Did I do anything stupid last night? Mace asks the landlord as he pulls him a pint.
How should I know?
You know everything. You’re at the heart of this town. I’ve always thought the landlord holds as much power as the parish priest. More in a way. You heed the confessions and see the sins of your flock up close. You carry the secrets and you deliver us from evil by way of redemption in a glass.
What are you blathering on about now?
Mace shrugs.
I don’t know. I’m still a bit pissed.
From what I remember – and I might have enjoyed a couple of pale Dales ales myself – you were only being your usual arsehole self.
Anything specific?
Nothing out of the norm.
What about the copper?
The copper?
Your guest. Brindle.
That nebby cunt? He’ll solve fuck-all that one. Mark my words.
I wouldn’t be so sure says Mace.
I would. His prying will get him nowhere but trouble. He’s already had words with Roy. I’d give him a wide berth if I were you. People will talk.
Roy Pinder?
Yeah. He’s already upset a few of the boys.
But the missing girl –
He’ll find nothing. And you’re best off out of it too if you ask me.
How did he handle the Magnet on Christmas Eve?
Bull Mason shrugs.
Ask him yourself – he’s booked in for dinner too. Only the vegetables he said.
What do you mean?
Vegetarian isn’t he. He just wants greens and spuds. Weirdo.
He only drinks tea as well says Mace.
Yeah grunts Mason. Tight bastard. He should piss off back to the city and leave us lot alone. Likely that girl’s run away and that’s all there is too it. I’d be doing the same if I had to live with Ray bloody Muncy.
Mace takes his pint to a table and watches as bodies file into the pub over the next hour. Most are in a similar state to Mace. Crumpled. They are all men. Most of them seeking brief respite from the chaos of a Christmas morning at home while a few are bachelor farm-hands here for the lunch before heading back to their cows and sheep.
The roads outside are still thick with drifts and all vehicles left overnight are now covered in a fresh layer of snow. Those in the pub have come on foot and will leave on foot.
At midday the door to the upstairs rooms opens and Brindle enters. He takes his same table in the corner. Back at the bar ordering his second pint Mace gives a wave of the hand and Brindle nods. The journalist notes that the detective is in the same shirt and tie again but the shirt is clean. He must have brought spares. Even on Christmas Day – even in the pub – he is dressed formally. His hair too is oiled and parted.
Brindle comes to the bar and orders a pot of hot water. He removes a tea bag from his pocket pays with a ten-pound note and then stacks the change in a neat column in front of him. He moulds it into place with long lean fingers.
Merry Christmas detective says Mace.
Yes says Brindle. And to you.
On the hard stuff again I see.
Brindle looks at him quizzically and then sees that he is attempting a joke.
Hair of a very large dog says Mace. You sure I can’t tempt you?
I’m fairly certain I told you last night I don’t drink says Brindle. And I’m working.
On Christmas Day?
Yes.
Well that makes two of us then.
Really.
Yes really.
What’s that then?
Brindle gestures towards Mace’s pint.
Fortification says Mace. My editor’s got me on the case. On Christmas fucking Day. Can you believe that?
The case?
The raid.
Brindle frowns.
What raid?
Mace looks over his shoulder then leans in.
Come on.
Brindle stares back.
You know. The raid on Rutter’s tonight.
Brindle stiffens.
What are you talking about?
I’m talking about you and your lot getting a warrant to raid Steve Rutter’s farm tonight says Mace. Only these things take twenty-four hours don’t they and it’s Christmas bloody Day so now you’re left snowed-in – town-trapped until that warrant is signed and emailed or scanned and faxed or whatever it is you need to do in order to give the nod to the local plod – half of whom were in here last night getting steaming and the rest who will be sat at home with heartburn and the Queen’s speech barely even aware of the magnitude of the story they’re a part of whether they like it or not. That’s what I’m talking about.
Brindle takes a sip of tea.
How do you know about this? he says.
I told you – this place is full of secrets but not all of them stay that way. I offered to help you last night. I thought two heads might be better than one.
Yes. And I declined.
So I decided to pursue my own line of enquiry.
Brindle can smell the young reporter. He can smell the sweat and the sleep on him again.
Look – I’m a journalist says Mace. A pretty good one. And despite the grumbling I love my job just as much as you love yours. No. Maybe love is the wrong word. Tied to it. That’s what it is: I’m tied to it. It’s in me – writing is a part of who I am so I’m not just going to sit back and let this story happen right under my nose without getting involved. This is my story as much as it is your case and the way I see it now is the Muncy girl is still out there and you’ve yet to uncover a single trace of her nor have you made an arrest and here we are sitting in the pub about to have a Christmas dinner of Bull Mason’s tough turkey for me and a plate of dry sprouts for you on what should be our one guaranteed day of the year off. And there’s still so much more truth to be uncovered.
What do you mean by that?
I mean there’s more to this than meets the eye. Of course there is.
Like what?
Mace takes another drink and shakes his head.
Come on says Brindle. If you know something.
You’re the detective detective. Your reputation precedes you.
It is illegal to withhold information that pertains to an existing case says Brindle.
I don’t know specifics yet. Secrets. Things unseen and unsaid. Some of the men around here have known each other for years. But I’m still an outsider too. That’s why I offered to help you.
I don’t need your help.
Sounds like you do says Mace.
I really don’t says Brindle.
You think I’m just a provincial hack says Mace as the anger rises in his voice. Just some young pisshead. And maybe you’re right. But I’m not an idiot. And I can write. Maybe I’m just biding time up here in the Dales and taking a breather from life. Sweating the city out of my system and taking a career detox if you like. But you forget that unlike a lot of people around here I have experience beyond these dales. I’ve worked stories – big stories – for a national newspaper. I’ve seen and heard plenty. And the people round here – you might see them as woolly-backed inbreds but they’ve been alright to me. Most of them have welcomed me well enough. You know why? Because I’ve made the effort to integrate and ingratiate. To win their trust. And to do that you have to mix with them. And that’s the difference between you and me you see. You’re happy to sit in the corner bad-vibing everyone but I get involved. I get to know people – even the dodgy fuckers. I stand my round and go to their kid’s christening when I’m invited or help dig them out of a ditch when they’ve driven off the road half-cut on a Friday night. Community – it’s about community. Don’t underestimate it. I might look like a sad-sack underachieving writer but I’ve won the trust of people around here and because of that it’s me that’s one step ahead of you on this.
Brindle sniffs and stirs his tea.
What do you want he says. A medal?
RAY MUNCY LURCHES into the pub.
He is drunk. At first they do not hear him over the chatter and the jukebox but the atmosphere of the room slowly begins to change and Roddy Mace sees heads turning towards the door where Ray Muncy is whirling around and shouting – Mace thinks he hears him growl where’s Roy Pinder? – and though some people are laughing at him and assuming that he is just another town lad who started on the sherry at breakfast time some say things like he’s off his head and fucksake get him out of here. But then Ray Muncy crosses the pub towards the bar and he starts shouting you – you know what I’m talking about and Mace nudges Brindle and they see Bull Mason standing behind the bar looking stern-faced and Muncy makes it through the bodies and he is pointing his finger at Mason and saying you – you lot think you run this bloody place and then someone says he bloody does run this place you spanner – his name is above the door and there is more laughter but it is muted and then Johnny Mason comes up behind Ray Muncy and clamps a hand on his shoulder and says come on Ray it’s a bit early for all this maybe it’s time to go and Muncy spins round and says and you – just because you wear the badge doesn’t mean you’re not rotten either – the whole lot of you are rotten and Johnny says come on Ray and goes to turn Muncy around but Muncy shirks him and says you’re doing fuck all about my girl because it’s me and then he says this bit again – because it’s me – and he spins around and sees eyes on him and he looks at them all then straightens his rumpled shirt and he walks out of the pub. When he has left the people in the room seem to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Glasses are raised again and there are mutterings of nutter and wanker and the poor bloke’s shot it. Mace sees a look pass between Bull Mason and his brother Johnny. Brindle sees it too.
THEIR PLATES SIT barely touched. Mace’s slices of turkey and lumpy gravy and Brindle’s half-eaten boiled carrots and cabbage and roast potatoes and mashed turnip have a cold congealed sheen to them.
I’m coming with you says Mace. Later I mean. I’d like to come with you.
Brindles stands to leave.
No you’re not. You can’t.
He says this mater-of-factly.
I’d like to come with you on the raid says Mace. You might need me to translate.
Well you can’t. It’s not procedure.
Fuck procedure it’s Christmas Day.
You’re drunk. And you’re a liability.
I’m not drunk. And even if I am – so what. Whatever works.
I don’t need you.
Let me ask you something says Mace.
Brindle sighs and busies himself adjusting his cufflinks.
Are you a glass-half-full or -half-empty type person?
He considers the question. Considers his answer.
I’m neither says Brindle.
You’ve got to be one or the other.
I’d need to see the glass.
Mace smiles.
You’d need to see the glass?
Yes. I’d need to see it before I could make a judgement.
You’ve got to be one or the other.
No I don’t he says. I don’t have to be anything.
Brindle turns and leaves. He leaves the bar and goes to his room.
HE HEARS THE ENGINE and then the boy is already in the yard before Rutter sees him. The boy is young. Twelve or thirteen. He is sitting on what looks like a new quad bike and he is revving the engine. He is not wearing a helmet.
Rutter picks up his rifle and opens the back door.
What do you want?
Are you Rutter?
What do you want?
Steve Rutter? My dad sent us.
Who’s your dad?
Bull Mason. From the pub. He’s got a message for you.
Why couldn’t he come himself?
Dunno says the boy. That’s what I asked but he said I had to tell you and only you. He wouldn’t use the phone and he wouldn’t write it down.
What is it then?
He said to tell you to expect visitors tonight.
Who?
Dunno.
What else did he say?
He didn’t say nowt else. Just to tell you that.
Rutter stands for a moment thinking about the message.
What time tonight?
I don’t know. Do you like my bike?
Rutter lowers his gun and then points it vaguely in the direction of the road back down the valley.
Off you go then.
Where’s my Christmas box?
What Christmas box?
My Dad said you’d see me right and if you didn’t he’d have something to say about it.
Rutter says wait here then and he turns and goes into the house. In the living room he looks around for a moment and then he walks to the corner and picks up a handful of porn magazines and then he goes outside and says here you go and hands them to the boy then he goes back inside and closes the door and leaves the boy looking at them on his bike. The engine still going. Ticking over.
THE TYRES FLATTEN the virgin snow as they drive in quiet convoy through the hamlet and up the hill. There’s no way of sneaking up on the Rutter farm. There can be no element of surprise.
The extra half-dozen officers have been pulled away from their dinners and their families and briefed at the station. Brindle tells them that Rutter is their man. He does not mention anything else. It is something he has learned: always keep things back. Even from your colleagues. Never reveal your hand until the final play.
They are instructed to carefully and methodically sweep the house for any trace of evidence. He emphasises these words: carefully he says. Methodically. For anything at all.
They park up and walk in silence and once at the farm they surround the house at its corners. Two officers are dispatched to check the outbuildings.
Roy Pinder is there too – reluctantly. He is doing his very best not to be seen taking any orders directly from Jim Brindle in front of his men.
Brindle bangs on the door and when there is no answer he gives the nod and one of the officers takes the breaching ram and slams it into the lock and the door gives easily. Half the rotten framework falls away with it.
They pile in shouting. They shout police they shout his name – they shout Steven Rutter – and then Mace follows. Not one of the officers has mentioned his being there.
The smell hits them first. The stench of decay.
Jesus.
It always smells like this says Jeff Temple.
They are in darkness and stumbling into one another until someone finds a switch and they sweep through the rooms but the house is empty. There is no sign of him. No Rutter. No. Not here. Rutter is not here. No.
Brindle goes from room to room expecting to see – what? Rutter. Melanie Muncy. Clothing. Weapons. Stains. Belongings. Anything to link him. He moves through the house feeling neither careful nor methodical but increasingly hopeless and sick and dizzy and only just capable of maintaining control. He wants to moan. He wants to scream.
There are dirty dishes and a filthy mattress and a layer of dust on everything and there are dead flies and smelly clothes and holes worn through the lino and porn magazines and broken televisions and dog shit and hens’ eggs laid weeks ago sitting on window sills and shelves and a bicycle frame and dead chickens and empty toilet rolls and stumps of burnt-out candles and horse brasses and pen knives and a green loaf of bread and strips torn from the wallpaper and more dead flies – thousands of dead flies – and rust-coloured water running down one wall and a sack of potatoes spilled across the living-room floor and three pram wheels and mushrooms growing in the corner of one room and a rocking chair that’s missing a runner and matted tissues and a peacock feather and a copper bed-warmer hanging from one wall and a button badge with Madchester: Rave On! written on it and old red and blue and clear apothecary bottles and a blackened fireplace and Brindle has his men and women sift through it all – they sift through the bins and the matter and the ashes – Pinder too – but hours later all they have is the evidence of a sad and lonely life gone sour
and samples to send to the lab – so many samples – and though the smell makes them nauseous and the damp mildewed interior of the farmhouse makes their breath tight they have no Steven Rutter and no sign of the missing teenage girl and none of her belongings and while the police stand around wondering what to do next and look to Roy Pinder for advice Brindle paces the yard outside kicking at the dirty piles of snow and cursing those chickens still living that cluck at him with menace.
It is then that Rutter returns on foot. He has come down a back way from up the hill. Through a gap in the back fence and into the farmyard. Before him his dogs strain on their leads.
He sees Brindle and then Brindle sees him and then Rutter sees police filing out from his back door. He shines a torch at the detective.
Where’ve you been Steven? asks Brindle.
You get fucked you.
Where’ve you been?
You’ll find nothing in there. I already told you.
Where have you been at this time of night?
I’ll have you done for this. There’s rules. I’ll sue.
Brindle steps towards Rutter who lowers his torch.
It’s Christmas night says the detective. I’ll not ask again: why are you out wandering?
Why do you think says Rutter. I’ve been walking the dogs. They don’t care that it’s Christmas night and neither do I.
Brindle takes a breath.
Where’ve you put her Steven?
By now other officers have left the house and are watching the conversation. Mace too.
Who?
You know who.
I don’t know who.
You know who. The girl.
What girl?
Don’t play silly – Brindle catches himself again. Melanie Muncy he says.
I told you. I’ve not put her nowhere.
They stand for a moment looking at each other in the darkness. Across the yard an officer’s radio crackles with static.
I know it’s you says the detective.
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