'My grandad's not keen on motorbikes.'
'I've nowt against bikes, I've had a few myself over the years. It's just that nowadays you get these middle-aged men thinking they're Barry Sheen.'
As far as Fossey was concerned Ronnie had a point, after all, the only people who could afford a top of the range bike were people who had disposable income, which equated to the middle-aged men that Ronnie disliked.
'And the bloody mountain bikers are as bad, I tell you I was driving up here last year and one daft sod came flying out of the trees, nearly flattened him all over the road.'
'He'd prefer it if everyone was on foot wouldn't you, Grandad?' Jenna said with a smile.
Ronnie stuck his head between the front seats. 'No need to be sarky, love. I just think that folk should have a bit more respect. I mean, this fella actually stopped and gave me a mouthful as if it were my bloody fault.'
Jenna frowned. 'You never told me that.'
'Don't worry, I gave as good as I got. I told him he was a bloody idiot who should have stabilisers on his bike if he couldn't control it.'
Fossey smiled, he could imagine the scenario, Ronnie with the cigarette clamped between his teeth, pointing an arthritic finger at the biker, the rumble of the Land Rover belching diesel fumes into a perfect summer's day.
Thirty seconds later, the tarmac suddenly ended, and the car began to bounce along the unmade road. After hitting one particularly deep pothole, the front of the CD player popped off and disappeared into the footwell. Fossey slowed down, he was relieved they had come in the Range Rover, he didn't think his stomach would have survived the trip in Ronnie's old wreck.
'Comfy motor this.' Ronnie said as if he had read Fossey's mind. 'Normally when I come up here in my old heap, I've lost my false teeth by now.'
'Oh, Grandad, don't be gross!' Jenna pointed to a small passing place on the left. 'You can park here it's not far and the car won't get much further.'
'No problem,' he manoeuvred into the space and turned off the engine.
The West Pennine Moors lay before them, endless miles of windswept fields and woodlands. The backbone of England.
'That's Winter Hill.' Ronnie pointed to the highest peak, a hulking mass that swept up towards the horizon.
Fossey could see a jumble of buildings on its summit, at the centre a huge, white mast thrust skyward. 'I wouldn't like to spend a night up there when the weather's bad.'
'I camped up there a few times when I was a young lad, nice enough in summer but a bitch of a place in the winter.'
'I can imagine,' Fossey paused, 'what are the buildings for?'
'The TV mast's been up there since the late sixties. All the other dishes have been added over the years, it's all to do with this digital stuff.'
'The mast's over six hundred feet tall.' Jenna added.
Fossey looked at her and raised an eyebrow.
She blushed, fully aware that she sounded like some techno geek. 'We went up there with the school once, a sort of day trip.'
'I can't see the point in it myself.' Ronnie shook his head as if puzzled by the modern world.
'It was interesting, Grandad, well, as interesting as stuff like that can be to a twelve year old.'
The three of them climbed over a wooden stile and headed off into a thicket of Scots pine trees. It was cooler in the shade, shafts of sunlight lancing through the latticework of overhead branches, bathing the ground in pools of honey-coloured light. The stillness under the trees felt stifling, even the sound of their feet deadened by the blanket of needles that smothered the ground.
'So, do the Radfields own this land?' Fossey asked.
Jenna looked towards her grandad, who nodded for her to answer.
'They used to, but now the woodlands belong to the local water authority.'
'So, have they sold off a lot of the land?'
'Well, yeah, but they still own a lot. Though it's mainly moorland now, oh, and the quarries still belong to them.'
Fossey adjusted the rucksack. 'And do any of the family still live in the area?'
'Oh, aye, Lord Malcolm still lives over yonder.' Ronnie waved his hand in a northerly direction.
'So, how do they make their money, now?'
'Who knows how these buggers ever make their money, they call themselves 'gentlemen farmers' but I can't ever remember seeing Malcolm with his arm shoved up the arse end of a cow.'
Fossey smiled at the image.
Five minutes later and he began to see a change in the surrounding fauna, the fir trees gradually thinned out, replaced by beech and oak, interspersed with rhododendron bushes, all in full bloom, reds and mauves in abundance. The temperature cooled slightly, though Fossey's shirt was rapidly becoming damp with perspiration. He adjusted the backpack and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. The unexpected site of the lake stopped him in his tracks, it was oval shaped, the banks covered with yellow gorse bushes with the occasional weeping willow trailing in the water, the surface was mirror still and black. Standing in the centre was a small island with a man-size bronze statue on a sandstone plinth. Two small waterfalls were positioned at either end of the lake. At this time of year only a trickle of water fell from each though Fossey could imagine that in the winter or after a heavy summer downpour, they would look impressive as the water swept down from the hills to cascade into the lake.
'Do you like it?' Jenna asked, a bright smile on her face
Fossey adjusted the pack again. 'It's unexpected.'
'More bloody money than sense.' Ronnie added cryptically.
The statue in the water was of a naked man standing with his legs apart both his arms stretching skyward as if he were reaching for some unobtainable goal.
'William Radfield was the one who had all the gardens built and the needle house.' Jenna said, as she pulled a rubber band from her pocket and tied her hair back in a tight ponytail.
'And he was?'
Ronnie grunted. 'First of the Radfields to make any cash.'
'I see and when was this?'
Jenna took over. 'He was born in 1810 and died in 1904.'
'And how much land did they own back then?' Fossey asked. He was sure that Jenna had probably put all this information on the computer, but he wanted to know anyway.
'By the time William died he owned over seventy thousand acres.'
Fossey was surprised, he had no real concept of how much land that amounted to, but he was sure it was more than he would ever own.
'And what about now?'
Jenna frowned as if he had asked the one question for which she had no definite answer. 'It's hard to say really,' she blushed as if ashamed by her own inadequacies.
'One thing's for sure it's a damn site less than they used to own and if I had to take a guess I'd say it were less than ten thousand.'
Jenna glared; this was about facts not guesswork. 'Oh, come on, Grandad, you don't know that for sure.'
'Think about it, the water board own a great bloody chunk of it and then there's all the farms like ours that they use to own.'
'So, your farm belonged to the Radfields? I hadn't realised.'
Ronnie folded his arms. 'My father bought it off them in the sixties.'
Fossey slung the bag from his shoulder and pulled out the drinks, Jenna took one, but Ronnie shook his head.
'I can't stand the stuff.'
Fossey looked at the old man in surprise. 'But I thought you made it?'
Ronnie began to fumble in his pocket. 'When I was a young 'un, it's all we ever got to drink. I tell you, when all you've supped for fifteen years is ginger beer, then you never want to taste the stuff again,' his hand emerged clutching a dark-brown bottle. 'Cider's my tipple of choice,' he unscrewed the top and took a big gulp.
Fossey watched as his Adam's apple bobbed up and down.
Jenna looked at Fossey, smiled, and shrugged as if to say. 'What can you do?'
24
With all the doors and windows open, the foul smell had all but van
ished from the ramshackle house.
Lasser stood in the doorway, the sun hot on his back. 'All right, lads, have you found anything?'
'Nothing so far, sir,' both men were on their knees searching the small parlour.
'Well, keep up the good work,' the cliché slipped from Lasser's lips with practised ease.
The men nodded glumly before returning to the task. Lasser remembered how much he had hated doing fingertip searches. At first, you'd be convinced you would be the one to find that vital bit of evidence that would help nail some bastard. As time wore on you'd start to lose interest, the excitement would dissolve, and time would drag.
He moved through to the kitchen, being a detective sergeant wasn't the best job on the planet but it sure beat crawling around on your hands and knees for a living.
It was the same story in here, Lasser counted five people all doing the same thing, searching for something that probably didn't exist.
He spotted Carl from forensics coming in through the back door and headed over.
'Morning, Carl.'
The man from forensics looked at him in surprise. 'I didn't expect to find you here today, boss.'
'I know, I'm a sucker for a good murder, where's Hopkins?'
'Apparently he's on his way, and I don't think he'll be chuffed if he knows you've been here.'
'I happened to be passing, so as a courtesy to a fellow officer I thought I might call in to offer assistance.'
Carl grimaced. 'I can't see Hopkins falling for that one.'
'Believe it or not it's the truth; I've just been up in the woods, some old bloke out strolling when his ticker packed in, open and shut job. So, while I was close I thought it my professional duty to just nip down here to keep up with developments.'
'Well, I'm afraid it's been a wasted journey.'
'Still drawing blanks?'
'Afraid so.'
Lasser pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket and headed through the back door. Carl took a quick look around the room before following him outside.
'What about the stuff we found yesterday, surely Doctor Death has found something?' Lasser lit a cigarette and offered the pack to Carl.
'He was just starting when I left, but that button you found in the bag?'
'What about it?'
'It came from a Barbour jacket.'
'Forgive me, Carl, but I buy all my clothes from Primark so I'm not really a fashion expert.'
'I'd never have guessed.'
Lasser grinned through the smoke. 'Just get on with it.'
'The Barbour is an expensive piece of kit.'
'How expensive?'
'Put it this way, you won't find your average teenage yobbo wearing one.'
'So, we could be looking at someone who isn't short of a few bob?'
Carl shrugged. 'No comment.'
'Still, there's no guarantee it came from the murderer,' Lasser pondered. 'It could have been on the floor for years and it just got pushed into the bag with the remains.'
'Could be, boss.'
In the distance, they saw Hopkins's car pull up at the bottom of the field, a moment later the man himself emerged and headed over towards a small group of reporters.
'Tonight Matthew, I'm going to be Inspector Morse.'
Carl grinned and dropped the cigarette onto the trampled path. 'Right, I'd better look busy before he gets here.'
'Right and thanks for the info, as soon as you get the results about the other stuff?'
'Don't worry; I'll give you a bell.'
'Good man.'
Carl disappeared into the house while Lasser wandered down towards the septic tank, enjoying the cigarette. A large plastic sheet lay pinned to the ground. Lasser surveyed the mess; a man dressed in something that resembled a chemical warfare suit was slowly picking his way through the pile of detritus.
Maybe his counterpart would get lucky and the button would prove to be vital, still, knowing Hopkins he wouldn't recognise a clue if it came with a tag attached saying 'This is a clue'.
Heading to the car he climbed in and slowly bumped across the field, as he drove past the waiting reporters he gave a blast on the horn. Heads turned, and Hopkins looked over his shoulder to see who had disturbed his fifteen minutes of fame. Lasser held up a hand, keeping his face serious, a man on a mission. Hopkins looked enraged, hatred burning in his eyes.
What a tosser, Lasser thought as he drove away.
He found Connelly in his usual spot, standing on the precinct, sipping tentatively on a can of special brew.
'What the fuck do you want?' Connelly winced, both eyes blackened, he had a large strip of plaster covering the bridge of his dismantled nose.
'You should be at home in bed, Kyle, not out here frightening all the little children.'
'Look, I'm busy.'
'Billy Jones, have you heard from him yet?'
'No, I fucking well haven't.'
'Would you tell me if you had?'
Connelly cocked his head and sneered. 'What do you think?'
'I need to know exactly where you last saw him.'
Connelly's eyes shifted in their narrow sockets.
'You thick or what? I already told you that yesterday.'
'Yes well, today I need you to be more specific.'
'Look I can't remember, I was pissed OK, I mean, I've already told Michael…' Connelly's mouth snapped shut.
Lasser smiled. 'So, it was Michael who rearranged your face?'
Kyle glared. 'I'm saying nowt.'
'It looks like our friend can pack a punch.'
'Fucker sneaked up on me, didn't he,' Connelly snarled.
It was always the same with pond life like Connelly, if you gave them enough rope or riled them enough then they'd always hang themselves or throw their toys out of the pram.
'So, I can gather by the state of your face that you upset Michael in some way?'
'He just got a lucky punch in that's all.'
Lasser looked up and down the deserted road; it was turning into one of those oppressive days were everything seemed to take an effort. The only sign of life, apart from Connelly – and he didn't really count as a life form – was a ginger cat cleaning itself on the garden wall opposite. 'Look, Kyle, I know you were drunk and probably high as a kite, but I need you to think. Now, presumably when you got up there you were sober, am I right?'
'You know me, officer; I'd never drink and drive.'
'Yeah right, so where did you park the car?'
The boy frowned as if it were some sort of trick question. 'George's Lane, then we went through the Chinese Gardens and into the woods.'
Lasser didn't like the way this was going. 'And when Billy did his disappearing act, which way did he run?'
'He ran off through the trees and down the hill.'
'Away from where the car was parked?'
'Yeah.'
'The last time we spoke you told me you'd followed him?'
Connelly pulled out his cigarettes and lit one, though it looked like an effort to place the cigarette between his swollen lips.
'We tried to but that little fucker can run you know and then he just kind of vanished.'
'What do you mean?'
Connelly was looking more uncomfortable by the second. 'Well, there was this old knackered house in the middle of nowhere and we thought that maybe he'd gone in there, but it was too bloody dark to see owt, so we came away.'
Lasser looked skyward then back at Kyle.
'And you didn't see anyone else hanging around the place?'
'Are you kidding, like I said it was dark, plus we was all pissed out of our heads.'
'I see, so you just left him?'
'Hey, hang on, we thought he'd just given us the slip, I mean, what were we supposed to do, spend all night looking for him?'
'So, let me just clarify what happened.' Lasser smiled and Connelly swallowed. 'You and your group of 'mates' chased a fourteen-year-old boy with the sole intention of beating the crap out of him
and then you simply left him in the middle of nowhere?'
Connelly's hand trembled as he took another pull on the cigarette.
'I never said anything about beating anyone up.'
'Yesterday you told me Miller was angry with Billy.'
He could almost smell Connelly's tiny mind as it started to overheat.
'I'm saying nothing else.'
Lasser poked his head forward and Connelly swayed backwards as if he expected Lasser to headbutt him.
'You don't need to say anymore, Kyle, I've got the picture.'
He left Connelly on the wall sucking on the cigarette like a comforter.
Back in the car, he thought about what Connelly had told him, if it was the truth then the remains from the septic tank belonged to Billy Jones.
He considered going round to the Jones's palatial home to have a word with Michael but in the end, he couldn't see the point, the family would know soon enough.
He would pay Doctor Death a visit then, hopefully, he could provide a definitive answer. Then he would head back to the station to inform his superiors. Putting a name to the remains would put a big tick in his book but it still didn't solve the mystery of where the rest of the body had vanished to and it put them no nearer to catching the killer.
With a heavy sigh, Lasser pulled away from the small car park and headed out towards the hospital.
25
Jenna led them along a series of interlocking paths heading deeper into the dense woodland. Fossey could feel the ache in his legs, the sweat oozing from his open pores.
After about twenty minutes of climbing, they emerged into a large open field, wild flowers grew in abundance, butterflies skittered through the still, summer air. Out of the cover of the trees, the heat intensified and Fossey took another long drink from the nearly empty bottle of ginger beer.
'Believe it or not this used to be a cricket pitch,' Jenna said.
Fossey looked to his left where two, low, sandstone buildings stood, the fronts had been left open, the flat roofs edged by a small carved wall.
Jenna pushed a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. 'If it was a hot day then the people would sit on the roof and watch the match and if it started to rain they'd simply move below into the shelter.'
The Needle House Page 10
