06.The Dead Place

by Stephen Booth

  ‘But there’s a fence up there above the trees. That looks as though it ought to be the boundary.’

  ‘That fence is new. It marks the end of the access land.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The walkers who found the human remains at Litton Foot had been here only as a result of their new freedom under the Countryside and Rights of Way Act. The so-called ‘right to roam’ legislation had opened up a hundred and fifty square miles of private land in the national park to public access for the first time. Otherwise, the remains might have lain undiscovered for years yet. In a different location, they’d probably have been found months ago, before they deteriorated beyond hope of identification.

  ‘Bad business, it being a woman,’ said Jarvis.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She doesn’t know. The wife, I mean. She gets upset about stuff like that. Hates these ramblers coming across our land. But I suppose I’d better tell her.’

  ‘It’ll be in the papers anyway,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Aye.’

  Cooper almost slipped on the stones, and put his hand on to the wall to keep himself upright. The moss covering the wall was thick and fibrous to the touch, like a cheap carpet that had been soaked in a flood and never dried out. It held water as effectively as a sponge, and no air could penetrate it. When he raised his hand from the wall, Cooper’s fingers smelled dank and woody.

  ‘Well, thank you for your time, sir,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve got what I need for now.’

  ‘Aye? You don’t need much, then.’

  As they walked back towards the house, Cooper noticed an enclosure next to the paddock. A row of old pigsties stood on a concrete apron surrounded by muddy ground and a stone wall, mortared to give it extra stability.

  ‘Do you raise livestock, Mr Jarvis?’ he said.

  ‘No. These dogs are enough livestock for me.’

  Cooper dug into an inside pocket for one of his cards.

  ‘If you do happen to remember anyone, sir – I mean if the facial reconstruction rings any bells later on – you will let us know, won’t you? The photographs should be in the papers in a day or so, too. You can contact me at the office on this number, or leave a message.’

  Jarvis took the card and glanced at it before tucking it away somewhere in his clothes.

  ‘Cooper. That’s you, is it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cooper braced himself for the inevitable question. Tom Jarvis was local. He would surely know all about Cooper’s father and how he’d met his death. Memories were long in these parts, and he didn’t expect he would ever escape it, no matter how long he lived.

  But Jarvis just gave him a quizzical look, no more than the lifting of an eyebrow and a momentary understanding in his dark eyes. And Cooper suddenly found himself liking the man much more.

  He walked back through the overgrown garden, the only sounds the swish of his own footsteps in the wet grass and the rattling of raindrops on rusted metal. The place had an air of dereliction, a sense of things that had been left to rot in peace.

  Tom Jarvis didn’t come with him to the gate but stood and watched him from the top of the porch steps, with the dogs sprawled at his feet. When Cooper reached his car, he turned to say goodbye.

  ‘Well, Graceless hasn’t bothered me at all while I’ve been here,’ he said.

  ‘No, you’re right,’ said Jarvis. ‘The old bitch must not fancy you, then.’

  Diane Fry watched DI Hitchens tapping a pen against his teeth and swivelling in his chair. Some of his mannerisms were starting to annoy her, but she tried not to show it too much.

  ‘The two calls weren’t linked straight away,’ said Hitchens. ‘I didn’t know about the second one myself until this morning, and there was no chance to tell you about it.’

  Fry hadn’t bothered looking at the transcript yet. She felt too angry. ‘Where was the call made from? Wardlow again?’

  ‘We don’t know, Diane. It was too brief to be traced. But they were only a few minutes apart, so it’s a good bet.’

  She looked up at the map, finding Wardlow easily this time. ‘It’s an entirely different kind of message, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. The similarities between them are the voice distortion and the timing, otherwise the connection might not have been made at all.’

  ‘He’s being very specific: “a cemetery six miles wide.” And what does he mean by “the dead place”? Or “a flesh eater”?’

  ‘We’ll analyse it later,’ said Hitchens. ‘Was your funeral director any use?’

  ‘Mr Hudson did manage to remember who a few of the mourners were at Wardlow. There’s the family, of course. And they had some local dignitaries and business types in the congregation, people who’d worked with the deceased councillor, so I’ve got a decent list to be going on with. And when we talk to the family, we can get more names. That would be a good start.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hitchens, without enthusiasm.

  Fry took off her jacket. ‘I appreciate we’re talking about over two hundred people, sir. But if we put a couple of enquiry teams on to it, we can add more names with each interview until we build up a picture of the whole congregation. We should be able to narrow the possibilities down to a few individuals who nobody knew. And one of those will be our man.’

  ‘That probably won’t be necessary,’ said the DI. ‘But we’ll bear it in mind.’

  Fry looked at him. ‘Why won’t it be necessary?’

  ‘It’s a lot of effort for potentially little result, Diane. There are other major leads we can be following up.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as the possibility that our caller has already committed his murder.’

  5

  ‘She never liked using that car park,’ said Geoff Birley. ‘But it was the only place near enough to the office, without her having to walk a long way.’

  He stared down at his large pale hands where they lay helplessly on his knees. He’d given his age as forty-one, three years older than his wife. He was a foreman on the despatch floor at one of the big distribution centres just outside town. Hard physical work, no doubt, but never any sign of sun.

  ‘That’s the trouble with this town, you know. Not nearly enough parking spaces.’

  He looked at DI Hitchens for understanding. Always a mistake, in Diane Fry’s view. But Birley’s face was pale and set in an expression of shock, so maybe he knew no better at the moment. A family liaison officer had been appointed, a female officer who might make a better job of sympathizing with Birley and getting him to talk once the detectives had gone.

  ‘They keep opening more shops, and encouraging more and more tourists to come in, but they don’t give people anywhere to park.’

  Hitchens didn’t answer. He left it to Birley’s sister, Trish Neville, a large woman wearing an apron, who had insisted on making tea that neither of the detectives had touched.

  ‘Geoff, I’m sure the inspector doesn’t think that’s worth fretting about just now,’ she said. ‘He has more important things to talk to you about.’

  She spoke to her brother a little too loudly, as if he were an elderly relative, senile and slightly deaf.

  ‘I know,’ said Birley. ‘But if it hadn’t been for that … If there had been somewhere nearer to park her car, and more secure. If the company had provided parking for its staff …’

  They were sitting in a low-ceilinged room with small windows, like so many of the older houses in the area. Peak Park planning regulations wouldn’t have allowed the owners to knock holes in the walls and put picture windows in, even if they’d wanted to. It wouldn’t have been in keeping.

  The room might have been dark and gloomy, if it hadn’t been recently decorated with bright floral wallpaper and dazzling white gloss on the woodwork. Somebody, presumably Sandra Birley, had arranged mirrors and a multi-faceted glass lamp to catch what light there was from the windows and spread it around the room. Fry found herself seated in an armchair with a chintz cover,
facing the windows. Normally, she disliked the fussiness of chintz intensely. But in this room it seemed to work, softening the crude lines of the stone walls.

  Geoff Birley had stopped speaking. He licked his lips anxiously, as if he’d forgotten what he was saying. He seemed to know they were expecting something of him, but wasn’t sure what it was. He looked up at his sister, who was standing over him like an attentive nurse.

  ‘Well, I’m just saying, Trish,’ he said. ‘About the car park.’

  Trish Neville sighed and folded her arms across her chest. She looked at the two detectives. Over to you, she seemed to say.

  ‘Despite that, your wife used the multistorey car park regularly, didn’t she, sir?’ said Fry.

  ‘Yes, she did,’ said Birley. ‘But she always tried to get a space on the lower levels, so she wouldn’t have to go up to the top to fetch her car if she worked late at the office. Only, you have to get there early, you see. You have to be there at seven o’clock, or you’ve had it for the rest of the day.’

  ‘And she was late yesterday morning?’

  ‘She got held up by a phone call as she was leaving the house. It was only her mother, mithering about nothing as usual. But Sandra always has to spend a few minutes listening to the old bat and calming her down. Sandra is like that – if she cut her mother off short, she’d have felt guilty about it all day. So she made herself late because of it. By the time she got to Clappergate, the bottom levels of the car park would already have been full. A few minutes make all the difference, you see. And when that happens, you have to go up and up, until you’re on the bloody roof.’

  ‘Her car wasn’t quite on the roof level, in fact,’ said Fry. ‘It was on the one below, Level 8.’

  ‘She was lucky, then. She must have nipped into a space.’

  Fry and Hitchens exchanged a glance. The fact that Mr Birley should still be describing his wife’s actions as ‘lucky’ told them that reality hadn’t sunk in for him yet. The one thing Sandra Birley hadn’t been last night was lucky.

  ‘Mr Birley,’ said Hitchens. ‘When your wife went back for her car, we think she used the stairs to get to Level 8, instead of the lift. Yet the lift was working. Would that have been her usual habit, do you think?’

  The question seemed only to confuse Geoff Birley. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Would your wife normally have used the stairs to go up eight floors, rather than take the lift?’

  Birley hesitated. ‘It depends. What did it smell like?’

  Now it was Hitchens’ turn to look puzzled. ‘I’m sorry, sir?’

  ‘The lift. What did it smell like? Did anyone open it and have a smell inside?’

  Fry had been present when the lift was examined. Even now, she had to swallow a little surge of bile that rose to her throat as she remembered the stink.

  ‘Yes, it smelled pretty bad.’

  ‘Like somebody had thrown up in there, then pissed on it?’

  ‘Those smells featured, I think.’

  Birley shook his head. ‘Then Sandra wouldn’t have gone in it. She might have pressed the button and opened the doors. But if the lift smelled as bad inside as you say it did, she wouldn’t have used it. No way. She couldn’t stand bad smells in an enclosed space. It made her feel sick.’

  ‘So you think she’d have used the stairs, even though the lift was working?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure she would. You can count on it.’

  Trish put her hand on her brother’s shoulder, perhaps detecting some sign of emotion that Fry had missed. She left it there for a few moments, while Birley breathed a little more deeply. The two detectives waited. Fry noticed that Trish’s arms were broad and fleshy, yet ended in surprisingly small, elegant hands with long fingers, as though the hands had been transplanted from someone else.

  ‘I’m fine, really,’ said Birley at last.

  ‘Your wife was late leaving the office too, wasn’t she, sir?’ said Fry.

  ‘Yes, she was. There was a late meeting, and then she had some work she had to finish. She’s done very well for herself at Peak Mutual, you know. She’s an account executive.’

  ‘Did you know she’d be late?’

  ‘She rang me just before five thirty to let me know, and told me not to wait for her to get home before I had something to eat. I got a pizza out of the freezer and left half of it for her. Hawaiian-style. She likes pineapple.’

  Fry saw Trish’s hand tighten on his shoulder in an affectionate squeeze. She was anticipating Birley’s realization that the five-thirty phone call was the last time he would ever speak to his wife, that Sandra would never come home to eat her half of the pizza. But the moment didn’t come. Or at least, it didn’t show on Geoff Birley’s face.

  ‘When Mrs Birley called, you were already home, sir?’ asked Hitchens.

  ‘Yes, I was on an early shift.’

  ‘Your wife didn’t happen to say what the work was she had to finish?’

  ‘No, she didn’t often talk about her work. She told me about the people in her office – little bits of gossip, you know. But she didn’t bring her work home. She was good at her job, but she liked to keep the two halves of her life completely separate, she said.’

  It was a good trick if you could do it. Fry glanced at Hitchens, who nodded.

  ‘Mr Birley, we have to ask you this,’ she said. ‘Can you think of anyone who might want to harm your wife?’

  He frowned and shook his head. ‘No, not at all. Everybody liked her. She wasn’t the sort of person to get into arguments. She hated upsetting people. If there was someone at work she didn’t get on with, she would just try to avoid them.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It wasn’t somebody Sandra knew, was it? Surely it was one of these lunatics who prey on women? She was a random victim. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘Most likely, sir,’ said Hitchens. ‘But we have to cover all the possibilities.’

  Geoff Birley looked up at his sister again. It seemed to Fry that it was Trish he was talking to now, as if the police had already left his house.

  ‘Only, I’d hate to think it was someone Sandra knew that attacked her. I couldn’t bear the thought of that. It had to be a stranger, didn’t it? That’s the only thing we can cling to. It’s some consolation, at least.’

  ‘What time did you first try to call your wife’s mobile, sir?’

  ‘About eight, I suppose.’

  ‘And it was already off then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hitchens leaned forward in his chair, as if about to leave.

  ‘Would it be all right if we take a look around while we’re here, sir?’ he said.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Anything that might help us find your wife.’

  Puzzled, Birley looked at his sister, whose face had set into an angry expression. ‘I suppose it’ll be all right,’ he said.

  The Birleys lived in a detached limestone cottage with an enclosed garden. Fry guessed there were probably three or four bedrooms upstairs. From outside, it was obvious that the property had been created by combining two cottages whose roofs were at slightly different heights. An external chimney stack at one end suggested there might have been a third cottage in the row at some time.

  Fry looked first into the kitchen and saw an enamelled range, the kind that provided central heating and hot water as well as cooking. She’d never be able to manage one of those herself. In the sitting room, the focal point had been a castiron stove with a carved surround, which looked equally impractical.

  In the dining room, Fry paused to admire a carving of a leaping dolphin on a table near the fireplace. There was much more light at the back of the house, thanks to a sliding door that led into a conservatory, with pine floorboards covered in raffia matting. She walked straight through it and out into the garden, past a lawn and a series of raised borders, until she found a brick store place and a garden shed that had been painted bright blue. Neither of them contained the body o
f Sandra Birley.

  Re-entering the house, Fry saw Hitchens descending the stairs from the bedrooms. She shook her head, and they both went back into the sitting room, where they were met with a glare from Trish Neville. Geoff himself was gazing at the carved surround of the stove, as if searching for a meaning in its decorative curlicues.

  ‘Is that your car parked outside, sir?’ said Hitchens. ‘The green Audi?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Do you mind if DS Fry takes a look?’

  Birley found the keys to the Audi without argument. Either he’d cottoned on by now, or his sister had explained it to him while they were out of the room.

  Fry went outside and checked the interior and boot of the car. It contained nothing more incriminating than half a roll of blue stretch wrap that looked as though it might have come from the despatch department at a distribution centre.

  ‘I don’t know what I’ll do without Sandra,’ Birley said, as the detectives prepared to leave.

  ‘We don’t know that your wife is dead, Mr Birley,’ said Hitchens.

  ‘What? You think he might be keeping her prisoner somewhere?’

  ‘It’s quite possible. Until we know one way or the other, we’re keeping an open mind.’

  Birley had begun to look hopeful. But now he dropped his eyes again.

  ‘You’re just saying that. You’ll find her dead, won’t you? You know you will. Why else would he have snatched her from that car park?’

  ‘Until that happens, we can still hope for the best, sir.’

  As soon as he’d spoken, Fry remembered having said something similar quite recently. But she couldn’t quite recall when and where.

  Detective Chief Inspector Oliver Kessen leaned against the side of the crime scene van and thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘Well, this place must be dead overnight,’ he said. ‘Do many people leave vehicles in here until morning?’

  Fry assumed that the DCI was talking to her, though he gave no sign of it. Scenes of crime had almost finished with Sandra Birley’s Skoda, and were moving away along the retaining wall towards the ramps.