Already Dead

by Stephen Booth

  Further north, it nearly reached Winster, but shied away from it at the last minute, as if it had the plague. The road continued to meander between Harthill and Stanton Moors, more at home among the ancient stone circles and rocky tors than human habitation, until it finally hit a T-junction on the A6 near Haddon Hall and couldn’t go any further.

  Cooper had driven along this road at night, and during the day, and he could barely remember passing any traffic. Everyone seemed intent on cramming their cars into Dovedale or Ashbourne at one end, and Bakewell at the other. It was the perfect road to drive on, if all you wanted to see was the occasional rabbit or pheasant, and nothing to remind you of other people.

  He’d parked in a gateway near Eagle Rocks, one of the outcrops on the high ridge around Brassington, their jagged outlines looked eerie and mysterious in foggy conditions.

  A dilapidated complex of barns and farm buildings stood near the junction of Pasture Lane and the B5056. They were a complete hotch-potch of brick, random stone, and corrugated iron roofs, all tumbled into ruins and overgrown with weeds, dank and sodden in the rain. Layers of rotting leaf mould lay in the mud.

  Just over the fields at Ballidon an abandoned twelfth-century church stood alone in the middle of a field, its deteriorating structure left in the care of an organisation called the Friends of Friendless Churches. The village of Ballidon had shrunk to a point where its single road was no more than a rat run for the quarry lorries that rumbled backwards and forwards from the limestone works at the end of the dale. In the driest months, grey dust covered walls and doorways, including a Victorian postbox set into the stones of a farm, still carrying the VR initials. Just now, he supposed Ballidon would look better than usual, thanks to the rain washing off the accumulated dust.

  Sparrow Wood spread down the slopes of the hill, dank and dark. The trees were heavy with foliage, which dripped water on the ground, creating an irregular pattering sound as if hundreds of small animals were moving invisibly around him.

  Cooper had always thought late autumn was the best time to commit a murder. There were so many places like this to conceal a body – lots of secluded little hillsides close enough to the road, but where no one ever went. Later in the year they were knee deep in freshly fallen leaves. You could cover a corpse in a blanket of foliage several inches thick, yet leave no sign of disturbance. The body would decompose with the leaves as winter came on, kept warm under its covering even if the surface frosted over. There would be no visible trace of human remains, until the first heavy rain of spring washed the top layer of debris away, or the first dog came foraging in the woods for rabbits.

  A body could lie undiscovered for years, if you were lucky. Yes, it was during the murder and the disposal of the corpse that you were most likely to be seen. Concealment itself was easy.

  But no one had bothered concealing this body, had they? Maybe they’d been in too much of a hurry, or didn’t know the area well enough to find the right spot. Or perhaps they’d wanted the body to be found. Yes, there was always that possibility.

  He found a deep hole in the rocks above Sparrow Wood. The entrance was equipped with bolts for descending on ropes, but uncovered. Dangerous for the merely inquisitive. The drop from the level of the hillside was perpendicular and he couldn’t make out the depth. All kinds of things had been found dumped down shafts like this in the past – human and animal remains, toxic chemicals, discarded weapons.

  He felt that shivery anticipation, his senses honed to an unusual sharpness. And there was a smell … It was something he couldn’t identify, and he wasn’t even sure it existed. So he’d better be careful that he didn’t mention it to anyone, in case they thought he was mad.

  He remembered Claire telling him that she sometimes experienced phantom smells when she was about to have a migraine. But that was Claire. She was the migraine type. As far as he could remember, he’d never suffered a migraine in his life.

  ‘You’re looking better, Ben,’ said Carol Villiers, when she met him by his car a few minutes later.

  ‘Am I?’ said Cooper, surprised.

  ‘Definitely.’

  Cooper had to admit that the tremors had gone. He’d hardly coughed this morning. The pain was still there, but subdued and in the background. As long as he kept his mind on other things, it was like an analgesic.

  ‘So it seems Mr Turner’s paintballing injuries were caused by his immediate boss at Prospectus Assurance, Nathan Baird, and a colleague, Ralph Edge, who was supposed to be his friend,’ said Villiers.

  He smiled with a sense of anticipation again. ‘Yes, that’s right. Prospectus Assurance.’

  Villiers shook her head. ‘Ben, you’re very frustrating to talk to sometimes. You always were, actually.’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Absolutely. But you’re worse now. You hardly talk at all. And when you do, you don’t seem to make any sense.’

  Villiers was bringing him up to date on the latest information from the briefing of the previous day. Cooper listened with interest to an account of Luke Irvine’s theory about angry insurance policy holders, but then found his attention wandering. Delays in getting forensic results and threats of legal action didn’t seem relevant to him.

  ‘Uh-uh,’ said Cooper. Then again, when her voice stopped. ‘Uh-uh.’

  Villiers looked at him. ‘You said yesterday you were really interested in this case.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. That’s all fascinating,’ he said. ‘I was just thinking about … something else.’

  She sighed. ‘As usual.’

  They’d reached the outer cordon of the crime scene, lengths of tape strung between the trees and guarded by a uniformed officer with a clipboard. SOCOs in scene suits were moving among the trees and a group of officers were picking their way up the slope.

  ‘They had to dam the stream to be able to pump the water out,’ said Villiers. ‘I think forensics are still working on the immediate site.’

  ‘There seems to be a lot of activity, though,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Yes, there is.’ Villiers looked round. ‘Oh, damn. Keep your head down.’

  Diane Fry stepped out of her Audi and looked around the scene at Sparrow Wood. It was seething with activity. As she passed the constable on duty at the cordon, she took a glance at the scene log to see who was already present. There were the usual suspects, the same cast of characters who appeared at the scene of every suspicious death. Forensics, a few uniformed officers to secure the scene, others to conduct a search. Lots of familiar faces. Some of them too familiar.

  She stopped, turned back towards the cordon. Yes – much too familiar.

  Fry splashed across the verge, the remains of a path already churned to mud. A female officer grasped her arm to support her as she skidded and almost covered the last few yards on her backside.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, keeping her eye on the figure she’d spotted.

  She reached the cordon and faced him. He didn’t look away, didn’t try to hide his face this time.

  ‘What are you doing here, Ben?’ she said.

  Cooper didn’t even blink at her tone.

  ‘I’m outside the cordon,’ he said. ‘Like any other member of the public.’

  ‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

  ‘I don’t need to answer your questions. I’m a law-abiding citizen standing on a public highway like anyone else, watching our public servants go about their business.’

  She gritted her teeth, fighting a conflict within her. There was only one thing she could do if her suspicions were correct. Loyalties had to be broken. There was no other choice.

  ‘If you get in the way,’ she said, ‘you realise I might have to arrest you.’

  Cooper raised an eyebrow. ‘Would that give you some kind of satisfaction, Diane?’ he said quietly.

  She watched the rain running off his face, the lights of the vehicles reflected in the wet slickness of his coat, water droplets dripping on to his shoulders like jewels, sparkling as the
y caught the lights. He looked like the picture of someone else she’d been imagining. But he was just Ben Cooper.

  ‘Ben, why won’t you give me the opportunity to help you?’ she said.

  But she turned away before he could reply and began to slither back across the grass verge towards the activity in the woods. She didn’t want to look at him any longer. She didn’t want to see the answer in Cooper’s eyes.

  Cooper raised his eyes from the ground and looked up at the series of jagged stones rising above the woods.

  ‘Have you looked in the rocks?’ he called.

  Fry stopped and followed his gaze. ‘Why would we?’

  He hesitated, then shrugged. ‘No reason.’

  Fry immediately regretted her response. Of course there was a reason. He wouldn’t have suggested it without one. She was just being too obtuse to see it, and too stubborn to listen to his suggestions. And Cooper had changed. He was no longer in the frame of mind to persist in the face of her stubbornness. That shrug told her quite clearly that he’d given up. He couldn’t be bothered trying again, wouldn’t make the effort to explain his thoughts. Why should he, when she dismissed them so easily? Fry realised she was treating him as if he was the same old Ben Cooper just because he looked so much like his former self on the surface. But he wasn’t the same. Something inside him had been changed.

  ‘Do you know anything about those rocks?’ she said.

  ‘No. But they’re a good place for somebody to watch from, aren’t they?’

  ‘What? Who?’

  Fry shook her head in despair. It was always like this when Cooper was around. He made her feel she had no idea what she was doing, because she was lacking the important knowledge that he was privy to.

  She wondered why Carol Villiers was here too. Had she been called out to the scene? Well, that was something she could deal with later.

  ‘There are caves as well, you know,’ said Cooper.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Caves. It’s limestone, so there are always caves. They’re hidden by the trees in summer. But there are several caves at the foot of these cliffs. You should get someone to check them out.’

  ‘I will.’

  Fry learned that the farmer, Bill Maskrey, had confronted an off-roader in the woods. He’d described a man on a trail bike sliding down the hillside through the trees, spraying mud everywhere. He’d almost been at the stream when he stopped and dismounted.

  Maskrey had been carrying his shotgun, and he’d fired a warning shot. All hell had broken loose then, of course. Most of these officers were here because a weapon had been discharged. Maskrey had been detained to explain himself, as was procedure in these cases.

  There was no sign of the trail biker except for deep ruts carved into the hill, heading towards the rocks above.

  Fry knew that Sparrow Wood wasn’t alone in this problem. Protestors had been complaining about several sites in the national park being carved up by off-roaders. Organisations had been lobbying for action at locations like Long Causeway, near Stanage Edge. But off-roaders had staged counter-protests too. There was always the potential for conflict. But Mr Maskrey had stepped over the line on this occasion. That was all there was to it.

  She decided to deal with Carol Villiers.

  ‘Carol,’ she said quietly. ‘Can I have a word?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Villiers was waiting expectantly. When they were out of earshot, Fry leaned in closer.

  ‘When did you last speak to Ben?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘How does he seem to you?’

  ‘Oh … okay. Fine.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Well, not quite his usual self, obviously. But getting there.’

  ‘What did he talk about?’

  ‘This and that.’

  Fry began to lose patience. ‘For God’s sake, why is this so difficult? It’s like interviewing a suspect who’s been told to go “no comment”. What are you frightened of telling me?’

  Villiers grimaced and looked away. Yes, it was just like in the interview room, when your suspect felt a stab of guilt and didn’t want to meet your eye. Fry stared at her fixedly until she gave in.

  ‘He was asking me about Eliot Wharton and Josh Lane,’ said Villiers.

  ‘Oh, was he indeed?’

  ‘It’s perfectly natural. He wanted to know what was happening to them.’

  ‘He was fishing for inside information.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, Diane.’

  ‘Well, I would. And I know something else. He wouldn’t have dared to approach me or DI Hitchens to ask for that sort of information, so he came to you.’

  ‘I didn’t tell him anything.’

  ‘You might not have intended to. But I bet he got something out of you. He made sure you let your guard drop and began to feel sorry for him, didn’t he?’

  ‘Well, maybe…’

  ‘It’s an old trick. I’m surprised you fell for it.’

  She had the satisfaction of seeing Villiers’ face go faintly pink. At least she’d think twice before she was such a sucker again.

  Cooper studied Diane Fry as she stamped about giving orders. It was hard seeing people change in front of your eyes. But it was even harder trying to remember who they used to be. The new person supplanted the old one and displaced their memory.

  But Fry still had that look. He’d seen it in her the first time they’d met, years ago on her transfer to Derbyshire. It was a look that suggested the whole world was a terrible place. Everyone must know how awful it was. So, if you smiled too much, you must be an idiot. Too stupid to see how bad everything was. Stupid enough to be happy. She never saw any blue sky, only grey.

  When she came back again, he was still standing there, just outside the outer cordon. She hadn’t told him to go away, and she didn’t seem able to resist drifting towards him again, as if she wanted to ask him something but couldn’t find the right opportunity.

  ‘You know,’ said Cooper. ‘I drive around sometimes, late at night. I just stay in the car for hours, not really knowing where I am, or where I’m going.’

  Fry looked uncomfortable, as if he’d just confessed to some sexual perversion.

  ‘Why?’ she said.

  ‘Just for the pleasure of driving, being on empty roads. The feeling that I’m getting right away from all the places I know.’ He looked at her. ‘Perhaps you don’t understand.’

  ‘Can’t say I do.’

  Cooper decided not to tell her any more. If she didn’t grasp that part, she wouldn’t be able to understand the rest of it.

  ‘Diane, did it not occur to you to wonder why anyone would choose Sparrow Wood for this murder?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, of course. But without a suspect to ask…’

  ‘Yet the answer is obvious, without asking the question,’ said Cooper. ‘It was convenience. They chose it because it was handy.’

  Fry waved at the surrounding landscape. ‘Handy for who? No one lives here.’

  ‘Not many,’ said Cooper. ‘Some do work here, though.’

  Fry realised one of the uniformed officers was trying to attract her attention. He had hold of a scruffy man with a dense beard, who wasn’t even attempting to struggle against the grip on his arm.

  ‘Who is this?’ said Fry.

  ‘We found him dossing in one of the caves, Sarge.’

  ‘They’re nice and dry,’ said the man. ‘You wouldn’t expect me to sleep rough in this weather.’

  ‘A cave isn’t sleeping rough?’

  ‘It’s all relative, isn’t it?’

  ‘What do they call you?’ asked Fry.

  ‘Spikey.’

  ‘That’s your name?’

  ‘You asked what they called me. They call me Spikey.’

  ‘Can you produce any ID?’ asked the officer holding his arm.

  Spikey laughed at him. ‘Do I look as though I’m carrying my driving licence and credit cards?’

  ‘We need you
r name and address so we can check you out.’

  ‘My name’s John Clarke, known as Spikey to my mates. Not that I have many friends. People don’t drop in for tea much any more.’

  ‘John Clarke. Is that with an “e”?’

  ‘If you like.’ The officer let go of his sleeve, and Clarke watched him write the name down. ‘Now put “no fixed abode”. I love that word “abode”. You only ever get it in police reports, like “proceeding” and “persons unknown”.’

  ‘Have you been the subject of many police reports?’ asked Fry.

  Clarke had a mischievous grin behind his beard. She caught a glimpse of yellowed teeth.

  ‘That’s for you to find out,’ he said. ‘I suppose you’ll be getting your man here on the radio.’

  Fry nodded, and the officer walked away to get a PNC check.

  ‘Of course, we have no proof of what your name really is,’ she said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you’re not carrying any ID, Mr Clarke.’

  ‘Spikey,’ he said.

  ‘I thought that was how your mates know you.’

  ‘Aren’t you my mate? I thought the police were supposed to be our friends. You know, protecting your community and all that.’

  ‘What do you live on here? What do you eat?’

  ‘Fresh lamb and mutton,’ said Clarke. ‘There’s lots of it about. You just have to catch it.’

  ‘Sheep?’

  ‘Aye. I’m bypassing the grasping farmers and taking animals direct from the wild.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s such a thing as a wild sheep. Not in Derbyshire, anyway. All the sheep that you see belong to farmers.’

  ‘Not all of them, surely?

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘What about the ones wandering loose on the moors? They’re wild, aren’t they?’

  ‘No, they’re just, er … shafted.’

  Cooper sighed. ‘Hefted.’

  ‘They’re hefted,’ said Fry.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re on about. They’re not even fenced in, they wander where they like. It looks to me as though they’re there for the taking. Just like the way you might find a pheasant by the side of the road, or the odd rabbit in the woods.’