The dead place bcadf-6

by Stephen Booth

  ‘What does it say on the other side?’ said Fry.

  Cooper spun the bag. ‘It says: “I go from place to place, picking up stories along the way.”’

  Fry shook her head in frustration. ‘What about the notebook that was in the box with all this stuff?’

  ‘It’s just an ordinary spiral notebook,’ said Petty. ‘You can buy this kind of thing anywhere. As far as we can tell, it

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  seems to be some kind of log book. The first page is headed “Petrus Two”, and various individuals have made entries at different dates.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as “Itinerant Maggie”. She says: “Great location another spot I’d never have visited, if it weren’t for the cache many thanks.”’

  ‘It means nothing to me.’

  ‘Nor me.’

  ‘Sounds like some kind of treasure hunt, doesn’t it?’ said Cooper.

  ‘Does it?’ asked Fry. ‘A treasure hunt?’ She looked at the bagged items taken from the box. ‘That is not treasure, Ben. Not by anybody’s standards. It looks like the debris from the back of somebody’s kitchen drawer.’

  ‘I meant treasure in the loosest sense, Diane. The fun of a treasure hunt isn’t the value of what you might find, but the excitement of the hunt. It’s a quest. People are always figuring out ways to take part in quests.’

  ‘Really?’ said Fry.

  ‘If it helps,’ said Petty, ‘there’s a website address on the Travel Bug tag.’

  ‘So there is - www.groundspeak.com. Anyone heard of it?’

  There were shrugs all round the table. Fry looked across at Cooper.

  ‘Ben, you’re getting to be a bit of a whizz on the internet, aren’t you? See if you can find out what this is all about.’ She picked up the skeleton key-ring and spun it thoughtfully in its bag. ‘We need to know who’s been messing around up at that rock, when they were there, and why. If the people involved have no connection with our enquiry, then we need to eliminate them.’

  ‘OK.’

  Fry put the key-ring back on top of the Beatrix Potter book, covering a quaint illustration of a fox wearing a coat and

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  scarf. ‘Anyway, we’ve got some more news this afternoon. The forensic anthropologist had a toxicological analysis conducted on a sample from the first set of bones.’

  Cooper looked at her. ‘Bones?’ he said. ‘You mean Audrey Steele’s remains?’

  ‘Yes, Ben. The old bones the walkers found.’

  Normally, Cooper wouldn’t have reacted to something so minor. He’d heard far worse from Fry. In fact, he put up with rudeness and insensitivity from her all the time, because he genuinely believed she had other qualities. But something in the way she spoke so casually about the remains of a human being triggered a response, tipped him over his tolerance threshold. Perhaps it was the personal involvement Cooper felt with Audrey Steele, ever since he’d seen her reconstructed face in the lab at Sheffield. Or maybe it was because he was about to start all over again with another unidentified victim whose remains were even now being recovered from a hillside in Ravensdale. But for once, he couldn’t take it.

  ‘For God’s sake, Diane, she was a person with a name, you know. A human being. Not some heap of old bones thrown out for the dog.’

  Fry looked up in astonishment. ‘What?’

  ‘Audrey Steele. That’s what she was called, remember? She deserves to be talked about with a bit more respect.’

  ‘Oh, you think so, do you?’

  Cooper was fighting the quickening of his breath, the tendency for his hands to shake when he got angry.

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Well, thank you, DC Cooper. I’m sure we’ll bear that in mind.’

  Fry had gone faintly red around the ears at being spoken to like that in front of the SOCOs, and Cooper knew he’d suffer for it later.

  ‘Anyway, be that as it may,’ she said, ‘someone at the lab pulled their fingers out and got us the report through, even

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  though it’s Saturday. They found traces of glycerine, phenol and formaldehyde.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ said Cooper, trying to steady his breathing and appear calm. ‘Audrey Steele had been working with chemicals? Or would they have been used in her hospital treatment before she died?’

  ‘Neither. Apparently, those are the common constituents of embalming fluid, the sort used in the preparation room of a funeral parlour. Such as the one at Hudson and Slack.’

  ‘Who does the embalming there?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Cooper got up and walked over to his PC, where he called up Melvyn Hudson’s details.

  ‘OK, Mr Hudson is accredited with the British Institute of Embalmers,’ he said.

  ‘So probably Hudson takes care of the embalming, when required,’ said Fry.

  ‘And the breakin they had - the stuff that was stolen … Chromotech? That was embalming fluid.’

  ‘The theft was too late to have any connection with Audrey Steele, Ben.’

  ‘It means they probably have routine access to that kind of material at Hudson and Slack, though.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And what about the second set of remains from Litton Foot?’ said Cooper. ‘Any more news there?’

  ‘I rang earlier this afternoon. The van was just arriving at the lab in Sheffield.’

  ‘So when can we expect some results? Tomorrow, perhaps?’

  Fry sighed. ‘I had a long conversation with the anthropologist. But we’re dealing with the academic world now - and tomorrow is Sunday.’

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘We’ll just have to try not to be impatient. Still, there are plenty of other things to do.’

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  ‘Such as looking a bit more closely at Melvyn Hudson?’

  ‘I don’t think much of Mr Hudson,’ admitted Fry. ‘Apart from anything else, he treats Vernon Slack like shit. You’d never think he was the grandson of one of the owners.’

  ‘He treats Vernon like what?’

  ‘Shit. You know what shit is, Ben.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cooper thoughtfully. ‘You mean cack.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about now?’

  ‘Just a call I forgot to make. It was something Tom Jarvis said to me when I was up there last.’

  ‘The man with the dog that got shot? What’s the latest on that business?’

  ‘No further developments,’ said Cooper guiltily. Of course, he’d had no time to do anything about finding the person who shot Graceless, but that didn’t stop him feeling guilty.

  ‘“No further developments” is what we tell members of the public,’ said Fry. ‘It doesn’t work on me. Ben, I’d have thought you’d be more interested in it, being an animal lover and all that.’

  ‘It got put on the back burner a bit,’ admitted Cooper.

  ‘Well, take it off and stir it occasionally, will you? It creates a better impression. By the way, did you manage to make an appointment with what’s her name?’

  Cooper looked at his watch. ‘I’m setting off now.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘By the way,’ said Cooper. ‘Professor Robertson - he’s a widower.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Don’t get excited - there were no suspicious circumstances. His wife died of cancer.’

  As soon as Fry had gone, Cooper made the call he’d forgotten.

  ‘We’d be wasting our time,’ said the forensic scientist, when he’d stopped laughing. ‘All right, it might not have been exposed to the sun, but one thing you’ll definitely get inside

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  a compost heap is bacterial activity. Any DNA present in cells from the gut lining will be degrading away in there and disappearing like - well, like shit off a shovel.’

  In the background, his colleagues began laughing again.

  ‘It was just an idea,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Tell you what, DC Cooper, let us know when your s
uspect has produced some fresh evidence.’

  With deliberate tenderness, Madeleine Chadwick reached out a hand to the rose and cupped it in her palm. Its petals were still damp from the dew, and it glittered against her fingers, blood red on her white skin.

  ‘Fair Flora,’ she said. ‘Yes, it’s what my grandfather used to call me as a child. Flora is my middle name, you see. It’s an old family name, but I’ve never liked it very much, so I don’t use it. Besides, nobody understands the classical reference these days. It’s the name of some kind of margarine, isn’t it? I’m sure my parents didn’t know that when they christened me.’

  Mrs Chadwick was tall and straight-backed, dressed in old jeans and a baggy sweater that would have made anyone else look shabby. But she carried herself so well that on her it hardly mattered. Cooper guessed she might be in her early forties, though it was difficult to judge. She had good bone structure, and skin that had been expensively cared for.

  ‘Your grandfather was Sir Arnold Saxton, is that right?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. And my father was James Saxton. He died recently, which is why the estate is being sold.’

  ‘So your father didn’t inherit the title as well as the estate? Wasn’t he the eldest son?’

  ‘He didn’t inherit the title because my grandfather was a knight, not a baronet. There’s a difference.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Cooper tried not to look embarrassed, and Mrs Chadwick

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  turned away, as if to help him. He imagined she’d wear a hat to protect her skin if it was sunny. Something with a broad brim that shaded her eyes. But today had been merely bright and overcast, no danger from the ultra violet.

  ‘You must have been very sorry to leave Alder Hall,’ he said.

  ‘Devastated. When you’ve grown up in a house like that, it’s very hard to leave. Fortunately, this cottage is mine. The old barn has been converted into two holiday homes, so the property brings in some income.’

  Cooper looked at the house she referred to as a cottage. The views were what an estate agent would describe as ‘panoramic’. The gardens alone were extensive, and there were also several acres of paddock around a modern stable block.

  ‘You have horses?’

  ‘Yes, but they’re not kept here at the moment. They’re in livery.’

  ‘The house must be listed, I suppose?’

  ‘Grade Two, I believe.’

  Through a window he glimpsed oak beams and a spiral stone staircase, fringed lampshades and a carved horse mounted on a rosewood base. Pathways meandered through lawns and flower borders, stopping now and then at seats. An in-and-out driveway led to two double garages. One of the garage doors was open, and Cooper could see an internal WC. Who had a toilet in their garage?

  There had been a gold-coloured Mercedes standing on the drive near the house. And in the depths of the garage, he thought he could also see a small blue Peugeot. He wondered if the engine was still warm, but could think of no excuse for checking.

  ‘I visited Alder Hall earlier today,’ said Cooper. ‘You’re familiar with the statue, I take it?’

  ‘I used to visit her regularly when I lived at the hall. When I was very small, my grandfather took me to look at her. I

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  recall that I was bit scared of her at first. Grandfather told me I’d be a beautiful lady just like her when I grew up. But I didn’t want to be a statue and stand alone in the woods all day. I thought she looked rather unhappy. But I got to know her better over the years.’

  ‘Have you been back since your family left the hall?’

  ‘To see Fair Flora? No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Not at all?’

  She turned cool grey eyes on him in silent reproach. ‘I just said so. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Chadwick. But somebody has been leaving flowers at the statue. I wondered if it might have been you.’

  ‘Why on earth would I do that?’

  But Cooper didn’t answer. He was looking around her garden. It was too big to see everything from one spot. There were more flower beds beyond the trees and alongside the lawns.

  ‘Do you grow chrysanthemums?’ he asked.

  Mrs Chadwick gave a faint smile. ‘White ones, perhaps?’

  ‘Yes. How did you know I was going to ask that?’

  ‘Come this way.’

  She began to walk towards the lawn. For a moment, Cooper paused to admire the way she managed to move so elegantly despite wearing sensible flat shoes and corduroy trousers worn and baggy at the knees. Then he followed her down a short flight of stone steps into an arbour, where white and yellow chrysanthemums grew in profusion.

  ‘Mrs Chadwick, how did you know it was white chrysanthemums I was interested in?’ said Cooper.

  Madeleine Chadwick laid a finger alongside the tight, curved petals of a chrysanthemum head, not quite touching it as she had the rose. The colour of the flower almost matched her fingers. But the petals were stiff and brittle, like clusters of fragile bones.

  ‘White is for death,’ she said. ‘I do know that. White chrysanthemums are the flowers you order for a funeral.’

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  She smiled at him again, expectantly this time. Cooper sensed a hot prickling on the back of his neck. The sun was warm in this sheltered arbour, and he wasn’t dressed for the heat. Besides, he was starting to feel at a disadvantage, and he wasn’t sure why. He was used to dealing with people from all backgrounds, but Madeleine Chadwick’s air of secret knowledge unsettled him. Her superiority seemed effortless. It was nothing like the smugness of Freddy Robertson, who worked so hard at trying to be superior.

  ‘I don’t think I ever explained what enquiry I’m working on,’ said Cooper.

  ‘I don’t believe you did.’

  ‘Then how …?’

  But he began to flounder, unsure what question he could ask her. Luckily, she took pity on him, and turned to mount the steps again, back into the cooling breeze.

  ‘John Casey phoned me,’ she said. ‘He keeps me up to date with anything relating to the hall. So I know about your visit there.’

  ‘Ah. I see.’

  It was a relief to have the mystery explained. He should have guessed that Casey would have talked to her. But Mrs Chadwick had manipulated him so expertly that he hadn’t thought of the obvious.

  ‘But I can assure you that whoever left white chrysanthemums for Fair Flora, it wasn’t me,’ she said. ‘That’s what you came to ask, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I haven’t been back to visit the hall since we left, two years ago. I don’t want to see it empty and abandoned, the furniture sheeted up like a mausoleum. I’m happy to leave everything in Mr Casey’s hands. The place doesn’t belong to me, you know. It reverted to the Devonshire Trust on my father’s death.’

  ‘Yes, I’m aware of that.’

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  ‘So I have no claim on it, other than an emotional one.’

  Madeleine Chadwick stopped by the rose bush again. She couldn’t seem to keep her hands off the deep-red blooms. Their petals were a little less damp now as they moved slowly in the breeze, but their colour was so dark that they looked almost black as they turned away from the sun.

  ‘John Casey told me that you and your colleague were particularly interested in the crypt,’ she said. ‘The bone collection.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, the Alder Hall bones are centuries old. Surely they’re of no interest to our busy present-day police force. So I’m surmising there must be rather more recent bones somewhere that you’re looking for. Human remains, a victim of violence?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Cooper. ‘I can’t say any more than that.’

  She stroked the petals of the rose, releasing a rich scent, like port wine.

  ‘Black Prince,’ she said. ‘Do you know anything about roses?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Roses are very remarkable things. No wonder they’ve bee
n revered so much through the millennia. People have regarded them with awe and reverence - and quite rightly. The plant itself isn’t very prepossessing, is it? Rather ugly, in fact. And it has these sharp, cruel spikes that can draw blood in an instant. Yet suddenly, at the right time of year, this plant blooms into the most exquisite flowers, and a delightful scent fills the air. It’s magical and mystical. It’s a symbol of the triumph of good over evil. The idea should interest you, as a police officer.’

  Cooper nodded, but said nothing. He felt ashamed of the cynical thoughts that sprang into his mind.

  ‘A man came here a few weeks ago,’ she said. ‘He wanted my permission to visit the crypt and look at the bone collection.’ ‘Who was he?’

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  ‘I didn’t get his name. I just sent him away. The nerve of the man, he simply appeared without warning, and he didn’t come up to the cottage to knock on the door. I saw him standing over there, on the entertainment area.’

  Cooper looked to see where Mrs Chadwick was pointing.

  ‘Oh, on the patio?’

  He heard her sigh deeply. Apparently, a patio ceased to be a patio when it was big enough. Cooper wondered if he should ask Mrs Shelley’s permission to build himself a patio. Then he could invite his friends round for a barbecue next summer. If he still had any friends left by then.

  ‘Could you describe this man, Mrs Chadwick?’

  ‘Really, I didn’t take much notice of him.’

  ‘But surely you must have noticed something. His age, height, build, the colour of his hair? What he was wearing?’

  Cooper was surprised to see Madeleine Chadwick looking faintly embarrassed. It was the first suggestion of a crack in her confident demeanour.

  ‘All I can tell you,’ she said, ‘is that he wasn’t the sort of person I would invite into my home. One often knows these things instinctively, without the need for noticing details. I hope you understand what I mean.’