. I didn’t like to say anything in the meeting.’ Cooper leaned against his Toyota, noting how ill at ease the young Ranger was. Mark took a radio handset from his pocket, fingered the buttons, flexed the aerial, and put it back without seeming to realize what he was doing. ‘Tell me about it,’ said Cooper. ‘It’s Warren Leach. We see him often at Ringham Edge. He doesn’t know we’re there - he never bothers to look up at the hills these days, only down at his boots.’ Mark paused. ‘For a while now, I’ve thought there was something going on in the big shed at the back of the farmhouse. The new one, with the steel roof. It’s always locked, and Leach doesn’t go near it during the day. I’ve seen Yvonne Leach go out there and try the doors sometimes, when Warren is out of the way. She wants to know what’s in there, too.’ ‘And at night?’ ‘People come. Vans, four-wheel drives. They all park by the shed. But only when it’s dark.’ ‘Mark, you’re not normally on patrol at night, are you?’ ‘Of course not. But I’ve been up there in my own time a couple of nights. I want to know what’s going on. It’s my patch, you see. Owen told me it’s my patch now, up there.’ Mark hesitated and looked sideways at Cooper. ‘Owen doesn’t know I go up on the moor at night.’ ‘All right, Mark.’ ‘Leach is going through a really bad time. You’ve been to see him, haven’t you?’
T ‘We took a captive bolt pistol off him the other day. It was unlicensed.’ Mark frowned. ‘Why do you think Leach would have a captive bolt pistol?’ ‘To use on his own animals, I suppose. There must be some he has to put down.’ ‘Farmers are supposed to have their fallen stock removed by a proper slaughterman. There are regulations these days.’ ‘Even so…’ ‘Would he risk getting into trouble just for that?’ Cooper waited for him to say more, but Mark looked round at the door to see if Owen had emerged. He began to edge towards the Ranger Land Rover a few places away from Cooper’s car. ‘Have there been any people coming to the farm that you recognized, Mark?’ asked Cooper. ‘Oh, one or two vehicles that were probably local. Most of them I don’t recognize.’ ‘What about a white van?’ The young Ranger nodded. ‘Ford Transit? Almost ready for the scrapyard? Front bumper held on with baling twine?’ ‘Yes, that sort of van.’ I know him, all right. That’s the rat man.’ ‘You’ve seen him down at the farm?’ ‘Several times. He gets around a bit.’ Owen Fox came out of the station. He was chatting to a uniformed officer, and they paused on the steps. When Owen saw Mark, a faint shadow slipped across his face.
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^ ‘Thanks for sharing that with me, Mark,’ said Cooper. Mark put out a hand to hold him back for a second. ‘I’d rather that nobody found out who passed that on to you,’ he said. ‘Why?, ‘I have to live and work round here. If people think I’m spying for the police, it won’t make any difference to them whether what they’re doing is right or wrong. No difference at all.’ Diane Fry had a phone call she wanted to make before she got involved in anything else. It was to Maggie Crew’s sister. Her name was Catherine Dyson, and her phone number was in the file - a number in the Cork area, in the south of Ireland. ‘Yes, I know Maggie is having major problems bringing back the memories,’ said Catherine when Fry got through to her. ‘If you’re asking my opinion, the more you press her to remember, the more she’ll bury the memories. I think it’s automatic with her now. It’s her instinct to push things away, not to dwell on the past.’ ‘She is suffering partial amnesia from the assault,’ said Fry. ‘The doctors say she may never recover memory for the period several hours either side of the incident.’ ‘Well, if they say so. But Mags was always frightened of memories coming back out of the past. She’s built up a whole system of defences. Her memories are locked up more securely than Fort Knox. Sometimes I think she barely remembers me.’ Catherine’s voice was very like her sister’s, but softer
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and more comfortable. There was even a faint hint of an Irish accent creeping into the vowels - more, anyway, than might be expected for a woman from Chesterfield. Fry conjured a picture of a white-painted cottage reflecting the sunlight on a hillside over an Atlantic fishing port, and Catherine Dyson in an armchair with a cat on her knee as she gazed out of the window. She pictured a large woman, her body allowed to run to fat after four children, her time taken up with washing and ironing, baking and tending the garden. A woman nothing like Maggie Crew. A woman who was happy.
‘Are you thinking of any particular memories from your sister’s past?’ asked Fry. ‘Apart from the assault, I mean?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Catherine. ‘I was thinking of her daughter.’
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24
That morning, the dowser was working his way backwards and forwards across the edge of the birch wood, treading carefully as if he was walking an imaginary white line, his eyes fixed on a forked twig held in front of him. He held it strangely, with his palms turned upwards. Every now and then, the twig twitched, and the dowser would stop and scuff at the ground with the toe of his boot. Then he would move on. He looked cold and disconsolate.
Diane Fry had a copy of the latest Eden Valley Times. The attack on Karen Tavisker had come too late for the newspaper’s deadline, though it was already appearing on the local radio news bulletins. The Times did have three pages covering a public meeting and protests outside the hall, with all the old material about Jenny Weston and Maggie Crew rehashed into one big mess that somebody had to take the blame for. The guilty faces of Jepson and Tailby stared out from a crowd waving banners that said ‘We demand action’.
There was a highly speculative piece headed ‘The Sabbath Slayer?’ It attempted to make a link between
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the legend of the Nine Virgins, who had been turned to stone for dancing on the Sabbath, and the fact that the attacks on Crew and Weston had both taken place on Sundays, when the women had been out walking or cycling on the moor. The conclusion was that a religious maniac could be punishing women for enjoying themselves on the Lord’s Day. As a theory, it held plenty of tabloid drama, but little substance. Yet it had already been murmured by officers on the enquiry team, in their more desperate moments.
There was also an interesting secondary story on the third page. A reporter and photographer had found two young men living in an old VW van in an abandoned quarry at Ringham Moor, and they had scented a different angle.
‘Have you seen this photograph? Calvin Lawrence looks a mass murderer if ever I saw one,’ said Fry.
‘But they’ve made Stride look like a half-wit.’
‘That youth needs psychiatric help. Have you seen their background reports? He dropped out of university during one of his recurring periods of acute depression.’
‘That doesn’t make him a half-wit,’ said Cooper. ‘Simon Bevington tried to kill himself twice. It might mean that he shouldn’t be out and about unsupervised. The bloke’s a nutter.’
‘He isn’t a danger to anybody but himself. Besides, I think he is supervised. Cal takes care of him. I reckon Stride’s better looked after where he is than he would be in any hostel. That’s real care in the community. He’s
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found someone who actually cares about him, no strings attached.’
‘Oh, lucky him.’
‘He isn’t dangerous,’ insisted Cooper. ‘He just sees the world in a different way from
most people. Different, that’s what he is.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Different like the Yorkshire Ripper was different. He’s a nutter, Ben.’
‘He’s strange, that’s all. My mother would say he was a bit fey.’
Fry snorted. ‘You’re a bloody strange copper, Ben. Do you really think there are people in this world who are complete angels?’
‘Well …’ said Cooper. ‘I suppose he is a bit like that. In a way.’
‘What?’ ‘Innocent, you know. Detached from the real world. Ethereal.’
Fry stared at him. ‘Hey, you don’t have to look too far for nutters round these parts, do you?’ she said. ‘The real loonies can be right there in front of your eyes.’
Cooper read the newspaper article over her shoulder. ‘They quote Stride as saying the wind chimes and tree sculptures will keep away the vengeful spirits of the moor.’
‘Why do they print that crap?’
‘It gives them a chance for a funny headline: “Tate for tat? Quarry dwellers’ art is more than just rock and roll-ups”.’
‘Very clever. At least they don’t mention Simon Bevington’s history.’
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‘No,’ said Cooper. ‘But I think they might have done enough.’
‘All the attention might persuade them to leave the quarry. That would be no loss, in my opinion.’ ‘They’re all right. They’re the sort of people we should be protecting.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You remember. That oath we took. “I do solemnly and sincerely declare and affirm…”’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
… and prevent all offences against the person and properties of Her Majesty’s subjects.”’
‘Ben, do you realize you’re the only copper in the country who can still quote his oath more than two minutes after his swearing in?’
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