by Chris Simms
The visitor centre doors opened on a large, open-plan room. In the middle of the floor was a waist-high platform topped by a three dimensional map of the region. Jon glanced at the place names dotting the ridges and bumps: Glossop, Buxton, Chapel-en-le-Frith, Castleton, Bamford, Bakewell. Displays lined the walls, many with colour photos of the flora and fauna that lived in the unspoilt terrain. Jon saw images of grouse, white hares, barn owls, peregrine falcons, water voles and adders. In the corner was a separate display entitled ‘Osprey Watch’. A small monitor stood on a table, the screen frozen on what appeared to be the top of a pine tree.
Spiers spoke at his side. ‘Robert, hi there. Could I introduce you to someone?’
Jon turned to his right. Behind several stands displaying maps, walking guides and postcards, was a wiry man in his fifties. He wore hiking boots with red flashes at the side, dark brown trousers and a red fleece. On its left breast were the words: Park Ranger.
The man moved with a lightness of step and, as they shook hands, Jon was impressed with the firmness of his grip. Probably a fell runner, he thought. ‘DI Jon Spicer, Greater Manchester Police.’ He waited for Shazia to qualify the introduction.
‘It was Jon’s younger brother who was killed,’ she stated quietly behind him.
The man’s eyes were bright and clear in his weathered face.
‘Your brother? I’m very sorry to hear that.’
‘Thank you. I gather you and a colleague collected the bin bags?’
‘Yes.’ He turned to the partially open rear doors. ‘Michael! Have you got a second?’
A moment later, a younger man stepped through them, wiping his hands clean on an oily rag. As he approached, Jon saw he was wearing an identical uniform to his older colleague. This man was in his early twenties by the look of him, taller and heavier, brown hair in a neat side-parting. The tilt of his eyebrows lent him a slightly apprehensive air as he nodded curtly at Shazia and Spiers, directed his eyes at Jon and did the same.
‘You OK, Michael?’ Shazia asked, a note of concern in her voice.
‘Yes.’ He glanced at his colleague. ‘She’s running perfectly again, now. Buggered if I know what’s up with her.’
The older one shrugged. ‘Quad bikes for you.’
‘I know you were about to lock up,’ Shazia interjected, ‘so we won’t keep you long. It’s been a long day for the both of you.’ She flicked a glance at Jon.
‘Yes,’ Jon added. ‘A few questions, that’s all.’
The two rangers had the look of competitors entering the last stage of an endurance test. Just one more hurdle, Jon thought, and you’re home. ‘We spotted a trail leading down off Highshaw Hill. It wasn’t the main path leading up from the A6013 , but it seemed to be heading down towards the road.’
The older ranger looked at his colleague, a frown on his face. ‘That’ll be the plantation track, won’t it? Crossing the Beaumonts’ land.’
‘Sounds like it.’
The older ranger stepped over to the relief map in the middle of the room. ‘Here’s the A6013 and Highshaw Hill. This path dropped down in a southerly direction?’
Spiers bent forward. ‘Yes, to the side of Round Knoll.’
‘Plantation track,’ Robert nodded. ‘It merges with an old holloway. A path worn by the trains of pack horses that carried down lead and stone from medieval times.’
‘Where does it go?’ Jon asked.
Robert traced a finger round the edge of the dark green patch that indicated the plantation of conifers. He tapped a blunt fingernail at a point just to the side of the high street as it left the village. ‘Here, not a hundred metres from the police station.’
‘Could you get a motorbike along it?’ The rangers looked at one another.
‘I reckon so,’ replied Michael, the younger one. ‘The main gate is locked, but the smaller side one isn’t. I know horse riders coming down off the tops pass through it.’
‘How Mrs Phillips, who spotted the bin bags in the first place, could have returned?’ Shazia asked.
Both rangers gave agreeing nods.
‘Great, thanks,’ Jon said, eyes returning to the map. ‘What are the black dots on the hills?’
‘Potholes,’ the older ranger replied. ‘Do you know much about the geology of the area?’
‘I’m learning. Limestone, isn’t it?’
‘Correct. Carboniferous limestone. One hundred and fifty metres of crushed coral and seashells, riddled with potholes, caves and old mine shafts. I was saying to Michael earlier, a far better place to get rid of a body.’
His younger colleague coughed awkwardly. ‘He’s right. You know – sorry to say.’
Jon waved the comment aside. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘Many don’t feature on any map, you see,’ Robert continued.
‘Not even the Ordnance Surveys. Mine shafts from God-knows-when, bunged up centuries ago with rock. Sometimes the plug falls in and you’ve got another hole.’
Jon crossed his arms. ‘Interesting. I was assuming the killer had local knowledge, seeing as this arrangement you have with the poachers was being used by him to dispose of the body
. . .’ He paused, aware that Robert’s eyes kept cutting across to Michael, who was shifting from foot to foot like a schoolboy needing the toilet.
‘Sorry, Detective. Could Michael get going?’
‘It’s my mum,’ the younger man blurted. ‘Sundays is her bridge night, in the community centre. I need to drive her there.’
Jon swivelled round. ‘Sorry, mate, I said only a few questions. You get going, and thanks for your help.’
He hurried over to the counter and unhooked a red jacket from the row of pegs on the wall. ‘Be seeing you,’ he called out, quickly slipping through the rear doors and into the dusk beyond.
Robert waited for the doors to swing shut. ‘Poor lad. This business really shook him up. Never known anything like it.’ His eyes skittered across Jon’s face. ‘With all due respect.’
Jon found himself waving another comment away. ‘Of course. So, these poachers – where does the venison they butcher end up?’
‘All round the place. Pubs, restaurants, hotels. Anywhere with game on the menu. Ask and the general answer is it’s legally sourced from the managed herd on the Lyme Park estate at Disley. But that meat comes at a premium, poached stuff is half the price.’
Jon drummed his fingers on the edge of the giant map. ‘How can you tell the difference?’
‘Once it’s cooked, you can’t. You need to see it in the fridges. Lyme Park stuff comes in shrink-wrapped packages, properly labelled. Poached meat will be in ugly great lumps, wrapped in greaseproof paper, freezer bags or something similar.’
‘And who are these poachers?’
The ranger rubbed his chin. ‘Chris, Shazia? Who do you reckon they are?’
Spiers pursed his lips. ‘There hasn’t been a prosecution for poaching in years. It’ll be local people who’re short of money, needing a few quid to see them through. I doubt many are at it on a regular basis.’
‘No, I imagine they’re not,’ Robert agreed. ‘We collect the bin bags once, twice a month at most. Can’t see it being a main source of income for anyone, that’s for sure.’
‘And this morning,’ Jon asked. ‘There was nothing to suggest anything was out of the ordinary?’
‘No. The bags were on the top of the hill. We took the quad bikes up and just slung them . . .’ He swallowed. ‘Put them on the carry platforms at the rear. A couple of ties to secure them and we were at the kennels half an hour later.’
‘Where the incinerator is?’
‘That’s right. We’ve used it for years. Fox, deer, mink, crows. The odd hound, too, when they sicken and die.’
Jon pictured a squat construction fashioned from sooty bricks with a blackened grate. A burning place for vermin and dogs. He clenched his teeth, waiting for the surge of anger to pass. Looking back at the ranger, he caught him glancing at the clock on the wall. Suddenly
the details of his brother’s death sickened him and he didn’t want to be there, either. ‘Well, thanks for your help, Robert, it’s really appreciated.’
The man bowed his head. ‘Glad if it’s been any use. And sorry to meet you in these circumstances.’
‘Me, too,’ Jon answered, turning for the exit. Out in the cark park, Shazia’s phone began to ring.
‘Hello, Sarge. Where are we? Outside the visitor centre. Just following up a couple of things with Robert Wood and Michael Lumm. They are? OK, we’ll be there in a minute.’ She closed her phone and looked at Jon. ‘Forensics have just turned up at the station. Your colleague’s taken a whole pile of casts, much to Mallin’s annoyance, I gather.’
Nine
They entered the main room at Haverdale police station and Jon saw everyone was gathered round a table in its middle. He watched the petite form of Nikki as she laid out her evidence bags on the wooden surface. Each one contained the lumpy white form of a plaster cast.
Thank God she’s back to her old self, he thought. He reflected on how involving her too closely in a previous investigation had led to their nightmare experience on Saddleworth moor: racing back to his car with something dark and malevolent in pursuit. She’d been signed off with stress for almost half a year and it was that long again before her confidence had fully returned.
There was a note of scepticism in Mallin’s voice as he prodded at the bag nearest to him. ‘So, what did you use to make these things again?’
‘Denstone KD,’ Nikki replied a little too curtly.
‘Oh,’ Mallin shot a pleased glance at his crime-scene manager.
‘Isn’t Crownstone the best stuff to use?’
Nikki sighed. ‘Some prefer Crownstone. I go for Denstone
KD.’
I wonder, thought Jon, if they’ve been putting you through this bullshit all afternoon?
With the dozen or so casts now in a row, she pushed straggles of black hair away from her forehead. The thick locks shortened in length away from her face, ending at a bob at the back of her neck. The style gave her a boyish look which contrasted sharply with the authority in her voice. ‘Now, it’s a hard one to call. Definitely three sets of footprints. These partials, to me, indicate one more.’
‘So a total of four people at the crime?’ Mallin asked his CSM, turning away from Nikki.
The man rubbed the knuckle of a finger across his lips. ‘I’d say those partials are two different sets of prints.’
‘So five, not four, people,’ Mallin stated.
Nikki shook her head, eyes still on the table. ‘No, four. The markings around the heel area look pretty much identical to me. And see that V-shaped bump on the inner edge? That suggests a nick in the sole of the boot. It occurs on most of the partials we’ve got.’
‘Well,’ responded the CSM, ‘we’ll have to agree to disagree on that.’
‘Are two sets of the prints made by the same type of sole?’ Jon asked across the room. All eyes turned to him and he saw Nikki puff out her cheeks. Exasperation and relief in one gesture.
‘Yes,’ she said, fighting back the beginnings of a smile. Support had arrived. ‘These two. Maybe a size eleven and a size nine.’
‘I think you’ll find those belong to the park rangers,’ Jon replied, approaching the table. ‘The uniform includes the same type of hiking boot.’
‘Ah.’ Nikki divided off four of the casts and looked at the remainder. ‘So that leaves these.’
‘Did you get an impression of the tyre track?’ Jon’s eyes searched the bags for a long thin strip of plaster. Each cast was marked with that day’s date and the initials NK.
‘For what it’s worth.’ She gestured at the end of the row. There was no more than thirty centimetres of white cast inside the bag.
‘But you got one,’ Jon said. ‘So, modes of transport at the crime scene appear to be the rangers’ quad bikes, and an unknown motorbike. A ranger on each bike . . .’ He let his voice trail off, not bothering to state that motorbikes were good for a maximum of two, not three people. Therefore Nikki’s estimation of four people being at the crime scene would be correct. From the expression on Mallin’s face, it was obvious he’d done the maths too.
He turned to his constables. ‘Did the horse rider, Mrs Phillips, dismount at the scene?’
Shazia shook her head. ‘No.’
Give up, Jon thought. Your CSM was wrong, and you know it.
Mallin pondered the table for a few more moments. ‘Thank you for your assistance, Miss Kingsley.’
‘Kingston,’ she corrected.
‘Kingston.’ The smile barely lifted his lips before it vanished.
‘We’ll get this over to our lab in Sheffield. I’m sure the specialists there can provide us with some definitive answers in due course.’ He gestured towards the CSM, who reached out both arms and began sweeping the bags towards him like a winning poker player.
‘Careful.’ Nikki’s hands fluttered protectively. ‘They won’t be properly set for another twenty hours.’
The man lightened his touch as he began to place them in stacks and Mallin rubbed his hands together. He seemed to suddenly discover the presence of a watch on his wrist. ‘Well, I’d expect you two will want to start making the trek back to Manchester. It’s been a pleasure.’ He briefly shook with Nikki, then turned to Jon. ‘DI Spicer.’
Jon held the superintendent’s hand in his grip. ‘How did your enquiries go this afternoon? Anything more on this Redino character?’
Mallin shrugged. ‘Nothing so far, in Sheffield or Manchester. Nothing on the database either, general search or narcotics offences.’ He pulled gently, trying to extricate his fingers.
That, Jon thought, is because this isn’t about drugs, you fool. He relaxed his grip, letting Mallin’s hand escape. ‘And the phone records for Zoe?’
Mallin was stepping away, one arm held towards the doors.
‘Maybe Tuesday. Most people don’t work on Sundays, DI Spicer and it’s a bank holiday tomorrow. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have a lot of work to get through before then ourselves.’
Twat, Jon thought, reluctantly letting himself be herded towards the exit. ‘OK. Would you keep me updated on any developments?’
‘Of course, we maintain regular contact with the family in cases like this.’ That smile again, genuine as an alligator’s grin.
Jon waited as Nikki grabbed her carry case. They walked the length of the corridor in silence and were halfway down the stairs before she spoke. ‘I felt about as welcome as a fart in a lift.’
‘Yeah, sorry. I didn’t have time to explain the politics.’
‘What, Brian Salt being a total waste of space?’
‘Was that his name, the crime-scene manager?’
‘Yup. He did a stint with Greater Manchester Police. Lasted less than two years. I knew he’d applied for a more rural posting. Surprised he didn’t work the scene in his pipe and slippers. Lazy bastard then, lazy bastard now.’
‘Bloody great,’ Jon said, holding up a hand with his thumb and forefinger barely apart. ‘So, paired with Mallin, prospects for an effective investigation are about this big.’
‘Are you helping out?’
He snorted. ‘You heard him back there. It’s thank you and good night for the pair of us.’
They reached the bottom of the stairs and as he held the door open for her, she paused and placed a hand on his arm. Memories instantly flared. The kiss they’d shared in the Bull’s Head when she’d cracked the forensics on the Butcher of Belle Vue case. Their bodies colliding as they’d clambered over a ditch while investigating the Monster of the Moor. The way she’s clung to him before he finally broke away. For God’s sake, Jon. You’re using this woman. Playing on the fact she fancies you to get her help.
‘I didn’t really have the chance to say earlier. I’m so sorry about your brother. I can’t imagine how you feel.’
He nodded at the empty corridor. ‘Cheers.’
She let her h
and slide down towards his elbow. A gentle squeeze and contact was gone. ‘You never mentioned him.’ She set off in front.
‘No. We weren’t the best of mates. Sadly.’
They walked on into the reception which was now empty of people, opened the door to the street and stepped outside. Night-time proper, streetlights casting their orange glow. A bus trundled past, empty except for the driver. ‘Where are you parked?’ he asked.
‘Next to yours.’
They walked to the left-hand side of the car park. The back seat of her BMW Mini was folded down and Jon could see her cases inside. He thought about Salt’s gloating expression as he gathered in the plaster casts. ‘Did you get back-ups?’
‘Of course,’ she replied matter-of-factly, pipping the lock.
‘Including the motorbike tyre?’
‘That’s what you asked for.’ She lifted the rear hatch. ‘But as I said in there, it’s hardly worth shit. Thirty centimetres max, less than a fifteen per cent revolution of the wheel.’ She glanced at him. ‘Oh, don’t give me your hang-dog look.’
‘Surely there’s a chance something will stand out?’
‘The tread print is good, I’ll give you that.’ She placed her carry case in the car. ‘But on first glance, I didn’t spot anything else.’
‘So you should be able to identify the brand of tyre?’
‘Yes, but without any mould characteristics, not the actual batch.’
‘What about those other things you look for . . . incidentals?’
‘Accidentals. Wear and tear marks on the tyre itself. I’ll try. But again, don’t hold your breath.’ She closed the boot. ‘The footwear casts are good, though. I doubt Salt will get round to it, so I’ll put them on SICAR first thing tomorrow.’
‘That being?’
‘Shoeprint Image Capture and Retrieval. Get me the footwear of your suspect and I’ll tell you if he was at the crime scene that night.’
‘Great, Nikki. Thanks for coming out here on your weekend and all that. I really appreciate it.’
