And he has become obsessed with Rutter. He knows this. He knows this is what it will take. What it always takes. So he has infiltrated Rutter’s terrain and made a record of it all: the drab details about how he buys his food from the same market stalls and the supermarket in town and his petrol from the same station. How he has no known mobile. No internet account. How he seems to go nowhere but down the dale or up top with his dogs. The moors the woods the quarries. Trapping and hunting mainly. How he doesn’t take a drink – or at least not in pubs. How there is no trail of battered women or overdue child-support or outstanding warrants. How there’s a clean driving licence and no passport.
His father is unknown and his mother in a home.
There is so little from his past that is recorded it is as if Rutter does not exist.
The others though – Bull Mason and Roy Pinder and that circle of men that Roddy Mace suggested he looked into – their lives are documented and have been revealed in long arduous hours of fact-finding. Slowly he is piecing together a picture of each; tracking connections and figuring out anomalies.
As for the pigman’s mother – machines do most of her body’s work now. Brain damage from a stroke they said and the fall that came with it. They’re counting down the days.
Brindle has even sneaked up to Rutter’s truck after dark and taken a reading off the petrol gauge and mileometer. He returned two days later to find that the next reading tallied with Brindle’s tracking of him. There were no nocturnal or uncharted journeys that he knew of.
Rutter’s life of routine and solitude is mundane and moribund and the recognition of elements of his own life in this pathetic individual only infuriates Brindle even more.
Brindle cuts across the market square and down the side street where the sound of Steve Rutter’s footsteps still echo and then turns the corner straight into –
Mace.
JARS. JARS ARE placed around the room. On the floor and on shelves and on windowsills. Some with lids some without. The stench. It’s strong. Like sour vinegar – only worse. Sharper. The jars are of differing sizes filled to varying levels and containing graded shades of urine ranging from burnt toffee through to near clear. Jam jars honey pots pickle jars chutney jars bell jars.
There’s the odd tin can too.
Rutter’s toilet does not function. First the cistern broke and then the bowl got cracked and leaked on the floor and soaked through the floorboards. Rotted them. He does not remember how this happened. He does not remember many things now. Small details – like how he got the cut above his eye or when he last ate or why more chickens were found decapitated when there was no sign of a disturbance in the coop or what happened to one of the dogs to leave it bleeding in the yard or when his birthday is or why he got a note in the post that said CARELESS TALK COSTS TONGUES and a clearly recent photograph of Rutter on an identifiable part the moors taken from a distance.
So now he goes in jars. Sometimes he goes in the sink but mainly he goes in jars. He leaves them in the airless room. Soon he will empty them he tells himself. Soon. There is just so much to do about the place and he can’t seem to –
Day becomes night becomes day and the hearth holds winter’s white ashes. Soon he will need to go logging. He will need to get his bow saw and his axe and his splitter and his mallet and fetch some firewood. Soon. He has seen some nice fallen silver-birch trunks; if only he could remember where they were.
Amongst the jars the mattress sits grey and greasy and the curtains are permanently drawn. Tangled knots of clothes that have been kicked off are on the floor but the room holds little else. He wears the same things all the time. Vest t-shirt shirt jumper padded work shirt. They are matting together. One day they will be one laminated garment glued by sweat and soil. A plaid second skin.
He sleeps in the front room in a chair placed by the blackened fireplace and he thinks about the dead girl almost constantly. Sometimes Rutter talks to her. Tells her what he is thinking in a muttered running commentary. He talks about the few fumbled moments they shared he talks about the weather he talks about how they’d never find her and how just because they were separated didn’t mean they were apart. They still had the memories and the good times. Always. Those could never be taken away from them whatever happened. Not by Pinder or Skelton or Brindle or his mother or Hood or anyone.
Once he used to talk to his mother this way. Many months after she had gone he spoke out loud to her. Sometimes he laughed and cursed and scoffed and other times he told her about his day and down in the hamlet people would hear him and say it’s Steve Rutter what do you expect he’s always been that way.
But now he talks to the girl out loud when he is out poaching or logging or in the yard staring at the great cinema screen of a sky onto which speeding clouds are projected.
In an increasingly frantic mumbled tone he talks about the weather and the animals. He talks about their time together and their future together and he tells her how he never meant for it to be this way.
One day I’ll make it up to you he says. You’ll see how I’ll make it better. I’ll bring you up from down there I’ll bring you back I’ll dry you off. I’ll get a fire going a nice big one to warm you up and dry you out and make you feel better. And if you don’t want to stay here that’s OK because one day soon I’ll be able to leave and I’ll sell the farm and we’ll leave in the middle of the night and never come back.
The sentences run into one another and it sounds like Rutter is speaking in his own unique rural argot. Like he is speaking in tongues. A whispered cant.
He has to check himself and make sure he never speaks her name in case it becomes too familiar in his mouth; in case he accidentally utters it in town or down in the hamlet.
Only at night in the dark in his chair does he dare to whisper it:
Melanie.
Melanie.
Because one day it will be his fiftieth birthday and on that day he will leave the farm forever. He will sell up and he will fill his suitcase with the money he has stashed and he will turn the chickens loose and he will set the dogs free and he will drive away and he will fetch her and they will be reunited.
Hours he can sit watching the first sunbeams of spring illuminate the glass receptacles that fill his floor.
7
FIRST THEY COLLIDE awkwardly and then they peel themselves away.
Christ says Mace then: hello.
He sees that Brindle is wearing a shirt and tie as he was at Christmas only this time the shirt has short sleeves. No croupier’s armbands this time. Every hair is oiled in place and the birthmark is gleaming. But this time the detective has walking boots on his feet.
Brindle shifts his weight from one foot to another. His face is fixed.
I’ve not seen you since Christmas. Since—
Brindle cuts Mace off.
Yes.
You’re back says Mace. Well obviously.
They’ve got me on a number of other cases. High-profile. The workload is…
His voice trails away.
Mace sees Brindle’s jaw tighten. He sees him clench and then relax one of his fists.
She’s not high-profile any more? The girl.
Brindle says nothing.
You left a bit suddenly.
I had work says Brindle. There were reports to write. I had to be back in Cold Storage.
Right says Mace. And did you get a bollocking?
For what?
For raiding Rutter’s like that.
I’m actually very busy says Brindle stepping sideways. I need to get going. And then as an afterthought he adds: nice to see you.
Brian Laidlaw said he’d seen you about.
About.
Yeah says Mace. Skulking around the hamlet dressed as a yomper.
What’s a yomper?
A hill-walker. A day-tripper. A tourist.
I’m not a tourist. Tourists go places on holiday – this is not a holiday.
Mace nods to the walking boots.
> I see you’ve been having a wander anyway.
Brindle looks embarrassed. Says nothing.
I’d been thinking about you actually says the journalist. This story—
Look Roddy says Brindle again. I really need to get going.
He moves to walk away.
Mace speaks to the detective’s back.
I’ve been doing some research. I think I’ve unearthed a few things that might interest you. A lot of things actually. Stuff that goes way beyond this town. Beyond this valley.
Brindle pauses and turns and they look at one another. Something passes between them.
I’m sorry says Brindle. I really do have an appointment.
He turns and leaves. Mace calls after him.
There are things you need to know he says.
A GIRL BRINGS them their drinks and stands for a moment as if waiting for them to say something but when they both look at her and say nothing she turns and goes back to stand behind the counter. She picks up a paperback book and resumes reading it. Brindle sees that it is Faulkner. As I Lay Dying. He notices these things.
I tried to call you says Mace.
What? says Brindle. He lines up the salt and pepper shakers and then adjusts his tie. He is pretending to be distracted. Mace thinks he is trying too hard. He is a bad actor.
I tried to call you.
I didn’t know.
I left messages.
I didn’t know.
I spoke to one of your colleagues.
I’ve been busy.
I heard him ask if you were free and then I heard you say who is it and when they said it’s some reporter called Roddy Mace I heard you say no.
Brindle looks pained.
Who was it? Who did you speak to?
That’s not the point. You’re a terrible liar.
Brindle takes out a teabag from his pocket and drops it into the cup of hot water. He says nothing. He is squinting. The sun is on his face. His birthmark appears grainy and illuminated.
This Cold Storage place of yours is hard to track down says Mace. It’s as if it doesn’t even exist.
That’s partly deliberate says Brindle.
Most people I called on the force had never even heard of you lot.
Again – deliberate. Secrecy is our MO.
You’ve been avoiding me though.
Brindle sighs. Says nothing.
Look don’t fucking flatter yourself says Mace. Please. I’ll save you the trouble of wondering: I was calling you about Melanie Muncy – nothing else.
I’m not used to drinking Brindle says so quietly he is not sure whether he has spoken at all.
The cafe is empty except for the girl. She does not look up from her book. Brindle gnaws at his bottom lip. Presses his palms to his thighs.
Why did you want to talk to me about her? asks the detective.
Because I’ve been on it all this time – that’s why. The case. And I’ve found out important things. Big things. Jesus. You are so fucking unreachable I nearly called the local cops at one point.
Why didn’t you?
You’ve met Roy Pinder haven’t you?
Brindle moves the salt and pepper shakers and then stirs his tea.
Brindle frowns and looks down at his tea. Stirs his tea. Sips his tea. The cafe door opens and a group of six people walk into the cafe. Tourists. Two more follow behind them. Eight in total. Brindle counts them. Eight eights are sixty-four he thinks. A good number is sixty-four. You can do things with sixty-four like how six and four is ten and six times four is twenty-four and that makes thirty-four which is fine. Thirty-four is fine. But three times four is twelve and three plus four is seven and add them together and what do you have? Nineteen. Nineteen is not good. Nineteen can never be good because nineteen cannot be tamed because one multiplied by nine is still nine and one plus nine is ten – add those together and then what do you have? Still nineteen. Still nineteen. Nineteen going nowhere.
Mace continues.
I still think that it’s true what they say: that you’re the best there is. Just like I’m the best there is. Or could be if I could just catch the right fucking break. I can write – I know that. No one else on that local jizz-rag of paper is as obsessed with the written word as I am just as none of your lot are as obsessed by murder cases as you are.
Brindle says nothing.
Admit it says Mace. It drives you mad this job. Because it’s more than a job. It’s part of who you are – a huge part. I feel it too. My great novel may have stalled and I may be a drunken fucking idiot who never gets round to doing the washing up but this isn’t forever. I’m still young. And I’ve seen how you live. Your tics and anxieties and weird ways.
Nineteen thinks Brindle. Fucking one and fucking nine and fucking one times nine and—
Oh he says. Have you now.
I’ve seen enough says Mace. It tears you half-mad being close to all these corpses all the time but I know you’re scarred by it and scared too because this is all you can do. Know how to do.
Scared?
Yes. Scared.
Of what?
Mace picks his cup up and looks Brindle in the eyes.
You’re scared that if you ever gave it up you’d go completely mad.
Brindle says nothing so Mace continues.
You’re scared because you know you’re only ever one step away from the people you pursue.
A moment passes. Anyway. Listen. We need to talk about Larry Lister says Mace.
Lister? Why?
Because says Mace choosing his words carefully. Because there may be a link.
You said you’ve been trying to track me down for months though?
Yes.
But that story has just broken. Lister has only just been bailed.
Yes.
So what is it that you want to talk about? What does he have to do with all this?
Their cups sit empty before them. The cafe is busy now and it is Brindle who quietly asks the question this time.
Larry Lister says Mace. Lovely Larry. Uncle.
What about him?
He has links to the valley.
Go on.
Ray Muncy told me that Lister and Roy Pinder are associates.
Associates?
Friends.
Raymond Muncy’s a damaged man says Brindle.
Aren’t we all? I mean isn’t that what’s going on here?
Maybe. Maybe not. Perhaps they sent him that way. Perhaps he’s actually the sanest out of the lot of them.
Seems like Lister knows every bent councillor in the country the amount of awards he’s been given and clubs he’s an honorary member of says Brindle.
Yes says Mace. But it’s Pinder we’re talking about here. Roy Pinder who did little to help your initial investigation into Steve Rutter. Pinder who it could be said put obstacles in your way. Roy Pinder who practically runs the town.
Brindle raises his eyebrows. Urges Mace to continue.
And Larry Lister: career sexual abuser. He’s been at it for years.
So it would seem. But I don’t get why Pinder would want to stop me nailing Rutter. Or what bearing his friendship with Larry Lister has on this.
Well neither do I says Mace but maybe you need reminding that in the middle of all these shitehawks – Lister and Pinder and Rutter – are victims and a girl that’s still missing. The daughter of a local man – Ray Muncy – in fact; a man who is most definitely not a part of Pinder’s clique.
You think Lister and Pinder and Rutter are linked?
It’s possible. And there’s more.
There is?
Steven Rutter says Mace.
Yes.
This girl might not be the first.
Brindle looks around. He considers Mace. He stands.
Come on – let’s go for a walk.
They leave the cafe and turn right down an alley and then down steps. They cut through a snicket and onto the Old Hardraw Road and then down to a back lane that leads beh
ind the last row of houses. Cherry Tree Lane. Beyond that are paddocks.
Right says Brindle. What are you saying?
I tried to tell you at Christmas but you were such an arrogant bastard that I kept it to myself.
Kept what?
That someone told me about another girl that had gone missing – years back.
Girls go missing all the time.
Not from round here.
From where specifically? says Brindle.
The upper valley. The hamlet. The last sighting was at Muncy’s campsite. I’ve looked into it all and Rutter was there then too – just up the hill. He was young but not too young to do something like this.
Like what?
They walk down the lane side-stepping dried-up dog shit and litter.
Mace shrugs.
Well why the hell didn’t anyone tell me this? says Brindle.
Why would they? You didn’t exactly endear yourself to the locals.
But this is police business.
And this is their business. And never the twain shall meet. This runs deep.
How do you know all this? About the other girl I mean.
Because I’m a journalist says Mace. Because it’s my business – just as it is meant to be yours.
They walk in silence.
One more thing says Mace. Larry Lister.
Yeah?
He bought a property.
So?
Years back.
And?
And it’s in the valley.
Brindle stops. He looks at Mace. The red mark on his cheek appears to be pulsating with a heartbeat of its own.
I need to know everything you know.
I imagine you do says Mace.
Will you—?
Brindle coughs. Clears his throat. He looks around and then he looks at Mace. Swallows.
What? says Mace.
Will you help me?
ONLY WHEN THE rain falls does the symphony of the windmills abate.
The spring rain falls. First as a fine drizzle then in a torrent. The air tightens and turns sepia then thunder growls and the rain falls harder. Drops hit the ground like nails from a nail gun. They scoop out tiny divots.
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