by Chris Simms
Rick wiped the air with one hand. ‘I’m not complaining, really. I love it, to be honest. It’s just that my partner can be . . .’ He stopped short of anything negative, aware of how Jon had loyally backed him against hostile colleagues and violent criminals alike. He thought about the time three drunken lads had targeted him in a dimly lit street on the edge of Manchester’s Gay Village. Jon had stepped in without a moment’s hesitation, blocking the first punch and then almost crushing the leader’s windpipe with his other hand. ‘Anyway, where were we?’
‘Yes.’ The younger one with the wavy blonde hair looked down at the piece of paper on her lap. ‘We were wondering if you have much of an interest in sport? From the perspective of playing it.’
‘Well,’ Rick replied. ‘Not as much as I’d have liked since graduating. I keep fit, mostly by visiting the gym downstairs; all residents are free to use it.’
‘From where did you graduate, by the way?’
Rick’s gaze moved to the one with the bob, slightly wrong-footed by her change of tack. ‘Exeter. History and Law.’
‘And,’ she added, ‘you’re on the fast-track graduate scheme within the Major Incident Team, is that right?’
Christ, Rick thought, Sheila really has briefed them thoroughly.
‘I am.’
‘So you must have got a good class of degree?’
‘A two one.’
She nodded approvingly. ‘Firsts are too much work, no play. Makes Jack a dull boy.’
Rick tried to smile. Somehow the comment made him feel that he was little more than a specimen in the woman’s eyes.
‘True. To get back to your earlier question,’ his eyes returned to the younger woman. ‘I played hockey and tennis for my hall’s team. And I joined the university rowing team in my first year, but that was a kind of hangover from my school days. I’d dropped it by my second year. Too many early-morning starts.’
‘Where did you go to school, if you don’t mind us asking?’ Her pale eyebrows were raised encouragingly.
Is that really relevant? Rick thought, leaning forward and reaching for the stainless steel art deco teapot on the table between them. ‘A little place down in Surrey. Charterfield?’ The name drew a blank. ‘There were only a thousand or so of us there. More tea?’
Their heads shook in unison.
‘Boarding school, I take it?’ the older one asked.
‘Yes.’ He examined their features for any of the usual reaction provoked by revealing he’d been schooled privately. Their faces remained neutral.
‘So,’ the blonde one continued cheerfully, ‘after Charterfield you—’
‘Sorry, Isabelle,’ the older one cut in, looking at Rick. ‘Which
A levels did you take?’
Rick pointed to the computer in the corner. ‘I could print you a copy of my CV, if you like,’ he joked. ‘I’m sure I’ll have an earlier one knocking about that lists my GCSEs too.’
‘Good idea,’ the older one immediately replied. ‘Would you mind?’
Rick got up, relieved to move away from them. This was all getting a bit much.
‘It’s a lovely place you’ve got here. Isn’t it, Cathy?’ Isabelle remarked.
‘Yes,’ the older woman replied. ‘Very nice.’
He glanced round his apartment. Bare brick walls, polished wooden floors, exposed girders spanning the ceiling. ‘It was a fruit warehouse in its day. Bananas, I think. The apartments on the floor below still have the mechanisms they used for winching the crates up.’
‘Such great views of the city,’ Cathy stated.
‘Yup.’ He didn’t need to look out of the floor-to-ceiling windows before him to know that, on a clear day like this, you could see across the city, right to the faint smudge of Welsh hills on the western horizon.
He joggled the mouse to bring his screen to life, opened a folder, selected a version of his CV dating from the nineties and pressed print. The machine below his work station whirred before a single sheet of A slid out. Stepping back towards the sofa, he glanced over it. GCSEs in subjects that included Maths, English, History, Geography, Chemistry, Latin, Drama and Art. All A or B grades. Weird, he thought, how passing those things was the most important thing in my life at the time. They now seemed so trivial. ‘There you go.’
‘Thank you.’ Isabelle smiled.
To Rick’s relief, she didn’t start poring over it there and then, but slid it into her plastic folder instead. Filed for later inspection.
‘OK,’ Isabelle said, now looking slightly hesitant. ‘Could we run through a few questions relating to your health?’
Rick opened his palms as he retook his seat. ‘Fire away.’
‘Is there any history of major illness in your family? Cancer, heart disease, strokes, that kind of thing?’
‘None that I’m aware of. Mum and Dad are both fit and well.’
She nodded, ticking a box on her sheet of paper. ‘Mental illness?’ she asked, head still bowed.
Shocked at the question, Rick looked to the older woman, but her eyes were glued to the form, too.
‘No,’ he replied.
‘Great. And you’re generally in good health?’ Isabelle glanced up. ‘You certainly look it to me.’ Another smile.
‘Yes, I’m fine. Obviously, with work, my fitness levels are monitored.’
The older woman cleared her throat. ‘Could I ask if you take
AIDS tests on a regular basis?’
Regular basis? Rick felt his face flush. This wasn’t what he expected. Not at all.
‘I’m sorry,’ Isabelle interjected. ‘It’s a perfectly routine question with this sort of thing.’
‘This sort of thing?’ Rick repeated. ‘Tell me, were you happy a few years ago when insurance companies could turn applicants down purely on the basis of them being gay?’
‘No.’ Embarrassed, the younger woman looked to the older one for support.
Adjusting her glasses, Cathy sat forwards, hand draped across her knee, fingers flicking to emphasise her speech. ‘As Isabelle mentioned, it’s routine. If you walked into any fertility clinic, it would be obliged to screen and quarantine any sperm you donate. It’s a regulatory requirement to protect against sexually transmitted diseases and genetic disorders.’
Rick sat back. ‘OK, fair enough. My partner and I both underwent an AIDS test when we started seeing each other year before last. And, before you ask, I haven’t slept with any other men since.’
The younger one ticked a final box, laid the pen down on the sheet of paper, then placed her hand over the other woman’s.
‘Thanks for agreeing to see us. It’s been a real struggle for us to get this far. I hope you can appreciate that?’
He nodded. ‘I can. Sorry if I got a bit defensive just then.’
‘No! Absolutely not. You’re quite right; it’s intrusive. But can you see things from our point of view?’
‘Yes, I can.’
‘Well,’ Cathy clapped her palms on her thighs in readiness to get up. ‘We should be going. Leave you to enjoy the rest of your Sunday.’
‘It’s certainly a nice day.’ Rick stood and walked them over to the door. ‘Sheila mentioned you’re keen to get on with things.’ He opened the door, not sure if he actually wanted to be part of the process any longer.
‘That’s right.’ Cathy nodded eagerly. ‘We’re seeing one other person this afternoon and we’ll make a decision in the next forty-eight hours.’
Rick blinked.
She caught his look of surprise. ‘Didn’t Sheila mention?’
‘No, she didn’t.’
‘Sorry. Yes, another,’ she raised her hands and double-dinked her fore and middle fingers, ‘friend of a friend asked to be considered, too.’
Asked to be considered? Rick smarted at her choice of words. Who’s doing who the favour, here?
‘Don’t worry,’ she continued. ‘We’ll ask him exactly the same questions we did you!’
‘OK.’ Rick hoped his smile
didn’t appear as forced as it felt.
‘Well, I look forward to hearing from you.’
They stepped out onto the landing and Isabelle held up a hand. ‘Thanks, we’ll be in contact soon.’
‘Thanks!’ Rick closed the door with a sense of relief. He turned round, not really seeing the room before him. Another bloke. He shook his head. Thirty seconds ago, I was ready to back out of this whole thing. But now they’ve mentioned someone else is in the running . . . he rubbed at his chin, surprised at the competitive urge suddenly coursing through him.
Seven
Shazia paused at the station’s rear doors and raised a despairing eyebrow at Spiers. ‘Three o’clock on a bloody Sunday.’
She pulled the doors open, revealing the source of commotion beyond them. Jon recognised two of the uniformed officers from upstairs. They had hold of a youth, mid-teens at the most. A long fringe had flopped over his face and the buttons on his shirt were missing. As they marched him up to the doors, he writhed and struggled, kicking out at the walls to try and impede their progress.
‘Get off me! Get the fuck off me!’ Spit flew from his lips. Shazia stepped out of the way. ‘Sunday roast and then a few pills for pudding?’
Fighting to keep hold of an arm, one of the arresting officers replied through gritted teeth. ‘So it would appear.’
The youngster looked up, eyes bright and glassy. ‘Fuck you, Paki!’
Shazia shook her head. ‘I’ll pretend not to have heard that.’ The officers bent the youth almost double and forced him toward the cells.
Jon watched with a sense of disbelief. It wasn’t the sleepy
Peak District town he’d imagined it to be.
They walked over to a patrol car and Spiers pipped the locks. But once inside, rather than turn right down the high street, Spiers spun the wheel to the left.
Jon leaned across the back seat for a better view out the side window. ‘I thought we’d be heading for the A 7.’
‘No,’ Shazia replied. ‘We’re going north towards the Manchester to Sheffield road. There’s a turning off which leads us to Highshaw Hill, where your brother was found.’
The narrow road led out into the countryside, kinking and twisting as it negotiated the sharply rippled land. After about two miles they reached the A6013, a far busier road that led south towards Derby. Spiers waited for a couple of lorries to trundle past, then turned left and continued north.
Jon looked at the undulating fields bordering the far side of the road. Criss-crossing drystone walls divided them up, cows silently grazing in the nearest, sheep in the ones that were further away. Jon let his eyes follow the walls as they clung to the ever harsher terrain, eventually taking his gaze to the tops of the nearest hills with their crests of exposed rock. To their left, the land also rose upwards, coppices of pine trees separating swathes of moor.
The silence in the car had now lasted a good five minutes and Jon guessed the two constables weren’t about to break it soon. There was no way he could squeeze them for more information if things remained as they were. He tried a little small talk. ‘Is this all national park?’
Shazia nodded. ‘Mostly. Some of that land on our left is privately owned.’
‘Who by – the Royal Family?’
‘Close. The Beaumonts. Back in the eighteen hundreds, Samuel Beaumont turned Haverdale from a cluster of shepherds’ houses into what it is today. He built the watermill that powered the town’s two cotton factories, paid for the school, library and original part of the hospital, too. He also built the Imperial when staying in spa towns was all the fashion, even extending the hospital into a sanatorium for wealthy, but sick, Londoners.’
Jon thought about the glass atrium he’d seen when looking for the mortuary. It had seemed too extravagant a feature for a town hospital. ‘Where’s the family pile, then?’
‘To the west of the town, massive old place called Grinstay House. You see the gatehouse first, the driveway’s about five hundred metres long. Big gardens, pool, stables, the lot. Not that they’re around to enjoy it much.’
‘How come?’
‘They’ve got other places in Scotland and Devon. Plus a castle-type thing in Italy.’
‘Old money then,’ Jon replied.
‘Proper aristocracy,’ Spiers agreed. ‘They come back each
August for the grouse season and that’s about it.’
‘Apart from the son,’ Shazia cut in. ‘What’s his name?’
‘William.’
Jon caught Spiers’ sneering tone. ‘Trouble, is he?’
‘Just a Hooray Henry. Too thick to get into university, so they paid for a place at an agricultural college near Sheffield. He comes back some weekends with a few mates, driving around in his Aston Martin, playing Lord of the Manor.’
‘He drives an Aston Martin?’ Jon asked. ‘That’s serious money.’
Shazia turned in her seat. ‘The parents are lovely, but he’s a little so-and-so. They don’t let him stay in the main house after he held a party that got out of hand. We were called out in the early hours. They were chugging back wine from the cellar that apparently cost over four hundred quid a bottle. Now he’s got the keys to the gatehouse and that’s it.’
‘How awful, making him rough it in there,’ Jon murmured. Spiers indicated left and started to slow. At the head of a small side lane was a uniformed officer, his car parked on the grass verge. Spiers turned into the lane and lowered a window. ‘All right, Steve? We’re heading up to the crime scene.’
‘Right you are.’
The lane led into a pine wood, ending at a gate some two hundred metres later. Yellow crime-scene tape sectioned off the last ten metres, stretching up each side of the gravel track beyond. Parked under the trees to their right was a white van. Scene of Crime Unit, Jon concluded as they climbed out. He breathed in the fresh woodland scent, listening to the twitter of unseen birds. The tops of the pine trees combed the gentle breeze, creating a low and constant sigh. It should have been a pleasant place to pause and take in.
Jon frowned at the ground beyond the yellow tape. Thick tyre tracks had gouged the soft mud immediately before the gate. Beyond the barrier were just two sets of tracks. ‘That’s where the rangers drove up on their quad bikes?’ asked Jon.
‘Yes,’ Spiers replied, approaching the stile at its side. ‘We cross here, the Common Approach Path is to the side of the track proper.’
As Jon climbed over he noticed the ‘Right to Roam’ emblem tacked to the gate post. ‘So we’re in the national park now?’
‘Yup. The Beaumonts’ land borders the edge of this conifer plantation.’
They continued in single file, walking to the side of the track with its faint tyre marks. Every ten metres or so, a waist-high plastic pole had been driven into the ground and yellow crime-scene tape twisted through the loop at the top. The ground started rising more sharply and Jon could see the end of the wood ahead.
A minute later they reached the tree line and the cordon of tape finished. Jon studied the rough moorland beyond. First the track led through a carpet of dead bracken, then, after around thirty metres, it reached shaggy grass that was dotted with the odd patch of heather. By the crest of the hill, the track had narrowed to a thin path.
‘Where’s the Common Approach Path now?’ Jon asked.
‘Here,’ Spiers replied, stepping onto the track itself. ‘We’ve been over it from this point to the summit. Nothing but tyre tracks from the rangers’ quad bikes and an empty crisp packet.’ Slack, Jon thought. Very slack. Crime-scene protocol dictated officers took the approach least likely to have been used by the offender. They continued up, Jon’s eyes fixed on the heels of
Spiers’ shoes, keeping in time with the other man’s step.
A burst of motion to their left and two grouse erupted from the heather, stubby wings beating furiously as they cut low across the moor, emitting metallic cries of alarm as they went. Jon was beginning to breathe a little more heavily when Spiers stepp
ed to the side. ‘Almost there.’
Jon looked around. The crest they were standing on levelled off slightly before rising to another. When they reached that, Jon glanced to each side. Another band of level ground appeared to circle the summit. ‘This looks like it could be man-made,’ Jon observed.
‘That’s because it is,’ Shazia replied behind him. ‘You’re standing on the upper defences of a bronze-age hill fort. Three thousand or so years ago, this would have been a walled ditch.’ Jon raised his eyebrows. ‘So it’s an archaeological site, then?’
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘But one that’s been thoroughly excavated during Victorian times. The only thing you might find nowadays is the odd microlith – flint objects like scrapers.’
Jon looked up, realising the top of a white hood was visible above the long grass ahead. They climbed the final section of path and the rest of the forensics officer was slowly revealed. To his side a colleague was on all fours, collecting samples from the muddy patch that topped the hill. They were working inside a ring of yellow tape that fluttered in the light breeze. A uniformed officer stood watching at the side.
Jon studied the scene in silence, eyes on the exposed soil. ‘I thought it was all peat round these parts.’
‘Not quite,’ Shazia answered, brushing a strand of black hair that had caught on her lower lip. ‘We’re at the edge of a horseshoe-shaped band of millstone grit, but below us it’s actually limestone. A few hundred metres west and south are some pretty impressive cliffs, and stretching beyond them are the peat bogs and acid grasslands you’re thinking of.’
‘You all geology experts out here?’ he asked, adding a half-smile to show the question wasn’t serious.
One hand swept dramatically outward. ‘You have to understand the rock, otherwise it’s like listening to poetry in an unknown language. You hear the beauty, but you miss the meaning.’
‘Did you just make that up?’
‘I wish.’ She smiled.
Jon’s grin fell away as he turned back to the crime scene itself. He stared at the clotted stain at its centre. Dave’s blood, pints of it. A close-up image of an arm wielding a saw. He lifted his eyes, regarding the land as it stretched away in a series of similar hills, the tops of more pine trees visible behind the nearest. Away to his right, the A6013 followed a shallow curve along the lower part of the moor. A motorbike was speeding along it, gaining quickly on a slow-moving lorry. The bike hovered a moment at the vehicle’s rear bumper, then jinked out to swiftly overtake. A second later the sound of its throttle opening up reached Jon’s ears.
