06.The Dead Place

by Stephen Booth

  Fifteen yards away, Fry turned from the fence and walked back across the grass. As always, she looked curiously out of place among trees. She instinctively hunched her shoulders to avoid them, as if their leaves might bite her. Cooper suspected that Fry and nature existed in two different worlds, with no points of contact.

  ‘Is there no security of any kind in this place?’ demanded Fry.

  The woman in the black suit was one of the managers of the green burial site. She raised her eyebrows at Fry. ‘Security? We don’t need security here.’

  ‘Oh, really? Perhaps you should think again. We’ll send someone out to advise you.’

  The woman scowled and went to Vivien Gill, who stood in the middle of a small group of relatives and friends.

  ‘It’s bizarre, isn’t it?’ said Fry when she got Cooper alone.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, after what happened to her daughter’s body, abandoned in the countryside like that? Why would Mrs Gill want to plant Audrey here? She might as well have left her where she was.’

  ‘It makes sense to me.’

  Cooper was starting to find the idea of a green burial appealing. Since all those things that happened to the body after death were inevitable, why not turn them into something positive? Here, a corpse would be giving back life.

  According to the manager of the site, they were getting a number of celebrity green burials around the country now. Dame Barbara Cartland had been buried in a cardboard coffin next to an oak tree in her own garden. It was a new alternative for farmers, too. All they needed was a bit of land that wasn’t used for anything else, and planning permission from the council.

  Cooper hoped Matt didn’t get to hear about that idea. He already had enough to say about diversification as it was. Golf courses, holiday cottages, fishing lakes – and now burial grounds.

  ‘Very unhealthy, isn’t it?’ said Fry.

  ‘Don’t you see?’ Cooper gestured around the burial site. In the middle, the weeping willow stirred its slender branches as it drooped protectively over the grave at its roots. ‘Audrey Steele’s tree isn’t just a memorial to her. In a way, it is her. It’s a continuation of her life in a different form. People buried here will never be dead. Not really.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.’

  They began to walk back towards their car, parked out of sight beyond the trees. Then Fry stopped at the sight of one of the black-suited figures.

  ‘Ben, is that one of Audrey Steele’s relatives?’

  Cooper followed her gaze. The suit didn’t really fit him at all. It was far too tight over his shoulders and belly. But it was certainly the man who’d let him into Vivien Gill’s house that morning.

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘I recognize him from crown court.’

  ‘I thought he looked familiar, too. You must have a better memory than me for names.’

  ‘Well, it was only on Wednesday,’ said Fry. ‘He was sitting in the visitors’ gallery with the defendant’s family at my murder trial. I’m pretty sure he’s Micky Ellis’s brother.’

  23

  When they got back to West Street, scenes of crime had inventoried the contents of the plastic box. In addition to the crayons, sunglasses, toy dog and Matchbox Land Rover, they’d found a Magic Tree air freshener, a Beatrix Potter book, a Digimon tiger, a Nike ski-pass holder, a London Zoo eraser, a glow-in-the-dark skeleton key-ring, three tungsten dart shafts, a magnifying glass, and a miniature screwdriver set.

  ‘Oh, and a purple plastic grasshopper, with a metal tag attached to it,’ said Liz Petty. ‘Here it is. I thought you might like to see this item, in particular.’

  Cooper picked up the transparent evidence bag. He held it up to the light and turned it slowly. He could see that the tag pointed out by Petty carried a six-figure code number on one side, and identified itself, or the plastic grasshopper it was attached to, as ‘The Travel Bug’.

  ‘What does it say on the other side?’ said Fry.

  Cooper spun the bag. ‘It says: “I go from place to place, picking up stories along the way.”’

  Fry shook her head in frustration. ‘What about the notebook that was in the box with all this stuff?’

  ‘It’s just an ordinary spiral notebook,’ said Petty. ‘You can buy this kind of thing anywhere. As far as we can tell, it seems to be some kind of log book. The first page is headed “Petrus Two”, and various individuals have made entries at different dates.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as “Itinerant Maggie”. She says: “Great location – another spot I’d never have visited, if it weren’t for the cache – many thanks.”’

  ‘It means nothing to me.’

  ‘Nor me.’

  ‘Sounds like some kind of treasure hunt, doesn’t it?’ said Cooper.

  ‘Does it?’ asked Fry. ‘A treasure hunt?’ She looked at the bagged items taken from the box. ‘That is not treasure, Ben. Not by anybody’s standards. It looks like the debris from the back of somebody’s kitchen drawer.’

  ‘I meant treasure in the loosest sense, Diane. The fun of a treasure hunt isn’t the value of what you might find, but the excitement of the hunt. It’s a quest. People are always figuring out ways to take part in quests.’

  ‘Really?’ said Fry.

  ‘If it helps,’ said Petty, ‘there’s a website address on the Travel Bug tag.’

  ‘So there is – www.groundspeak.com. Anyone heard of it?’

  There were shrugs all round the table. Fry looked across at Cooper.

  ‘Ben, you’re getting to be a bit of a whizz on the internet, aren’t you? See if you can find out what this is all about.’ She picked up the skeleton key-ring and spun it thoughtfully in its bag. ‘We need to know who’s been messing around up at that rock, when they were there, and why. If the people involved have no connection with our enquiry, then we need to eliminate them.’

  ‘OK.’

  Fry put the key-ring back on top of the Beatrix Potter book, covering a quaint illustration of a fox wearing a coat and scarf. ‘Anyway, we’ve got some more news this afternoon. The forensic anthropologist had a toxicological analysis conducted on a sample from the first set of bones.’

  Cooper looked at her. ‘Bones?’ he said. ‘You mean Audrey Steele’s remains?’

  ‘Yes, Ben. The old bones the walkers found.’

  Normally, Cooper wouldn’t have reacted to something so minor. He’d heard far worse from Fry. In fact, he put up with rudeness and insensitivity from her all the time, because he genuinely believed she had other qualities. But something in the way she spoke so casually about the remains of a human being triggered a response, tipped him over his tolerance threshold. Perhaps it was the personal involvement Cooper felt with Audrey Steele, ever since he’d seen her reconstructed face in the lab at Sheffield. Or maybe it was because he was about to start all over again with another unidentified victim whose remains were even now being recovered from a hillside in Ravensdale. But for once, he couldn’t take it.

  ‘For God’s sake, Diane, she was a person with a name, you know. A human being. Not some heap of old bones thrown out for the dog.’

  Fry looked up in astonishment. ‘What?’

  ‘Audrey Steele. That’s what she was called, remember? She deserves to be talked about with a bit more respect.’

  ‘Oh, you think so, do you?’

  Cooper was fighting the quickening of his breath, the tendency for his hands to shake when he got angry.

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Well, thank you, DC Cooper. I’m sure we’ll bear that in mind.’

  Fry had gone faintly red around the ears at being spoken to like that in front of the SOCOs, and Cooper knew he’d suffer for it later.

  ‘Anyway, be that as it may,’ she said, ‘someone at the lab pulled their fingers out and got us the report through, even though it’s Saturday. They found traces of glycerine, phenol and formaldehyde.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ s
aid Cooper, trying to steady his breathing and appear calm. ‘Audrey Steele had been working with chemicals? Or would they have been used in her hospital treatment before she died?’

  ‘Neither. Apparently, those are the common constituents of embalming fluid, the sort used in the preparation room of a funeral parlour. Such as the one at Hudson and Slack.’

  ‘Who does the embalming there?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Cooper got up and walked over to his PC, where he called up Melvyn Hudson’s details.

  ‘OK, Mr Hudson is accredited with the British Institute of Embalmers,’ he said.

  ‘So probably Hudson takes care of the embalming, when required,’ said Fry.

  ‘And the breakin they had – the stuff that was stolen … Chromotech? That was embalming fluid.’

  ‘The theft was too late to have any connection with Audrey Steele, Ben.’

  ‘It means they probably have routine access to that kind of material at Hudson and Slack, though.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And what about the second set of remains from Litton Foot?’ said Cooper. ‘Any more news there?’

  ‘I rang earlier this afternoon. The van was just arriving at the lab in Sheffield.’

  ‘So when can we expect some results? Tomorrow, perhaps?’

  Fry sighed. ‘I had a long conversation with the anthropologist. But we’re dealing with the academic world now – and tomorrow is Sunday.’

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘We’ll just have to try not to be impatient. Still, there are plenty of other things to do.’

  ‘Such as looking a bit more closely at Melvyn Hudson?’

  ‘I don’t think much of Mr Hudson,’ admitted Fry. ‘Apart from anything else, he treats Vernon Slack like shit. You’d never think he was the grandson of one of the owners.’

  ‘He treats Vernon like what?’

  ‘Shit. You know what shit is, Ben.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cooper thoughtfully. ‘You mean cack.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about now?’

  ‘Just a call I forgot to make. It was something Tom Jarvis said to me when I was up there last.’

  ‘The man with the dog that got shot? What’s the latest on that business?’

  ‘No further developments,’ said Cooper guiltily. Of course, he’d had no time to do anything about finding the person who shot Graceless, but that didn’t stop him feeling guilty.

  ‘“No further developments” is what we tell members of the public,’ said Fry. ‘It doesn’t work on me. Ben, I’d have thought you’d be more interested in it, being an animal lover and all that.’

  ‘It got put on the back burner a bit,’ admitted Cooper.

  ‘Well, take it off and stir it occasionally, will you? It creates a better impression. By the way, did you manage to make an appointment with what’s her name?’

  Cooper looked at his watch. ‘I’m setting off now.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘By the way,’ said Cooper. ‘Professor Robertson – he’s a widower.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Don’t get excited – there were no suspicious circumstances. His wife died of cancer.’

  As soon as Fry had gone, Cooper made the call he’d forgotten.

  ‘We’d be wasting our time,’ said the forensic scientist, when he’d stopped laughing. ‘All right, it might not have been exposed to the sun, but one thing you’ll definitely get inside a compost heap is bacterial activity. Any DNA present in cells from the gut lining will be degrading away in there and disappearing like – well, like shit off a shovel.’

  In the background, his colleagues began laughing again.

  ‘It was just an idea,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Tell you what, DC Cooper, let us know when your suspect has produced some fresh evidence.’

  With deliberate tenderness, Madeleine Chadwick reached out a hand to the rose and cupped it in her palm. Its petals were still damp from the dew, and it glittered against her fingers, blood red on her white skin.

  ‘Fair Flora,’ she said. ‘Yes, it’s what my grandfather used to call me as a child. Flora is my middle name, you see. It’s an old family name, but I’ve never liked it very much, so I don’t use it. Besides, nobody understands the classical reference these days. It’s the name of some kind of margarine, isn’t it? I’m sure my parents didn’t know that when they christened me.’

  Mrs Chadwick was tall and straight-backed, dressed in old jeans and a baggy sweater that would have made anyone else look shabby. But she carried herself so well that on her it hardly mattered. Cooper guessed she might be in her early forties, though it was difficult to judge. She had good bone structure, and skin that had been expensively cared for.

  ‘Your grandfather was Sir Arnold Saxton, is that right?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. And my father was James Saxton. He died recently, which is why the estate is being sold.’

  ‘So your father didn’t inherit the title as well as the estate? Wasn’t he the eldest son?’

  ‘He didn’t inherit the title because my grandfather was a knight, not a baronet. There’s a difference.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Cooper tried not to look embarrassed, and Mrs Chadwick turned away, as if to help him. He imagined she’d wear a hat to protect her skin if it was sunny. Something with a broad brim that shaded her eyes. But today had been merely bright and overcast, no danger from the ultra violet.

  ‘You must have been very sorry to leave Alder Hall,’ he said.

  ‘Devastated. When you’ve grown up in a house like that, it’s very hard to leave. Fortunately, this cottage is mine. The old barn has been converted into two holiday homes, so the property brings in some income.’

  Cooper looked at the house she referred to as a cottage. The views were what an estate agent would describe as ‘panoramic’. The gardens alone were extensive, and there were also several acres of paddock around a modern stable block.

  ‘You have horses?’

  ‘Yes, but they’re not kept here at the moment. They’re in livery.’

  ‘The house must be listed, I suppose?’

  ‘Grade Two, I believe.’

  Through a window he glimpsed oak beams and a spiral stone staircase, fringed lampshades and a carved horse mounted on a rosewood base. Pathways meandered through lawns and flower borders, stopping now and then at seats. An in-and-out driveway led to two double garages. One of the garage doors was open, and Cooper could see an internal WC. Who had a toilet in their garage?

  There had been a gold-coloured Mercedes standing on the drive near the house. And in the depths of the garage, he thought he could also see a small blue Peugeot. He wondered if the engine was still warm, but could think of no excuse for checking.

  ‘I visited Alder Hall earlier today,’ said Cooper. ‘You’re familiar with the statue, I take it?’

  ‘I used to visit her regularly when I lived at the hall. When I was very small, my grandfather took me to look at her. I recall that I was bit scared of her at first. Grandfather told me I’d be a beautiful lady just like her when I grew up. But I didn’t want to be a statue and stand alone in the woods all day. I thought she looked rather unhappy. But I got to know her better over the years.’

  ‘Have you been back since your family left the hall?’

  ‘To see Fair Flora? No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Not at all?’

  She turned cool grey eyes on him in silent reproach. ‘I just said so. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Chadwick. But somebody has been leaving flowers at the statue. I wondered if it might have been you.’

  ‘Why on earth would I do that?’

  But Cooper didn’t answer. He was looking around her garden. It was too big to see everything from one spot. There were more flower beds beyond the trees and alongside the lawns.

  ‘Do you grow chrysanthemums?’ he asked.

  Mrs Chadwick gave a faint smile. ‘White ones, perhaps?’

  ‘Yes.
How did you know I was going to ask that?’

  ‘Come this way.’

  She began to walk towards the lawn. For a moment, Cooper paused to admire the way she managed to move so elegantly despite wearing sensible flat shoes and jeans worn and baggy at the knees. Then he followed her down a short flight of stone steps into an arbour, where white and yellow chrysanthemums grew in profusion.

  ‘Mrs Chadwick, how did you know it was white chrysanthemums I was interested in?’ said Cooper.

  Madeleine Chadwick laid a finger alongside the tight, curved petals of a chrysanthemum head, not quite touching it as she had the rose. The colour of the flower almost matched her fingers. But the petals were stiff and brittle, like clusters of fragile bones.

  ‘White is for death,’ she said. ‘I do know that. White chrysanthemums are the flowers you order for a funeral.’

  She smiled at him again, expectantly this time. Cooper sensed a hot prickling on the back of his neck. The sun was warm in this sheltered arbour, and he wasn’t dressed for the heat. Besides, he was starting to feel at a disadvantage, and he wasn’t sure why. He was used to dealing with people from all backgrounds, but Madeleine Chadwick’s air of secret knowledge unsettled him. Her superiority seemed effortless. It was nothing like the smugness of Freddy Robertson, who worked so hard at trying to be superior.

  ‘I don’t think I ever explained what enquiry I’m working on,’ said Cooper.

  ‘I don’t believe you did.’

  ‘Then how …?’

  But he began to flounder, unsure what question he could ask her. Luckily, she took pity on him, and turned to mount the steps again, back into the cooling breeze.

  ‘John Casey phoned me,’ she said. ‘He keeps me up to date with anything relating to the hall. So I know about your visit there.’

  ‘Ah. I see.’

  It was a relief to have the mystery explained. He should have guessed that Casey would have talked to her. But Mrs Chadwick had manipulated him so expertly that he hadn’t thought of the obvious.

  ‘But I can assure you that whoever left white chrysanthemums for Fair Flora, it wasn’t me,’ she said. ‘That’s what you came to ask, isn’t it?’