06.The Dead Place

by Stephen Booth

  Cooper sat down at his desk and ran a check on the Criminal Intelligence System, but without result. Apparently, unauthorized interference with corpses wasn’t a common offence in Derbyshire. Who’d have guessed it? He requested a flag on any reports of similar incidents collated by intelligence officers on other forces, though he knew it would take time before there was any response.

  Then he wondered what law the offence came under, and tried the legislation index. The Anatomy Act and the Human Tissues Act covered the anatomical examination of dead bodies and the removal of a dead person’s organs respectively. Not really applicable. In any case, the maximum penalty under either act was three months’ imprisonment, and hardly worth bothering about. He did locate a definition of a ‘person lawfully in possession of the body’, but even that wasn’t very clear or helpful. And the only other reference he found was in Section 70 of the Sexual Offences Act – sexual penetration of a corpse. Best not to think about it.

  Besides, if it turned out that Audrey Steele had been evicted from her coffin to make way for a body that hadn’t died of natural causes, the minor charge might become irrelevant. The case would escalate instantly into a murder enquiry.

  Cooper felt a surge of excitement when he thought of it. Everything depended on what he did in the next few days. He’d have to trawl through missing persons again, dating back eighteen months at least. If he could narrow down the list and start making some connections, he’d be getting somewhere.

  First, he phoned Eden Valley Crematorium to make an appointment with the manager. It was a private sector operation, built by a company in East Anglia to meet the increasing demand for cremations. The manager’s name was Lloyd, and he was available in his office all morning. Cooper picked up his car keys and notebook.

  ‘Where are you going, Ben?’ said Fry.

  ‘The crem.’

  She stopped what she was doing and stared after him as he went through the door.

  ‘Why?’ she said.

  Cooper heard her, but kept going. As he closed the door behind him and set off down the corridor, he thought he could still hear her voice somewhere behind him. He’d explain to her later. She’d have to make do with partial information for a while.

  *

  Fry didn’t really have time to worry about Ben Cooper. When her phone rang, it was Gavin Murfin suggesting that she come over to the CCTV control room.

  ‘We’ve got something you’ll want to see,’ he said.

  The control room staff monitored cameras covering the streets in the centre of Edendale. These cameras were mounted on high poles or on the sides of buildings, swivelling to cover a three hundred and sixty degree field of vision and capable of zooming in on suspicious individuals. Unlike the private security system at the Clappergate car park all of these cameras were functional and constantly monitored.

  When Fry arrived, one of the monitoring staff was printing out some screen shots for Murfin, who looked pleased with himself.

  ‘We’ve been trawling through all the CCTV footage,’ he said. ‘Not the car park cameras, the town centre ones. Remember we eliminated all the vehicles in the multistorey itself? And we reckoned our man must have taken Sandra Birley out on to the street…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, we got a possible sighting at the corner of Hardwick Lane and New Street.’

  ‘Let’s see it.’

  They played back the tape for her. It had been recorded by a camera high above New Street, close to the traffic lights at the start of the pedestrianized section of Clappergate. Seven forty-five. It was pretty much dark, of course, but the street lighting was on and the quality of the image was surprisingly good. At first, there seemed to be no one in the street, only the brake lights of a car moving away from the camera position.

  Then a dark shape appeared from the corner of Hardwick Lane. It seemed to be one person. But a second later, Fry realized there were two people, one much heavier and taller than the other. They were unnaturally close together, the larger with his arm around the smaller.

  ‘Is that Sandra Birley on the left, do you think?’

  ‘We estimate she’s about the right height to fit the description,’ said one of the operators. ‘Dark-haired, too. And she’s wearing a skirt, as you’ll see in a moment.’

  The smaller figure seemed to stumble, or try to pull away. As they separated, it became clear for the first time that she was a woman, wearing a dark skirt with a hem just above knee length. Then she was pulled back towards the tall man, seemed to stumble again, but regained her footing.

  ‘There’s no indication that he’s threatening her with a weapon,’ said Fry.

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t need to,’ said Murfin. ‘He’s twice her size at least.’

  ‘Why didn’t she scream, though? There must have been people within earshot.’

  ‘OK, he could be holding a knife close to her body. We wouldn’t see it from this angle, nor would any passers-by in the street. She wouldn’t dare scream with a knife in her ribs.’

  ‘That’s possible.’

  The couple made slow progress up the street. This was no quick getaway. At one point, the woman seemed to turn towards the man and speak to him. No, she was arguing with him, trying to turn back the way she’d come. He shook his head, said something, pulled her roughly along with him again. This time, the violence was more overt.

  ‘We eliminated the Sheffield man, didn’t we?’ said Fry, watching the jerky footage.

  ‘Yes. Dad’s Army checked him out,’ said Murfin.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Oh, the temporary CID support staff.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And remember, his car was parked in the multistorey. This one is in New Street, look –’

  Then Fry saw the car. It was a light colour, barely picked out by the streetlamps on the upper edge of the camera’s field of view. She peered closer, squinting at the boot and the rear wings.

  ‘Is that a Vauxhall?’

  Murfin gave her a smug smile. ‘We’ve already blown up the screen shots and identified the model,’ he said.

  ‘Well done, Gavin.’

  ‘It gets better. The guys here read off a partial licence plate number for me, and I ran it through the PNC just before you arrived. We’ve narrowed it down to two possible owners.’

  Fry felt her fists clench with excitement. It was the moment of breakthrough that sometimes came when you knew you were close to making an arrest.

  ‘Come on, Gavin. Don’t hold it back.’

  ‘It turns out that one of the possible owners of this vehicle works at Peak Mutual Insurance. A gentleman by the name of Ian Todd. He’s a colleague of Sandra Birley’s.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘In the Hathersage Road area – 28 Darton Street.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Darton Street isn’t inside the famous six-mile zone,’ said Murfin. ‘It’s way out.’

  ‘Yes, Gavin.’

  ‘So much for our profiler.’

  ‘She’s not a profiler,’ said Fry automatically.

  ‘So much for our special advisor, then. I guess her advice was just too special for me to cope with.’

  As Cooper arrived at the crematorium, a hearse was creeping down the access road towards the chapel, followed by two black Daimler limousines, their gleaming paintwork streaked with raindrops. All three vehicles had personalized number plates starting with HS, indicating they belonged to Hudson and Slack.

  Mourners who had already gathered under the porte-cochere to be out of the rain moved to one side to allow family members to disembark on the chapel side. By the time Cooper had parked and got out of his car, he could see Melvyn Hudson himself moving among the family, grey-haired and solemn, offering a few words of consolation.

  At the side of the chapel, near the car park, was an area where the floral tributes from mourners were displayed. The day’s cremations were announced by a line of name cards on metal s
takes, like place markers for an absent queue. Shirley Bramwell 10 a.m., Billy Booker 10.30 p.m., Lilian Outram 11 a.m. Each person’s slot in the schedule lasted half an hour. A cremation service was hardly an elaborate ritual, after all. It was more of a gesture, a quick farewell wave as the body passed through on its way to the flames.

  Cooper noticed that the display of flowers included hearts and crosses, arrangements wired together to spell out ‘Dad’ or ‘Nan’, and a huge tribute in the shape of the Pearly Gates, with one of the gates invitingly cracked open an inch to welcome a new arrival to Heaven.

  To get to the crematorium office, he’d have to pass through the porte-cochere, where the cortege had just pulled up. Rather than trying to push his way through, Cooper stood and watched as four drivers and bearers gathered at the rear of the hearse. Billy McGowan and Vernon Slack were among them, but he didn’t recognize the other two. No doubt they’d be on the staff list when he eventually got around to asking Mr Hudson for one.

  McGowan and the others all seemed to have flat shoulders, like shelves designed specially for carrying a coffin. Were bearers made that way, or did they develop flattened shoulders as an occupational hazard, like a police officer’s bad back?

  Cooper watched one of the bearers open the tailgate to reveal the coffin and its covering of flowers. None of them spoke to the mourners. Instead, they stood looking at each other, or at the ground, shuffling their feet a little, uncomfortable in their black suits and ties. McGowan looked particularly out of place. His shaved head and prominent jaw gave him an aggressive look that didn’t fit the occasion at all. The collar of his white shirt was too big, and it made him seem to have no neck. Yet when a late mourner arrived with an armful of flowers wrapped in cellophane and didn’t know what to do with them, it was McGowan who went across to relieve him and put his flowers into the hearse with the others.

  Then began those awkward few minutes while the party waited outside for the previous service to finish and the chapel to be vacated. Everyone knew that someone else’s coffin was just sliding through the curtains into the cremation suite, but they all tried to look as though they weren’t aware of it. A female relative began to cry. A mourner smoking a cigarette by the roadway threw it down and stubbed it out with the toe of his shoe. A thin trickle of blue smoke rose from the butt until it was dampened by the rain and died.

  Cooper started to feel as though he was intruding. He didn’t always find it possible to be a detached observer, unaffected by other people’s grief. But it would seem odd and disrespectful just to walk away now, so he waited until the bearers had slid the coffin out of the hearse. Hudson stepped forward to help the four men raise it on to their shoulders smoothly. Then they lowered their heads in a practised movement and entered the chapel. Gradually the mourners followed them, until they had left Cooper standing on his own in the rain.

  He began to walk towards the office block behind the chapel. But he was barely halfway there when the music started, and his pace slowed instinctively until he had to stop. Cooper could never hear the first hymn of a funeral service without being pierced by that sudden sense of loss. It seemed to come from nowhere, entirely unexpected, and unrelated to any thoughts that had been in his head. The feeling was somehow bound up in the music, buried deep in the raw sound of untrained voices faltering into the opening verse of ‘Abide With Me’.

  But it was ridiculous to be standing alone outside a crematorium chapel feeling like this. He tried to recall whose loss was being mourned. Was it Shirley Bramwell or Billy Booker? Their names had stayed in his mind, but the order of their disposal was already a blur.

  In the office, he announced himself to a secretary, who told him that Mr Lloyd was engaged in a meeting, but would be with him shortly if he cared to wait. Cooper looked at his watch. It was his own fault – he was a bit early. He’d been too eager to get out of the office, even if the alternative was the crematorium.

  ‘I’ll take a walk round and come back in a few minutes,’ he said. And the woman looked relieved to have him out of the building.

  At least the rain was easing off a bit. The cool air felt quite refreshing as Cooper walked up the roadway to the other end of the chapel. Mourners from the previous service were still milling around in the exit, and a few of them were inspecting the floral tributes. Someone exclaimed in admiration at the Pearly Gates, even though they were from a cremation earlier in the day, a tribute to a stranger. This party was in a completely different mood from the one that had just gone in. They were chatting and laughing with relief at being outside, despite the rain. Their laughter seemed odd when another service had begun behind them, the tears and the music just starting over again for someone else.

  Two limousines had been waiting here to take the family mourners away, even as the next hearse rolled into the porte-cochere. Cooper watched the two men in black frock coats who seemed to be in charge. They were a discreet presence, taking a party of mourners each, one coming in and one going out. Crematorium attendants, presumably.

  As the crowd dispersed into the car park, they left only Cooper, the two Hudson and Slack limousines and their drivers, who were taking the chance to have a break. They were standing in their black suits near the cars, smoking cigarettes and chatting. Or, rather, three of them were – Billy McGowan and the other two whose names he didn’t know. The exception was Vernon Slack, who’d lifted the bonnet of the leading limousine and was tinkering with something inside the engine compartment, checking the oil level or testing the tension of the fan belt.

  Cooper began to walk towards him. Slack didn’t look up, though he was aware of somebody approaching. He surreptitiously disposed of his cigarette in the nearest flower bed and moved back towards his limousine, pulling a yellow cloth from the pocket of his jacket. If he kept that sort of thing in his pockets, it was no wonder his suit didn’t fit too well.

  By the time Cooper reached him, Vernon had put the bulk of the limousine between them and was bending down to rub at the bodywork, wiping off the raindrops. He seemed to be trying to hide his face behind the wing mirror, as if afraid to look anybody in the eye.

  ‘Mr Slack?’

  From the other side of the car, the young man’s head came up. He looked worried, but he didn’t answer immediately. His hand kept moving automatically over the bodywork, rubbing at the same patch with his cloth.

  ‘Vernon, isn’t it?’ said Cooper. ‘Vernon Slack?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The hand stopped at last. Vernon let it fall by his side, still holding the cloth.

  Cooper held out his warrant card. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. I’m here to make some enquiries with the crematorium manager, Mr Lloyd. But I thought I recognized you from the other day. I was at Hudson and Slack with a colleague, DS Fry. Do you remember?’

  ‘You were talking to Melvyn. It wasn’t anything to do with me, was it?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Vernon was standing in front of a back door to the chapel, or possibly it was a staff entrance to the cremation suite, which stood at right angles to it. On the door was a notice warning that anyone caught taking floral tributes would be prosecuted. Cooper wondered what sort of person would want to steal flowers from a crematorium. He hoped no one would make a mad grab for the Pearly Gates and run off with them right under his nose.

  ‘You must spend quite a bit of time here in your job, Mr Slack,’ said Cooper, smiling in an effort to put Vernon at his ease.

  ‘Here, or at Brimington or Sheffield. It depends where they want to go.’

  ‘I realize Hudson and Slack is a family firm from your point of view, but how long have you actually been working for the company? Would you have been around about eighteen months ago?’

  Vernon’s lips moved slowly, as if he was counting up to eighteen and trying to work out how long ago that was.

  ‘March of last year,’ said Cooper helpfully.

  ‘Yes. Well, I’ve always helped out a bit. My dad, you know …’

&nbs
p; ‘Yes, of course.’

  Vernon’s reluctance to meet his eyes made it easy for Cooper’s gaze to slide past him and land on something more interesting. The door behind Vernon had glass panels, and through them Cooper could see some kind of store room. The item that had caught his attention was a brand-new microwave oven, still in its box. Presumably the cremation suite staff used it to make their lunch. With a faint queasiness in his stomach, he pictured them watching a pie turn slowly in its dish as the meat bubbled inside.

  ‘Do you know the other bearers very well, Mr Slack?’

  ‘Some of them. They come and go, you know how it is.’

  ‘What about Billy McGowan?’

  ‘Billy? I’ve known him for yonks. Yonks.’

  ‘Has he worked at Hudson and Slack for a long time?’

  ‘I can’t remember how long exactly, but I know he worked for Granddad. Billy was casual for quite a few years, then Dad gave him a full-time job.’

  ‘Your father gave him the job, not Melvyn Hudson?’

  Vernon looked down at the car, as if embarrassed at being tricked into an admission.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Is your father still with the company?’

  Vernon didn’t answer, but fiddled with his cloth, itching to get polishing again. But no doubt it had been drummed into him to be courteous to people at funerals, and he seemed reluctant to make an exception, even for a police officer.

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Your father died?’

  The only response was a brief nod. Vernon was starting to remind Cooper of Tom Jarvis, another man who didn’t believe in wasting words. He’d seemed sullen at first, but now Vernon was just smiling and smiling. Not with pleasure, but with anxiety. His expression was a perpetual grimace of apology.

  Suddenly he looked past Cooper and his expression changed to one of relief, as if the cavalry had arrived.

  Cooper hadn’t heard any footsteps behind him. He hated it when his alertness slipped so much that someone was able to creep up on him. As a result, he hadn’t even begun to turn round when a hand landed on his arm.