by Chris Simms
‘Be tactful, Jon. Don’t start throwing your weight around and getting their backs up.’
Too late for that, he thought. ‘What are you up to with Holly this afternoon?’
Her hands dropped from his neck. ‘You mean you’re not staying here?’
‘I can’t, Alice. There’s so much needs doing out there.’
‘But Rick’s coming over later. I invited him for dinner, remember?’
‘Yeah – Thai curry. He’s coming anyway, I told him I can’t make it. You two will have a good catch-up without me.’
‘But you’ll pop back tomorrow, won’t you? For the scan.’
‘Of course. I might have to meet you at the hospital, but I’ll call before I set off from Haverdale.’
She nodded, then looked towards the doorway of the telly room. ‘I don’t know what we’ll do this afternoon. I suppose see if Mary needs a hand.’
He thought about how the call to his mum had ended and a lump rose in his throat. ‘Probably a good idea.’ He stepped around her and into the kitchen. One of the Easter eggs on the shelf above the radiator was now partially eaten. Next to that was a row of books, mostly ones on cookery. He walked his fingers past them, then plucked the Ordnance Survey map from the end. Flipping it over in his hand, he looked at the front:
Explorer OL1. The Peak District.
They’d bought it for Sunday afternoon walks round Edale and Ladybower reservoir. Knowing he’d be using it to try and plot his brother’s last movements, he couldn’t imagine plotting leisurely strolls with it ever again.
Fourteen
As he left the relatively flat countryside that surrounded Manchester and entered the undulating landscape of the Peak District, he studied it with fresh interest. At its outer edges, patches of oak interspersed with pine trees thrived by the side of the road. But, as the low, green hills began to buckle and rear more dramatically, the trees were increasingly confined to grooves and ruts in the land.
The exposed slopes became wilder in appearance, their covering of coarse grass broken only by the endless drystone walls and occasional gnarled bush that bristled with spikes.
By the time he was approaching the turn-off for Haverdale, his eyes were flicking continuously to the hills on his right. A small car park came into view and he pulled into it, glancing at the wooden sign at the entrance: ‘Footpath to Sharston Edge’.
That was where one of the digs had occurred, he remembered, climbing out of the car. The wide gravel track led him across some steep fields, the occasional rock or boulder making progress tricky. The land levelled off at the summit and he paused, hands on hips, as he got his breath. A light breeze caressed his ears and in front of him a line of stone formations rose up out of the exposed rock. They had the appearance of dollops of ice cream that had been left out of the freezer too long – curved edges bulging out. He recalled more dramatic examples on the cliffs that overlooked Edale: millstone grit, worn smooth by millennia of sleet, snow, hail and wind.
Glancing about, he could see no evidence of where the nocturnal dig had taken place, so he stepped nearer to the melting towers of rock for the view beyond. Fields and hills stretched away below and he craned his neck to see how big the drop was. Lying at the base of the cliff some forty feet down, he was shocked to see the twisted remains of a dead sheep, its tattered fleece contrasting sharply with the sombre grey boulders around it.
Suddenly aware of his own vulnerability to an unexpected gust of wind, he stepped back, hand searching out a grip on the rough pillar of stone at his side. A blurred spot in the sky caused him to blink, and for a moment, he didn’t know if the object was rushing at him, or away. He felt the muscles behind his eyes contract as his brain tried to fix it in his view.
Then he realised it was doing neither, the thing was a bird of prey – a kestrel – wings rapidly moving, tail feathers splayed against the buffeting swirls of air. He guessed it was hovering a couple of hundred metres off, close enough for him to see the hunching of its shoulders as the bird’s head tilted down. Both wings stopped and suddenly the life could have gone out of it; a dead thing, dropping from the sky. The horizon swallowed it and Jon concentrated on the fields themselves, scanning for movement of any kind.
Seconds later it flashed across a lighter patch of grass, keeping low and banking sharply towards a copse of trees. He couldn’t see if anything was in its talons.
He turned to the stones around him. So, had this spot really once been used as a burial place for men not long out of caves? Perhaps the sentinel-like formations acted as a kind of tombstone, intended to mark for ever the resting place of family and friends. And if true, had Dave really been out here, trying to plunder their graves?
Before his car had even come to a halt, he could see the library was shut. Damn, bank holiday. He cursed, reaching for the glove compartment and searching for a piece of paper inside.
Using the road map as a rest, he scrawled out a note, folded it over and then got out of his car. The letter box was located at the base of the library’s front door and through the criss-cross of wire in the glass panel above it, he could see a couple of books on the doormat.
He pressed his note against the window and wrote, ‘FAO The Head Librarian’, then slotted it through. Open again tomorrow, he thought. I’ll call back for some answers then.
He swung the car round, rejoined the high street and proceeded to the police station. This time the waiting room was deserted as he pressed the buzzer.
A minute later, the speaker crackled. ‘Can I help?’
‘DI Spicer, Greater Manchester Police. Are Constables Spiers or Batyra about?’
‘Hang on.’
Another minute before the speaker came back to life. ‘What’s it about, please?’
Jon had stepped back, his hand on the door handle in readiness to be buzzed in. ‘Sorry?’
‘What is the nature of your call, sir?’
The nature of my call? The back of his neck tingled. The bastards won’t let me in. He paused, just about to let rip. ‘Formal identification of my brother. I forgot to sign the papers.’
This time a gap of seconds before he recognised Constable
Batyra’s voice. ‘I’ll meet you on the stairs.’
The lock finally buzzed and Jon yanked the door open so hard it banged against the wall, knocking a flake of plaster to the floor. Fuck them.
Halfway up, Constable Batyra spoke out from the flight of stairs above. ‘DI Spicer, thanks for popping back. I was thinking a drive over to Manchester was coming my way.’
Jon glanced up to see her face peering over the railing. ‘No problem.’ He made himself smile.
When he reached the top, she was holding the door to the corridor open. ‘Can I get you a tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee would be good.’
‘Black, no sugar, wasn’t it?’ she said with a backward glance, leading him down the corridor.
‘Yes, thanks. How are enquiries going?’
‘Fairly well. Full support will be in tomorrow. Superintendent
Mallin is briefing everyone first thing.’
They entered the main room and Jon’s eyes swept about.
Six people this time. All round one desk. No sign of Spiers and the corner put aside for Dave’s investigation was deserted. He looked questioningly at Batyra and her hand flapped awkwardly in the direction of her colleagues. ‘There was a fatal RTA on the Snake Pass late last night. One car’s turned out to be stolen and its driver fled the scene. The dead person is the daughter of one of the town’s councillors. Everyone’s kind of tied up on that.’
‘And the investigation into my brother’s murder?’
Shazia looked towards the doors. ‘The Super mentioned about putting a request in for some extra manpower from Sheffield.’
Jon nodded, keeping himself calm. ‘I see. Are the papers at your desk?’
‘Yes.’ She set off.
As Jon followed, he examined the pile of evidence bags across the room.
Nothing looked like it had been moved since the day before.
Batyra retrieved the forms from her top drawer. ‘OK, I’ve typed up your statement. If you could check it over and sign, we’re all done.’
‘Of course.’ He made a show of clearing his throat. ‘Any chance of that coffee?’
‘Sorry, yes. I’ll be right back.’
He bent over the forms, watching in the periphery of his vision until she’d left the room. As soon as the door swung shut, he stood up and stepped over to the evidence bags. Picking one up, he saw it contained the booklet entitled, Walks of Note Around Haverdale. The bag was narrow, only allowing him to get the pages partly open. Searching the contents pags, he saw a tick by walk number three. Haverdale – Sharston Edge – Wimble reservoir – Round Knoll – Haverdale. miles, medium difficulty.
He strained the plastic of the bag, trying to see to which page he should turn. Short of breaking the seal on the bag and taking it out, it was useless. Putting it aside, he picked up the Ordnance Survey map. Explorer OL1, same as the one he had in his car. It only just squeezed inside the bag and there was no way he could unfold it to see what markings Dave might have made on the part that covered Haverdale.
The mobile phone caught his eye. Swapping bags, he studied the handset. The screen was blank and he pressed the power button, hoping the battery still had some life. To his relief, it lit up, moving through the registration stage before settling on the screensaver.
Jon studied the woman’s face, just visible above the dried blood that covered most of the screen. There was something familiar about her. Not the actual person, more her expression, or perhaps posture. The way one shoulder was slightly raised? Through the plastic, Jon tried to scratch at the mobile’s screen, working his nail back and forth in an attempt to remove his brother’s blood.
‘Spicer! What the bloody hell are you doing in my station?’ He turned to see Mallin standing in the doorway, face red with anger.
Constable Batyra appeared at his side, a cup in each hand.
‘Sir, I let him in. He’s signing the ID papers.’
Mallin’s head jerked in her direction. ‘I said that man was not to be allowed past reception, did I not?’
Jon watched the exchange, phone half raised towards them.
‘Superintendent—’
‘Did I not say that?’ Mallin bellowed. ‘I don’t even want him in this town!’
‘Sorry, sir. It’s just that he came to formally—’
‘He came to meddle in my investigation again. That’s what he’s come to do, Constable Batyra.’ He pointed a finger at Jon.
‘Put that evidence bag back, Spicer. Now!’ Jon tried again. ‘This Zoe—’
‘Now! Or, by God, I’ll have you thrown out of here.’
Jon held the other man’s eyes. I’d like to see you try. Turning round, he pressed the phone’s off button and placed the bag with the others.
‘What the hell are you playing at, Spicer?’ Mallin was now striding towards him.
‘Meaning?’
‘I received a complaint from the owner of Hugo’s. You barged into his kitchen, demanding to see what sort of venison was in his fridge.’
Shit, Jon thought. I should have realised word would travel fast in a dump like this.
‘And I know an incident also occurred in The Tor, though the landlady is reluctant to elaborate beyond stating that you failed to pay for your drink.’
Jon glanced towards the window, envying a little bird as it flitted past. ‘There’s a link between poached venison and my brother’s murder.’
‘So you presumed to conduct your own investigation, in my town? Your arrogance astounds me.’
Jon caught the other man’s eye. No, he wanted to say, the only astounding thing here is your incompetence.
‘Then I receive a call from the manager at the Haven Inn. You actually entered the room your brother stayed in, claiming I authorised it?’
Jon wanted to step back, but didn’t. ‘Of course I didn’t go in.’ He swallowed, hoping that Brian Salt was as useless at gathering forensic evidence as Nikki had made out. ‘I just opened the door to see the last place he’d stayed.’
Mallin narrowed his eyes. ‘And eat the last food he’d eaten? There’s something morbid in your brain, DI Spicer. Get some help.’
Jon gestured at the table. ‘Just let me see that map and walking book. Dave was here trying to find something, I know it.’
Mallin shook his head. ‘You’ve done enough damage already – to this investigation and your career. Count yourself lucky that, rather than having you arrested, I elected to phone Manchester instead. I’ve spoken to a DCI Buchanon. Expect a call.’
Jon seriously considered grabbing the evidence bags and making a run for it. ‘Can you not . . .’
‘DI Spicer, you have three minutes to get out of this building. No, you’ve got thirty minutes to be out of Haverdale altogether.’ He turned to the watching officers. ‘Sergeant Brooks and Constable Conway will escort you downstairs and back to the Haven Inn. Once you’re there, you’ll pack your bags and bugger off back to Manchester.’
Jon dragged his gaze from the evidence bags and took a step towards the door. ‘You need to find Redino, can you not see that?’
There was a rustle of paper behind him. ‘And put your name on this before you go.’
Mallin was holding up the ID form. Jon looked at it, knowing that if he did, his brother’s name would be in the next morning’s papers. ‘And give you a green light to brief the press that Dave was dealing drugs to this town?’
Mallin half lowered his eyes and let out a sigh. ‘DI Spicer, either you sign or I ask your parents out here to make another identification.’
Jon took a step back towards Mallin and he saw a flicker of fear in the other man’s eyes. ‘Don’t you dare try talking to them.’
Mallin edged back an inch. ‘Well, don’t force my hand.’
Jon snatched the sheet from the other man’s grip. ‘Where’s a fucking pen?’
The patrol car followed him down the high street, all the way back to the Haven Inn. He parked by the front entrance and walked in. The man behind the counter started fiddling with his name badge.
‘You the manager?’ Jon demanded.
‘Yes.’
‘Give yourself a gold star for that poxy badge of yours. And I need to check out.’ He carried on through to the corridor and strode up to his door. His room looked a mess as he snatched crumpled clothes and shoved them in his bag. The whisky bottle was still by the telly and he laid it across the top of his things, zipped up the bag and walked out.
Halfway down the corridor, his phone started to ring. Seeing Buchanon’s name on the screen, he shoved it back in his pocket and let it ring out. After signing his bill, he walked outside and saw that the patrol car was still there.
Taking his time, he opened up his own vehicle, started it up and pulled slowly out onto the road, eyes on his rear-view mirror. The police car followed him for a good three miles, before flashing its lights and pulling into a layby.
Jon continued on the road towards Manchester, passing through the villages of Hope and Castleton on the way. But when he reached the junction with the A624, he took the right-hand turn and followed the road up to the A57. He turned right again, driving back out into the National Park, along the side of Ladybower reservoir and finally to the turn off with the A6013. Forty-five minutes later, he’d completed his circle and was entering Haverdale from the north end of its high street.
The patrol car was back in the station car park as he drove past, turned into Bent’s Lane and parked outside The Spread Eagle pub. His phone started ringing: Buchanon, again. He scrolled through the menu and diverted all calls straight to answerphone.
The cloying smell brought Zoe out of her reverie. Dragging her eyes from the distant hills, she looked at her son. ‘Christ, Jake, have you shat again?’
He shook his head and turned back to the telly, nappy distended under his Babyg
ro, an action figure grasped in each hand.
‘For fuck’s sake.’ She ground her cigarette out, then lifted him up and carried him through to his bedroom. Inside was a cot and a set of drawers Dave had found advertised in a nearby newsagent’s. The naked bulb hanging from the flex made the room too bright. She placed him on the changing mat and opened the top drawer. Nine nappies left. She ran a hand through her hair. This can’t go on much longer. I can’t go on much longer.
‘Come on, then,’ she sighed, undoing the poppers on his Babygro and pushing it up around his chest. Each breath seemed to suck at the skin between his ribs. The Velcro tabs on the nappy made a ripping sound as she peeled it open. Diarrhoea. Watery-brown paste was smeared almost all the way up to his belly button. The smell intensified.
He whined and tried to touch his behind.
‘Don’t!’ She pushed his hand away and he started to whimper as she tugged wipes from the packet. ‘Dirty. Don’t touch.’
‘Mama.’
‘I know, kidder. Mummy make it better.’ As she mopped his skin clean, revealing bright red patches on each buttock, Jake’s hips began to writhe and his wheezes grew louder. Holding him still with one hand, she tried to position a clean nappy under him with the other. He managed to grab a corner and pull the thing to the side.
‘Stop it!’ she yelled, palm raised to slap him. His wheeze changed to a little gasp of terror and, for a moment, things teetered on the brink. Then she lowered her hand and lifted him up. ‘I’m sorry, Jake. I’m sorry.’
She pressed him to her skinny chest, feeling his ribs heaving beneath her hand. After a few minutes, his cries subsided into sobs and then to shallow breaths. Just as she was wondering if he was asleep, he looked up and their eyes met. ‘OK, now?’
He raised a finger to her lips and she kissed it before saying,
‘Come on, then. Let’s get you sorted.’
He didn’t protest when she gently lowered him back down. Just as she was wrapping the clean nappy round him, the letter box creaked open.
