by Chris Simms
So, he asked himself, what actually are you trying to achieve here? You’re going to find your brother’s killer – and then what? After all, you found the man who abused Dave and you killed him. What will you do when you find the person who sawed him into little pieces?
Silencing the voice in his head, he turned back to the crime scene, making an effort to study it as he would any other. To the left of the forensics officer on all fours were signs of recent digging. ‘That wasn’t you, I take it?’
The one standing up turned his head. ‘Sorry?’
‘The digging.’ Jon nodded at it, taking out his ID. ‘Detective
Inspector Jon Spicer, Greater Manchester Police.’
‘It was his brother – the person found up here,’ Shazia hurriedly added. ‘DI Spicer is helping us with some questions about him.’
The forensics officer trudged closer, white overshoes forcing him to step higher in the grass. A spaceman, Jon thought, trekking across the surface of another planet.
‘Your brother was the murder victim?’
‘He was.’
‘I’m really sorry.’ He looked back over his shoulder. ‘No, we haven’t touched that spot.’
Jon narrowed his eyes. The quad bikes’ tracks ended where the grass died away. Dotting the soil was a variety of impressions – shoe prints, the clove-shaped dents left by sheep, semicircular depressions left by a horse’s shoes. ‘Are all those tracks recent?’ Jon asked no one in particular.
Spiers spoke up at his side. ‘Last heavy rain was lunchtime yesterday. We reckon it’s fair to assume they are.’
Jon’s eyes roved the edge of the clearing. ‘No sign of the implement used for the digging?’
‘No,’ Spiers responded. ‘Or the weapon used to . . . used by the killer.’
Jon glanced at him. ‘Apart from the body, clothing and mobile phone, what else was in the bin bags?’
‘Well, as we mentioned, the first one was partially burned. The remains of a sweatshirt were recovered from the incinerator, along with the actual . . . you know . . .’
I do, Jon thought. ‘And the other two bin bags?’
‘One had the trousers with the mobile phone inside, the other was just . . . there was no clothing in that one.’
‘No footwear?’
‘No.’
‘Though that stands to reason, doesn’t it?’ stated Shazia. Jon looked at her. ‘If you’re making it look like the remains of a deer,’ she continued, ‘you’re not going to put shoes in.’
‘You’re right,’ Jon replied, eyes back on the ground that surrounded the crime scene tape. Heather and mats of bilberry bushes clung in every dip. ‘So, whoever did this left the scene carrying Dave’s shoes, a spade and a saw at the very least. How far is it to Haverdale from here?’
‘Three, three and a half miles,’ Spiers replied.
‘So, we’re assuming the killer – or killers – didn’t walk back. In which case they drove out here with Dave, parked at the gate at the bottom and walked up.’
‘Yes, the tyre tracks suggest that. Certainly no vehicle except the park rangers’ quad bikes went further than the gate.’ Shazia nodded.
‘Who else has used that lane in the last twenty-four hours?’
‘Along with the forensics’ van, just us when we came to seal off the area. As far as we know.’
‘And you parked right in front of the gate?’
‘Yes.’
Obliterating any earlier tyre tracks, Jon thought. Idiots. ‘This horse rider. Where did she come from?’
Shazia pointed to the next hill on their left. ‘Round Knoll. There’s a bridle path to it from the village. It leads over to here and then on into the national park.’
Jon followed the direction of her finger as it pointed to the undulating land that stretched away before them.
‘And these digs, the ones mentioned in the local paper. Wasn’t one on Round Knoll?’
‘Yes, the most recent.’
‘Where were the others?’
Shazia looked at Spiers. ‘I’m sure the first was Rebellion Hill, wasn’t it?’
He nodded. ‘Yeah.’
‘That hill overlooks Haverdale itself. Just a quick walk up from the town centre.’ She looked at her colleague again. ‘Then was it Sharston Edge?’
‘Yes, and after that Toot Hill beside it.’
‘Where are they?’ Jon asked.
Spiers gestured behind them. ‘Other side of Haverdale.’
‘Also walkable from the town centre?’
‘Easily.’
‘Have you plotted these digs on a map?’
Shazia shook her head. ‘It’s hardly been a priority. Not with the recent stuff kicking off in town.’
Maybe not to you, Jon thought. He started walking round the crime-scene’s perimeter, examining the ground for any signs of disturbance. Sheep droppings peppered the wiry grass that shifted in the breeze. He’d nearly got back to where he’d started from when he spotted the horse’s hoof marks in the aisle between two patches of heather. They led to what was little more than a sheep trail which dropped down the hill towards the wood they’d emerged from earlier. ‘Did the horse rider return to Haverdale this way?’
Shazia followed him along. ‘I’m not sure. I can check when we get back to the station. I have her number there.’
‘Where does this path lead?’
‘Back to the Haverdale road, by the looks of it.’
Jon thought about the numerous bends they’d negotiated to get here. ‘Not the safest route back if you’re on a horse. Are you sure?’
‘Chris! Where do you reckon this trail leads? Back to the road?’
Spiers ambled over, hands in his pockets. ‘Don’t know.’
Jon followed the semicircular impressions for about five metres, then stopped. A tyre track was clearly visible in the soft soil. He crouched down, eyes on the fan-shaped curve where a motorbike had been parked up, its front wheel turned to the side. Just behind it was a sharp gouge. The point where the bike’s stand had been lowered. Is this how you got up here, Dave? he thought. On the back of someone’s bike? If it was I’m looking for just one man. The person who drove this machine.
‘Can you get forensics over?’
As Spiers walked quickly back up the path, Jon leaned forward on his knuckles. Moisture rose up through the grass by the side of the thin path, probing at the creases of his curled fingers. The rear tyre had left a good imprint, a section of the diamond-shaped tread clearly visible.
‘What have you got?’
He turned to see the forensics officer standing behind him. ‘A tyre mark. Motorbike, at a guess. Can you take a cast?’ The man looked uneasy. ‘It’s been a while . . .’
‘Your colleague, then?’
‘I’m training her, afraid not.’
Jon stood. ‘There’s a crime-scene manager I’ve worked with many times.’ His mind went back to the Butcher of Belle Vue case, when Nikki Kingston had captured a perfect cast of the killer’s footprint. ‘I can give her a call. She could be here in no time; and do the main crime scene for you as well.’
The forensics officer hesitated. ‘I’m not really sure about that. It would raise complicated budgeting issues.’ He looked at Spiers.
The constable registered the glance. ‘Yeah. We’d need to clear it with the Super first.’
Jon shook his head, taking his mobile out. ‘There’ll be no charge. I’ll see to that.’
‘Even so . . .’ the forensics officer blustered.
‘Listen, mate,’ Jon said, turning to face him. ‘This won’t affect your chain of command. She’ll take the casts, give them to you and go back to her own work, OK?’
Without waiting for a reply, he brought Nikki’s number up and pressed green. As the phone started to ring he glanced at Spiers. ‘We’ll need to know where this path goes as well. Reckon the park rangers might know?’
Rick followed the narrow flagstone alley down the side of Sinclair’s Oyster Bar, eme
rging into the relatively spacious surroundings of Manchester Cathedral. The squat brown building lay on the other side of a lawned area, tower made stubby through the absence of a spire. He turned away from the dark lattice-work windows lining its side and walked towards the cathedral’s front end.
A shallow flight of stone steps led down to a pair of wooden doors. The notice at their side announced he was at the entrance to the Booth Centre. Voices could be heard within, someone asking impatiently for ‘the bastard sugar’.
He pushed the right-hand door open and looked inside. A couple of rows of formica tables, serving hatch to the kitchen, an IT suite off to the side, computers lining its walls. Looking back at the formica tables, Rick glanced over the people sitting round them. Only two women, both well past their twenties. He looked at the assortment of men. Some were bowed over their brews, methodically working their way through plates of biscuits, others were constructing roll-up cigarettes. One was simply staring at his upturned palms, as if reflecting on the whereabouts of some possession that had slipped from his grasp. Yeah, Rick thought, your life. You poor bastard.
He caught the enquiring look of a woman, apron tied around her middle, pot of tea in her hand. Giving a little smile, Rick approached, knowing his well-cut suit and tidy hair had already created a favourable impression. Once up close, he spoke quietly. ‘Hi there, I wonder if you’d mind me asking one or two questions of your visitors?’
She cocked her head, eyes still on him. Reading the question in her eyes, Rick mouthed, ‘I’m a policeman.’
With a glance towards the serving hatch, she said. ‘Best you check with Norman. He’s in charge.’
‘Thanks.’ Rick poked his head through into the kitchen area.
The man he remembered from when they were searching for the arsonist was standing at a central table arranging sandwiches on several plates.
Rick slid his warrant card out. ‘Mr Green, isn’t it? We met briefly, though it was well over a year ago. I don’t know if you remember.’
The man looked up, then his eyes moved to the side, searching what he could see of the room beyond the hatch. ‘Where’s your big brute of a partner?’
Rick winced at the memory. After chasing the suspected arsonist round the cathedral, they’d trapped him in a side porch. Jon had been less than subtle with his method of arrest. ‘He’s not here.’
‘And so what brings you back?’
‘Same sort of thing, I’m afraid. Trying to track down someone who’s giving us cause for concern.’
Green harrumphed at the choice of words. ‘I trust, if you find your man, you won’t express that concern again by frog-marching him out of here?’
Rick slipped his warrant card back into his jacket. ‘Not my style. And it’s a woman, not a man. She’s called Zoe, late twenties, straight black hair?’
‘Zoe?’ The man narrowed his eyes. ‘There was a Zoe who popped in here for a bit. She was a heavy user. But that was months back.’
Rick held a hand above his forearm and lowered an imaginary plunger into it.
Green nodded. ‘Pretty much standard with much of this lot, I’m afraid. Heroin, crack, they’re exposed to everything that’s washing through the streets. Here,’ he handed a plate of sandwiches over, ‘make yourself useful while you’re asking about.’
‘No problem.’ Rick took them and surveyed the main room. In the far corner a man was sitting on his own, a green and white striped ski hat on his head. Celtic? Rick wondered. There was no beard on the bloke, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t Jock. He wandered across, offering the plate to people as he passed. One picked a sandwich off the pile, peeled it open to reveal the fish paste inside and then tossed it into the centre of the table.
Rick reached the guy in the corner. He appeared to be somewhere in his twenties, but the deep grooves channelling down from his eyes made it hard to say for sure. ‘Sandwich?’
His glance fell off the side of the plate. ‘Nah.’
Definitely a Scottish accent, Rick thought. He made a show of looking round the room. ‘Have you seen Zoe?’
The man’s head stayed down. ‘No.’
The answer was out almost before Rick had asked the question. He tried again. ‘Zoe, black hair and the pointy teeth. Like a vampire’s.’
‘How should I know?’
The answer left Rick stumped. ‘How should you know if you’ve seen her?’
‘You what?’
Shit, this wasn’t going well. The bloke was already getting agitated. Rick sat down. ‘She used to come here. Zoe, you remember her, don’t you?’
The man leaned forward, placed his elbows on his knees and worked a thumb into his palm, digging down at the flesh. ‘I don’t know any Zoe.’
‘I just thought, you know, because she popped in all the time.’
The man’s arms had stiffened. One more question, Rick thought, and he’s going to erupt. Rick stood up and stepped away, ears cocked for any other Scottish accents. None. He gave a cough. ‘Anyone seen Zoe in here recently?’
Conversations paused and a few people looked in his direction. Heads went back down and murmurs resumed. Rick placed the plate on the nearest table. Finding this woman, he thought as he walked back out the door, is going to be a total nightmare.
Eight
As they followed the road back to Haverdale, Jon studied the summits of the nearest hills with new interest. ‘Are there many archaeological sites like that hill fort around here, then?’
Shazia spoke over her shoulder. ‘Dozens.’
‘Like what?’
‘There’s another hill fort, called Mam Tor, about seven miles north-west of here. But the whole region’s been inhabited since prehistoric times. Chambered cairns, stone circles, burial grounds. It’s riddled with them.’
‘But they’ve all been excavated?’
‘The Victorians were really into it. Like in India, they’d just rip into a site with spades. Anything of value got taken away years ago.’ She gave an impish grin. ‘My dad’s spent dozens of Sundays trying to get some pay-back by going over these parts with a metal detector. He’s never found a thing.’
Somehow, Jon couldn’t see her father also being in the force. Asian police officers were still a relatively new phenomenon.
‘What does your dad do for a living?’
‘He’s retired, now. Used to run a dental practice in town. It always confused me when his patients called him doctor. But there’s a joke around these parts that goes like this: what do you call a dark-skinned man if he’s not serving you a Big Mac?’ She paused for a beat. ‘Doctor. You have to laugh.’ She grinned over her shoulder.
Jon thought back to the abuse which had been directed at her as they’d left the station. He shrugged. ‘Or you could just arrest them.’
‘I could.’
He sat back, impressed at her ability to handle people’s racist attitudes so well. He wasn’t sure he could keep that kind of control. His thoughts turned back to Dave. I could just imagine you out here on some pea-brained plan, digging for buried treasure. You bloody idiot. He stared out of the window, noticing the clusters of spiky reeds that thrived in the slight hollows of the surrounding fields. They looked like colonies of sea urchins on an ocean floor. ‘So, we’re going to make it back to the visitor centre in time?’
Spiers rotated a wrist to glance at his watch. ‘Just. They lock up at five.’
Jon thought about Nikki, working her magic on the hill top in the fading afternoon light. A track cut a corridor into the pine woods on his right. ‘That looks like a path we just passed.’
Spiers’ eyes went to the side mirror. ‘That? Fire break. They criss-cross the plantation, but they’re not public rights of way.’
Like you’d care about that if you’re trying to leave a murder scene undetected, Jon thought. ‘This poaching arrangement you described to me before. Assuming our bike-rider is a suspect, he’s got knowledge of the trails around here. He also knows all about the poaching arrangement, seei
ng as he was trying to use it as a way to dispose of my brother’s body.’
He watched the backs of the constables’ heads turn slightly as they exchanged a glance.
‘Mallin showed me the transcript of the woman’s call to
Dave’s mobile. She was asking about a Redino. Familiar?’
Spiers let out a sigh. ‘We’re not supposed to be discussing any details with you. We shouldn’t even be taking you to see the rangers.’
Mallin, Jon thought. Guarding the case like it’s a toy he doesn’t want to share. ‘It’s my brother, for Christ’s sake.’ He waited, letting the silence get uncomfortable.
Eventually Shazia half turned her head. ‘We’ve never heard the name before.’
By now they were entering Haverdale itself. They passed the police station, and continued down the high street. Jon looked at a couple chatting happily at the counter of a takeaway pizzeria. It seemed hard to believe this rural community was beginning to struggle with an influx of hard drugs. The place seemed so nice. But then, he realised, he was looking at it from a visitor’s perspective. The mindset of a holidaymaker, here for a leisurely break away from it all.
It must be different for the people who live here on a permanent basis, watching the numbers of visitors to the town rise and fall with the holiday seasons. The long, quiet months of autumn and winter, hotels barely full, fruit machines blinking across empty pubs. The mind-numbing wait for the next flurry of tourists or gaggle of businessmen.
They took the second turning on the left towards the library. The National Park visitor centre was opposite, a single-storey building with low sloping roof sections that, instead of tiles, were covered in a living layer of moss and grass. Wooden signs in the car park pointed to a camping area to the side of the building. A few dome tents were huddled in one corner. Two men in walking gear were dismantling one, packing up as their weekend of hiking drew to a close.
