06.The Dead Place

by Stephen Booth

  ‘Yes, I understand that. It’s been explained to me.’

  ‘Well, the thing is, the ashes that you have –’ Cooper indicated the urn on the dresser. ‘Obviously, in the circumstances, they can’t be Audrey’s.’

  Mrs Gill nodded. ‘Yes, I’d thought of that. I’m not stupid.’

  ‘We’d like to take them away and analyse them.’

  ‘You think you can find out whose ashes they really are?’

  ‘It might be possible. And that could help us to find out who … well, who took your daughter’s body.’

  Vivien Gill looked at the urn. ‘It’s funny, but I almost want to keep it, even though I know it isn’t Audrey. It’s not as if I’ve spent my time looking at the ashes themselves, just at the urn.’

  Cooper held up his hands. ‘The urn is yours. But before long, you could have the genuine ashes to put in it, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘Oh, take it. I’ll think about whether I want it back, and I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Mrs Gill motioned him to stay seated and fetched the urn herself. Before Cooper could speak, she slid off the lid and looked in.

  ‘Strange, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘What we’re reduced to.’

  ‘Yes. If I may …?’

  Cooper took a large plastic bag from his pocket and carefully slipped the urn in, before filling out a receipt. The lid didn’t look particularly secure, so he’d have to be careful to keep it upright in the car. The lab wouldn’t be happy to get only half an exhibit, with the rest scattered in his footwell or down the back of a seat.

  ‘Mrs Gill, do you remember anything unusual about the service at the crematorium?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, were there any mourners you didn’t know, for example?’

  ‘There were some of Audrey’s friends from the hospital that I hadn’t met before. Nurses, you know. But apart from that, I knew pretty much everybody. It wasn’t a big do.’

  ‘And apart from the mourners?’

  ‘Well, Batman was there.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Batman. Bloke with a black suit, miserable expression, travels in a big car with a lot of space in the back.’

  Cooper was baffled, until he saw Mrs Gill watching him with a sharp expression, like a bird. He had a feeling he was being tested.

  ‘The undertaker,’ she said. ‘Melvyn Hudson.’

  ‘Funeral director is the title he prefers, I believe. So Mr Hudson was there?’

  ‘Of course he was there. He had to do all the business, didn’t he? Make sure nothing went wrong. That’s his job.’

  ‘And did anything go wrong?’

  She looked away, as if she suddenly had to check on the weather outside the window.

  ‘Vernon Slack was driving the hearse. God, that lad – it’s obvious he only got a job with the firm because his grandfather is part-owner.’

  ‘He can drive a car all right, can’t he?’

  ‘Oh, cars he’s fine with, and he can lift a coffin as well as the rest of them. But that’s about all. He’s useless around the mourners. Doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what expression to have on his face, doesn’t know where to put his hands. He’s a complete embarrassment. Melvyn does his best to keep him out of the way. And out of sight, as much as possible.’

  ‘How do you know Vernon Slack?’

  ‘Everybody knows the Hudsons and the Slacks. They’ve been in business in Edendale for ages.’

  Vivien Gill seemed to be taking everything very well. But Cooper had learned that an apparent calmness could be deceptive. At any moment the grief might spurt out, like blood gushing from a severed artery.

  ‘Please tell me,’ said Mrs Gill. ‘I don’t understand. Why would anyone want to steal Audrey’s body?’

  ‘We don’t know. It may have been … well, incidental to something else.’

  ‘Incidental?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mrs Gill frowned as she turned the word over in her mind. She seemed to be trying to get to grips with the idea that her daughter’s body could have been merely an accessory to somebody else’s obsession, a minor stage prop in a scene where the spotlight fell on a different star. Audrey had been so central to her life that she would never be able to manage the shift of perspective. Cooper saw her frown fade as she gave up the effort.

  ‘But we’ll be able to do everything properly now, won’t we?’ she said. ‘We can have Audrey back and do it properly.’

  ‘That will be up to the coroner. But since there’s no evidence that your daughter’s death was anything but natural, I’m sure the remains will be released soon. Have you thought about whether you’ll have a cremation again, or perhaps a burial?’

  ‘No cremation,’ said Mrs Gill. ‘I know what I’m going to do this time. I’m going to go for a green burial.’

  ‘What a good idea. There’s a green burial site near Lowbridge, isn’t there?’

  ‘That’s the one I’m going to use. I’ve already contacted them.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re looking at it practically. That’s the best way.’

  ‘I think so. The others aren’t so keen, but they’ll lump it.’

  ‘The others?’

  ‘I’ve got quite a big family. Audrey’s family.’

  Cooper took the urn out to his car. After a moment’s thought, he put it in the rear footwell and packed it in tightly to stop it moving or falling over while he was driving. He would have preferred to take it straight back to West Street, but he had some other calls to make first.

  Ian Todd sat in the interview room with a duty solicitor. He seemed a little smaller when he was sitting down, but he was still one of the guiltiest-looking people Fry had ever seen. He had the sort of fleshy face that made a man look untrustworthy, like a used-car salesman. If he’d been wearing one of those tight, dark suits cut too high at the lapels, she’d have known to cross the road to avoid him.

  ‘Why is Mr Todd under arrest?’ said the solicitor, as soon as the tapes were running.

  ‘On suspicion of the abduction and unlawful detention of Mrs Sandra Birley,’ said Fry.

  ‘I didn’t abduct anybody,’ said Todd. ‘That’s ludicrous.’

  ‘Mr Todd, we have photographic evidence of you leaving the Clappergate car park on Tuesday night with Sandra Birley, who failed to return home that night. Since then, there has been no word from Mrs Birley, no contact with her husband or anyone else. Today, we find Mrs Birley in your house. Can you explain that?’

  Todd leaned forward suddenly and slapped his hands on the table. No one looked nervous, except the solicitor.

  ‘Did Sandra say she was abducted?’

  ‘We’re getting a statement from Mrs Birley now,’ said Fry.

  ‘Ha! That means she hasn’t said she was abducted.’ Todd turned to his solicitor. ‘She hasn’t made a complaint,’ he said. ‘How can they arrest me?’

  ‘It’s a good question, Sergeant,’ said the solicitor. ‘What evidence do you have to justify a charge against Mr Todd?’

  ‘I’ve just told you –’

  ‘None of what you said constitutes evidence of abduction or unlawful detention. Unless you have a statement to the contrary from the lady you mention. In which case, my client will dispute it.’

  ‘Mr Todd has some explaining to do,’ said Fry calmly.

  ‘Not unless –’

  Todd held up a hand. ‘It’s OK. Let’s have it sorted out and then I can get out of here.’

  ‘Go ahead then, Mr Todd. We’re listening.’

  ‘Well, far from abducting Sandra Birley, I’d arranged to meet her on Tuesday night after work. But she was late. So I went to the Clappergate car park, and I waited for her. When she arrived, we walked to my car, which was parked in New Street. Sandra came home with me and she stayed for three days. And that’s it. Can I go now?’

  ‘What was the purpose of your meeting?’ said Fry.

  ‘That’s personal. It’s none of
your business.’ He looked at the solicitor again. ‘It’s none of their business, is it? They can’t ask me about that.’

  ‘The officers can ask. But you’re not obliged to answer.’

  ‘Were you having an affair with Mrs Birley?’ said Fry.

  ‘It’s not an affair,’ said Todd. ‘She was coming away with me. Well, coming to live with me. She’s leaving her husband.’

  ‘She doesn’t seem to have told her husband that.’

  Todd shrugged. ‘She would have got round to it.’

  The tapes continued to turn in the silence as Fry struggled to contain her anger. For three days she’d been convinced that Sandra Birley had been abducted and murdered by a psychotic killer who was taunting the police with his sick phone calls. She had failed to get in touch with anyone during that time. She would have got round it made her angry. She wondered if she could learn some breathing techniques from Melvyn Hudson.

  Now, this was an interesting room. On the middle shelf at about eye level was a six-sided terrarium with stained-glass panels and openings for variegated ivy to trail through. Next to it was a less elaborate container with straight sides and less vegetation, sitting among a selection of coffee-table books and Chinese vases. It wasn’t until he was sitting on the sofa that Cooper noticed the focal point of this terrarium. It was a small chameleon, vivid green and standing perfectly still.

  At least, it looked like a chameleon. The only thing he knew about the species was that they were supposed to change colour to blend in with their background. If this one was real, shouldn’t it be light grey, like the material covering the floor of the terrarium? Or a dark pine colour, like the varnish on the shelving?

  While Cooper watched, it didn’t so much as blink. Was it actually alive?

  ‘The ashes came in a plastic urn,’ said Mrs Askew. ‘We decided to do something a bit different and display them. He would have liked it, I think.’

  At first, Cooper didn’t know what she meant. Then his gaze strayed past Mrs Askew’s head to the bookshelves. He thought the chameleon had moved, perhaps raised a front leg to allow the passage of air under its belly. It might only have been a slight shift that had attracted his attention. Or it could have been the realization that the material on the floor of the terrarium was a light grey, granular material, like fine cat litter.

  Mrs Askew followed the direction of his gaze. ‘Seven pounds of ashes go a surprisingly long way,’ she said. ‘There were even a few ounces left over, so I shared them out into a set of little brass boxes that I found in an antique shop near the Buttercross. I gave a box to each of his grandchildren. That’s the best way to be remembered, I think – to have your memory passed down through the generations of your own family. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right.’

  Of course, Cooper had immediately thought of his own father. It was an instinctive reaction when someone mentioned keeping the memory of a family member alive. It didn’t seem to trouble him the way it once had. He found he could even think of the practicalities – whether it would have been better if Sergeant Joe Cooper had been cremated, rather than buried in Edendale Cemetery. And how much his ashes would have weighed, if he had. More than eight pounds, certainly. Plenty to have shared out into little boxes for everyone. And then, perhaps, his father’s memory wouldn’t have weighed quite so heavily on one pair of shoulders.

  There were several Venus flytraps growing in the other terrarium. Cooper could see their thick triangular bases and the teeth on their traps. They looked capable of ensnaring something the size of a bumble bee, let alone a fly.

  ‘Do you know anything about carnivorous plants?’ asked Mrs Askew, noting his gaze and assuming interest, the way people did.

  ‘No. Do they catch many flies?’

  ‘Each leaf can catch and digest three meals before it dies,’ said Mrs Askew. ‘Leaves can open and close without catching anything, but eventually they exhaust themselves.’

  ‘Only three meals in their lives? No matter how big they are?’

  ‘If a meal is very large, the effort of digestion can be too much. Then the leaf dies without ever re-opening.’

  Cooper had always hated flies, but he found himself feeling sorry for them – especially the ones that ended up trapped and half-digested inside the leaves of a dying plant.

  Mrs Askew pointed into the terrarium.

  ‘There’s a leaf at the back that caught a fly about a week ago. It’s just re-opening now, look.’

  Cooper peered between the teeth of the flytrap into the fleshy mouth, and saw that the plant had finished digesting its meal. All that remained on the leaf was the dried-out husk of its prey. The fly’s brittle wings and the shell of its thorax had been left intact, but its body had been sucked empty of its juices. The insect had been digested alive.

  ‘Interesting, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Askew with a smile.

  Cooper turned, hardly daring to look at her face. He felt that sense of unease again, a discomfort in the presence of an unnatural fascination with death.

  ‘Mrs Askew, I have to go now,’ he said. ‘I have other people to visit.’

  She looked disappointed. ‘Oh, well, if you must. But do call back if there’s anything else you want to ask me.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll do that.’

  She waited on the doorstep and watched him leave. As he got into his car, Cooper looked back and waved. He wished Mrs Askew wouldn’t keep smiling quite so much. He was starting to find the sight of her bared teeth a bit disturbing.

  David Royce had his brother-in-law’s ashes somewhere, if only he could remember where he’d put them.

  ‘What’s in this cage?’ called Cooper as he waited in the sitting room for Mr Royce to search the cupboard under the stairs. The cage was covered completely, so it might be empty. But Cooper thought he could hear a faint clicking of claws.

  ‘That’s Smoky. He’s an African Grey.’

  ‘You have a parrot?’ Cooper tried to remember the last time he’d seen a parrot in a cage in someone’s house. There had been one a while ago, but he couldn’t recall where. And somehow David Royce didn’t seem the type to keep a cage bird at all. A large dog, perhaps. A Rottweiler called Tyson or Satan. But a parrot?

  ‘My sister asked me to have it,’ said Royce, his voice muffled by the interior of the cupboard. ‘It belonged to Jack. But after he died, she couldn’t bear to have it in the house. He taught the thing to speak, you see. And it copied his voice perfectly. It has the sound of him off pat, believe me.’

  ‘They’re very good mimics.’

  ‘Good? It’s bloody frightening. Well, Joan couldn’t stand hearing the old man’s voice in the house when she knew he was dead. It was tearing her up, poor lass. Every time she came home, she heard his voice. I didn’t really want the thing myself, but I couldn’t refuse, could I?’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘I wouldn’t claim it has a wide vocabulary exactly,’ said Royce.

  He came back into the room and pulled the cover off the cage. The parrot opened its eyes and looked at Cooper.

  ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ it said. ‘Where’s Jack?’

  Then it switched its attention to scratching under its feathers with the claws of one foot, and Royce went back to his search.

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t tried to engage it in conversation,’ said Royce. ‘But sometimes it says “crap” if it doesn’t like what’s on the telly.’

  ‘And is that often?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They live a lot longer than people, don’t they?’ said Cooper.

  ‘Do they?’ Royce sounded surprised. ‘Bloody hell. I was hoping it’d die a natural death before too long, like my kids’ hamsters do.’

  ‘Not parrots. They can live to over a hundred. Winston Churchill had one, and it died only last year. It was a hundred and five.’

  ‘I bet Churchill didn’t teach his parrot to say crap.’

  ‘I wouldn
’t be too sure.’

  Cooper went out into the hall to see what progress David Royce was making. All kinds of stuff had been pulled out of the cupboard: toys, boxes of shoes, a spare TV set, the ironing board.

  ‘I think it might be upstairs,’ Royce said.

  ‘Can I help you to look?’

  ‘Yes, take a wardrobe.’

  After another ten minutes, Royce decided they must have scattered the ashes in the garden and thrown the urn away.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  Cooper walked back into the sitting room. At least the parrot remembered its owner, even if it had survived him. In fact, if it was a young bird, it might outlast everyone now living in Derbyshire. Winston Churchill’s parrot had seen out not only its owner but nine other prime ministers, right up to Tony Blair. To a parrot, people must seem to come and go like flies in summer.

  As he passed the cage, the parrot stopped scratching and fixed Cooper with a sharp eye.

  ‘Crap,’ it said. ‘Where’s Jack?’

  In the next house, a row of unmatching straight-backed chairs stood in the bay window, as if set out for an audience at a performance. Then Cooper noticed that other incongruous furniture had been crammed into the room between the sofa and the armchairs – a wrought-iron seat from the conservatory, an office-style swivel chair, and a low, squishy object that his mother would have called a pouffe. A long table had been pushed against the far wall and was loaded with plates and dishes covered with cling film or draped in tea towels.

  ‘I hope I’m not intruding,’ he said. ‘Is it a bad moment?’

  ‘It’s my mum’s funeral today. But it’s OK, we’ve got everything ready early,’ said Susan Dakin.

  ‘People are coming back here after the funeral?’

  ‘Of course. We don’t know who’s going to turn up exactly. I don’t suppose there’ll be many.’

  It felt as though the Dakins were preparing for a party. At one time, a death would have meant a silent house and hushed voices. Not here, though. Susan Dakin seemed entirely content that her mother should be joining her father, wherever he’d gone.

  Later, Cooper visited a bungalow at Southwoods where two old women with tight perms sat eating Belgian chocolates shaped like sea horses. He called on a Hucklow couple who had lost their child in a road accident and had never spoken about it since scattering her ashes in the paddock where her pony still grazed.