‘How accurate are these ages and measurements, Doctor?’
‘I’m confident the estimates are accurate, within the parameters I’ve given you. But I’d like to urge the police officers present to be careful with their missing person reports when trying to make a match. Don’t assume any degree of accuracy there.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, a lot of people don’t actually know how tall they are. Or they lie about it. Some would like to be a few inches taller, others a bit less tall. And of course, they don’t realize that their height changes when they age, so they can be giving the wrong height for themselves for years without knowing it. Besides, if you’re looking at a missing person report, ask yourself who provided the information? A spouse, a friend? Some of those figures could just be a wild guess.’
Jamieson took advantage of the silence he’d created to press on hurriedly with his final point.
‘And how long have the remains been buried, you’ll ask me. Well, an unembalmed adult body buried unprotected in ordinary soil will normally take ten to twelve years to decompose down to a skeleton. Burial depth and soil temperature might vary the decomposition rate. A body in air decomposes eight times faster than when buried.’ He looked up from his laptop. ‘Like Detective Constable Cooper’s dead sheep.’
Gavin Murfin laughed, but no one else seemed to understand the joke. The anthropologist moved on rapidly.
‘When bodies are exposed to cool, moist soil, the soft tissues can decay quite slowly and turn into adipocere. Adipocere is a soapy, greasy substance that forms when body fat decomposes in a damp environment. It’s sometimes called grave wax. Adipocere is the cheesy greyish-white mass you can see in this photograph.’
Yes, they could see it quite clearly on the photographs. Some of the officers looked away for a moment, but forced themselves to turn back. Jamieson left the most revolting photograph on screen while he finished off.
‘Adipocere inhibits putrefying bacteria, so when a body reaches this state of decomposition it might stay that way for several years before it decomposes any further. There was a large quantity of adipocere beneath the chest and abdominal regions in the case of Victim A. So I would say you have the cold, wet soil of Rakedale to thank for the relatively intact condition of this body. If I might offer a very non-scientific comment, it’s almost as though Victim A has been waiting in her half-decomposed state for someone to find her.’
Jamieson smiled as he diverged from his professional approach for a moment. He waited for comments, but none came.
‘Finally, then,’ he said. ‘There was no sign of trauma on either victim — no fractures, cut marks, or signs of perimortem damage on any of the bones we’ve recovered. But we don’t have every bone for Victim B. As we’ve already mentioned, there is no skull. And, before any of us run away with assumptions, I should mention that it’s very common for the head to come off when a body disarticulates. With the skull, we have one of the heaviest parts of the skeletal structure, supported by one of the most fragile.’
The anthropologist finished with a flourish, closing his laptop and waving his arms in a graphic gesture.
‘To put it plainly, ladies and gentlemen, if you left a body out on a slope to decompose — the head might just roll away.’
Cooper had been considering the anthropologist’s presentation as the rest of the team dispersed and went about their tasks for the day.
‘Diane, do you think we could analyse the chemical content of the bones to get an angle on her origins?’ he said. ‘I’ve heard that it’s possible.’
‘You know we don’t have facilities for anything like that, Ben.’
‘But the FSS might. Or a university somewhere.’
‘It would take months and months. And besides — ’
‘- it would cost a lot of money. I know.’
‘Think budgets, Ben. The fact is, this will probably remain an unsolved case.’
‘No. You’re joking.’
‘If there were any leads at all, any sure indication of a cause of death that suggested murder, or even a confirmed ID that we could work with … But, as it is, we have nothing. We could faff around here for months and still have nothing.’
‘We can’t just leave it, with these two women unidentified.’
‘We might have to,’ said Fry.
‘No.’
‘Look, how many cases have you got on your desk at the moment, Ben?’
‘Well …’
‘Five, six? A dozen? Wouldn’t you stand more chance of getting results if you spent your time on some of those? I bet there are people shouting for statements and case files.’
‘Yes, there are. There always are. You know that.’
‘Well, then.’
Cooper was silent. He could see that Fry thought she’d won the argument by sheer, unassailable logic. Budgets, and case loads. Who could argue with those? It wouldn’t be prudent to say what he was thinking right now.
Half an hour later, Gavin Murfin was able to spring a surprise on his colleagues in the CID room.
‘By the way,’ he said. ‘I see Derek Sutton had a criminal record. I found him on the PNC.’
Fry sat up with sudden interest. ‘Oh?’
‘Illegal fuel. He was using laundered red diesel.’
‘A typical rural crime.’
Cooper walked over to Murfin’s desk and looked at the file.
‘A prosecution was brought against Derek Sutton by HM Customs and Excise, following a spot check at the cattle market in Ashbourne. A hefty fine. That was an expensive day out for him.’
Red diesel was normally used in farm machinery, and it was illegal to use it in road vehicles, because it wasn’t taxed. To evade detection, the more enterprising removed the red dye, producing what was called laundered diesel. The Customs and Excise checks would show that up. But Sutton had only been charged with use, not with laundering. He must have known of a source somewhere. Probably everyone did.
‘The Hydrocarbon Oil Duties Act,’ said Fry. ‘“Certain vehicles are exempt from normal fuel duties as they are primarily used off-road and normal road use is only incidental.”’
As always, Cooper was impressed by the efficiency of her mental filing cabinet. He’d almost heard the correct drawer clicking open.
‘Well remembered.’
‘It’s another subsidy for farmers,’ she said. ‘Enshrined in the law, no less. They pay less tax for their fuel than ordinary mortals.’
‘Well, not really. If their farm vehicles never go on the road, they don’t contribute to wear and tear, do they? And they don’t use other facilities on the roads. So why should they be taxed for their maintenance and repair?’
‘You won’t convince me that they don’t go on the roads. I’ve got trapped behind enough farm vehicles to know differently.’
Cooper shrugged. ‘If I recollect the intelligence, Customs have suspected that a diesel-laundering plant might be operating in this area. Do you remember the operation that was closed down in Northern Ireland? It was being run from a converted hay shed at a remote farm.’
‘Like I said, a typical rural crime. These people think they can get away with anything because nobody is watching over them.’
‘You’ve really got it in for farmers at the moment, haven’t you?’ said Cooper. ‘What’s brought this on?’
‘Spending time in Rakedale,’ said Fry. ‘It’s enough to make anyone bitter and twisted.’
Cooper shook his head in despair. Fry was almost a lost cause. He would have to introduce her to Matt some time, and see what happened. The results would be interesting, if nothing else. Two jaundiced personalities clashing head-on. The thought was enough to make him shudder.
Tractors were the main agricultural vehicles to fall under the ‘exempted’ definition of the Act. The duty rate for rebated red diesel was about a tenth of the duty for normal road vehicles. In the Northern Ireland case, twelve large tanks had been used to take dye from red diesel and convert it i
nto white diesel that could be used by motorists. The price difference was about two pounds per gallon, and forty thousand litres of fuel had been contained in storage tanks at that laundering unit on the farm in Northern Ireland. Good money to be made, then.
But it wasn’t advisable from the motorist’s point of view. Apart from the risk of prosecution, the acids used in the laundering process would wreck the fuel pumps in diesel engines, so buyers of cheap fuel ran the risk of causing long-term damage to their vehicles.
Much closer to home, Customs and Excise had dipped most of the tanks of people attending a horsey event at Chatsworth a while ago. They were looking for anyone ‘running red’. C amp;E were wise to dual tanks and every other trick. They would also sample the fuel at the injectors and relied on chemical tracers. The dye could be removed with absorbents, but the tracers couldn’t. And, if they caught you, the fines were big.
A few gallons in the four-by-four, or a few miles on the road to take some cattle to market in the pick-up now and then. They seemed like no big deal. But it would still mean a large fine if you were caught.
Cooper searched for details of the Irish case. From the farm, the raid had also recovered a generator, pumps, and storage equipment. In addition, thirty-seven tonnes of toxic contaminated sludge, the hazardous chemical residue of the laundering process, were cleared from the site, which had livestock and an inhabited farm dwelling nearby. Subsequent warnings had been issued about the damage caused by contamination to arable land and our water and rivers.
For some reason, Cooper was reminded of Raymond Sutton. Hell burns. Hell burns with an agony like no other.
‘Diane,’ he said, ‘there was a Bible on the table in the farmhouse.’
‘Yes?’
‘Could it be released? Raymond Sutton was asking for it.’
‘I can’t see any problem with that. Make sure you record it.’
‘Of course.’
Fry looked at him quizzically. ‘So, are you starting to feel any kinship to these people at Rakedale yet?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I know what you’re like, Ben. Before long, you’ll start feeling sorry for someone, and you’ll end up making promises you can’t keep. It’s a mistake to promise anything to a member of the public, you know. Don’t let them know your sympathies at all. Keep your feelings to yourself.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘You might know the theory, but it’s the practice you find difficult, isn’t it?’
Cooper bit his lip and moved back to his desk. Fry spotted the flier in his out tray, advertising the carol concert by the male voice choir, which would be followed by a children’s party. There were going to be mince pies and mulled wine, and even a visit by Santa.
‘Doing good work for the community again? Very commendable. You’re not going to play Father Christmas yourself are you, Ben?’
‘No, I’ve asked Gavin to do it.’
‘Gavin? You’ve asked Gavin to be Father Christmas?’
‘He’s about the right shape. He won’t need much padding to fit the costume.’
‘Yes, but won’t the kids be expecting a bit of jollity and a certain amount of ho-ho-ho-ing? Not someone who kicks them out of the way to get at the mince pies?’
‘Actually, Gavin is very good with children. You should see him at home — he makes a great dad. He just puts an act on at work for the sake of his image.’
‘His image? Now I’ve heard everything. DC Murfin has an image.’
Murfin looked unruffled. ‘Hey, Diane, the new choir is always on the look-out for new members. Isn’t that right, Ben?’
‘Well …’
‘You don’t need to have done any public singing before. There are about twenty performances a year, and practice sessions in a church hall at Allestree. You’d do that for a charitable cause, wouldn’t you, Diane?’
Fry looked at his smiling face suspiciously. ‘I thought this was a male voice choir? Surely a requirement for membership would be that you had testicles to drop?’
Murfin grinned more widely. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Spot on.’
Fry’s phone rang — the DI calling her into his office to hear the latest news from the forensics team.
‘It’s really quite odd,’ said Dr Jamieson when Fry joined them. ‘The evidence might almost be called contradictory. I didn’t mention it in the presentation earlier for that very reason. Because I can’t explain it, scientifically.’
‘What do you mean, Doctor?’ asked Hitchens. ‘We’ll need it in simple terms.’
‘Well, we can tell from the pattern of decomposition and the disarticulation of the body that Victim B was dug up and re-buried some time after death.’
‘So the victim was killed somewhere else, then moved to Pity Wood as a permanent place of concealment? That’s pretty much what we expected.’
‘Well, no — that’s not a legitimate conclusion, I’m afraid,’ said Jamieson.
‘No? But you just said — ’
‘I said the body was dug up and re-buried. But we found no samples of soil or vegetation that might be considered inconsistent with the site where the body was found. Normally, you see, we’d expect to sift out some clues about the original burial site — traces of a different soil type, for example. Variations in chemical composition, vegetable fibres that don’t belong.’
‘I understand,’ said Hitchens.
The anthropologist threw up his hands in frustration. ‘But there’s nothing in this case. Absolutely nothing. On the contrary, the remains of Victim B showed every sign of never having been moved, at least from a geological and botanical point of view.’
‘The builders unearthed the skeleton and covered it over again,’ pointed out Fry. ‘They were worried about delaying the building work.’
‘No, no. This didn’t happen recently.’
Hitchens frowned. ‘Doctor, I thought I was following you at first, but now you’ve lost me. What are you trying to say exactly?’
‘Inspector, I’m saying that some time ago your victim was dug up and re-interred, but never actually moved. On the second occasion, the body was re-buried in exactly the same spot.’
16
In Cooper’s copy of the forensic anthropologist’s report, the dead woman had been assigned a reference number. This was her biological identity, all that was officially known about the person she’d once been. A Caucasian female aged twenty to twenty-five years, about five feet three inches tall, with dark brown hair. The condition of her teeth was the only peculiarity. There might be useful dental records, if she’d ever called on a dentist in the UK.
‘Diane, we’re going to have to talk to the neighbours in Rakedale again, aren’t we?’
‘The Three Wise Monkeys, you mean? They not only heard, saw and spoke no evil, they couldn’t believe anyone else would either.’
‘That’s touching.’
‘Touching? I asked one woman whether she’d ever invited the Suttons round when she was having her garden parties and barbecues in the summer. Do you know what she said? “That lot? They never accepted invitations, except to funerals.”’
‘We really need to dig out their memories, Diane.’
‘Well, we’d better requisition an excavator. That place isn’t a village — just a series of stone walls. Literally and metaphorically. They clammed up like traps as soon as they knew we were from the police. And I mean every one of them, young and old. Mr Brindley was right. I don’t know how news of our arrival got around so fast — they must use thought transference. Does that come with in-breeding?’
Cooper didn’t answer. It was true that there was only a narrow range of names on the electoral register for Rakedale, the same ones cropping up several times over. Blands, Tinsleys and Dains seemed to be everywhere.
‘Anyway, they probably know each other inside out,’ said Fry. ‘But these people we’re asking about were itinerant workers. They were passing through, not planning to settle down and raise families. I do
n’t suppose there were any women for them to marry, anyway. Not in this place.’
Cooper nodded thoughtfully. ‘So they would probably never mix in, never visit anyone, and never join anything.’
‘Not if they were familiar with village life. These men would know only too well that they were incomers — and always would be, for as long as they were likely to stay here.’
‘Well, there’s one part of village life I can almost guarantee they took part in,’ said Cooper. ‘I bet they went to the pub.’
‘Do you mean the Dog Inn? The pub at the end of the universe?’
‘It’s the only place to go.’
‘All right,’ conceded Fry. ‘But you can try it this time. When I went in there, I felt as though I was in a scene from Deliverance.’
Following the minimal success of house-to-house on Friday morning, someone had decided to try parking the mobile police office in Rakedale for a few days, to encourage people to come forward with information. Intelligence-led policing at its finest.
When Cooper arrived, he waved to a couple of officers who sat in lonely isolation in a corner of the Dog Inn car park, watching customers come and go to the pub. They looked miserable and could hardly raise the enthusiasm to wave back. Rakedale did that to you.
Some of the pub’s exterior decorations had blown off in the wind, and the hanging baskets were definitely not at their best. Rendering was coming away where the down spouts met the wall. Here, too, the porch had been added later. Cooper wondered whether people in this area had become less tough over the years, less able to withstand the Pennine gales without those little stone extensions to deflect the weather. He didn’t think the weather had got worse over the centuries, but maybe these buildings let in the wind more as they grew ancient and their stones cracked and separated.
Yes, the Dog Inn was unprepossessing, even for a non-tourist village like Rakedale. Closed at lunchtimes during the week, of course — and not too sure whether it really wanted to be open at other times, either. Catering for the public was all a bit too much trouble, even for the front door, which scraped reluctantly against the raised edge of a flagstone when Cooper tried to push it open.
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