06.The Dead Place

by Stephen Booth

  ‘Sell out to one of the American groups?’

  ‘He’d already been approached, I reckon. No doubt there would have been a nice back-hander in it for him, if a deal had gone through.’

  ‘But I suppose his partner wouldn’t agree.’

  ‘Not likely. Hudson cared about the firm, like his father did. And the way old Abraham Slack did, for that matter. Melvyn said he wouldn’t see Hudson and Slack end up that way.’

  ‘Was this general knowledge among the staff?’

  ‘Oh, aye. You can’t keep things like that quiet in a small company. It’s why some of us bailed out, while the going was good, like.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Hudson kept saying that his father and old man Slack had built the firm up from nothing, and he wasn’t going to throw it away. It was a family business, and it ought to go on for generations. But Richard Slack thought the firm was dying on its feet. Rotting on the branch, he called it. We all knew what he meant by that.’

  ‘And what did he mean?’

  ‘Well, how could the business go on for generations? Hudson had lost his own son, and all Slack had left was Vernon. Of course everyone understood what he meant by rotting on the branch. The fruit had died.’

  ‘I don’t suppose Mr Hudson took that very well.’

  ‘No. Losing David had hit him very hard. But he knew what Slack said was true, all the same. They had a blazing row after that.’

  ‘Did they get on well normally?’

  ‘Not so as you’d notice.’

  Jarvis’s dogs emerged from the rain and pattered up the steps on to the porch. They shook themselves vigorously, one after another, showering drops of water on the boards. Cooper was just congratulating himself on standing far enough away to avoid being drenched, when two of the dogs brushed themselves against his legs and lay on his feet.

  ‘They’ve taken a shine to you, for some reason,’ said Jarvis.

  Cooper nodded. He could feel the water from the dogs’ coats soaking into his trousers, as if drawn in by a sponge.

  ‘I gather you didn’t like Richard Slack any more than Mr Hudson did?’ he said.

  ‘I never could get on with him. Hard-nosed bugger, he was. Ruthless.’

  For a moment, Cooper was confused. He wondered why Jarvis was suddenly talking to one of his dogs. Perhaps there had been five of them, after all. Graceless, Feckless, Aimless, Pointless and Ruthless. But no. He meant Richard Slack.

  ‘The old man always had a bit of a ruthless streak, too, by all accounts,’ said Jarvis.

  ‘Abraham?’

  ‘Aye. Richard was a chip off the old block, so to speak. Cared for nothing but money. He thought he could pay his staff peanuts, but it wouldn’t wash with me. I was a craftsman.’

  ‘Mr Jarvis, you said that Richard Slack was the business brains of the firm. But did he do his share of the funeral work?’

  ‘Oh, if he had to.’

  ‘He was on a removal job when he died, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. I left Hudson and Slack not long after that.’

  ‘Did you ever hear a rumour that he wasn’t alone in the van when it crashed?’

  ‘There was some woman turned up with a tale like that. But it came to nothing.’

  ‘Would it have been normal for him to collect a body on his own?’

  Jarvis shrugged. ‘That wasn’t a side of the job I got involved in much. But I don’t suppose it was out of the question if it was an easy removal. They have a trolley they can use. And he might have been expecting someone to be there to give him a hand. Police, or something.’

  Cooper watched the dogs at his feet. They were gradually drifting to sleep as the rain dried on their coats.

  ‘Actually, that’s a bit odd, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, why did you decide to leave Hudson and Slack just when the man you disliked so much had gone?’

  Jarvis shrugged again. ‘Like I said, the business was already going down the nick then. I’m only amazed it’s lasted so long. Slack wasn’t much good as a man, but at least he had a head for finance. He was always looking for ways of making money.’

  ‘Unorthodox ways, perhaps?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that. But I reckon by the end of his time, Richard Slack was ready to do anything to line his own pocket. Anything.’

  Cooper forgot the dogs and looked at Tom Jarvis more closely. Such a blatant attempt to cast suspicion on Richard Slack seemed uncharacteristic of the man. He looked uneasy, too, as if he was troubled by what he was saying. He kept shuffling his feet and moving a bit across the boards.

  Then Cooper felt a trickle of water on the back of his neck, and realized that he was gradually being eased towards the steps of the porch. He was already standing under the edge of the roof, and the dogs were starting to stretch and get to their feet, as if expecting to see him off the premises.

  ‘So …’ began Jarvis, adjusting his cap.

  Cooper looked at the house. The windows were empty, and dark under the shadow of the porch. With a horrible jolt, he was struck by a possible identity for the body that had replaced Audrey Steele’s on the way to the crematorium.

  ‘Is Mrs Jarvis home? I haven’t had a chance to speak to her yet. If she’s home right now, it would save me coming back again.’

  Jarvis regarded him silently, frowning with concentration, as if trying to push Cooper towards the path with the force of his gaze. Instead, Cooper held his stare for a moment, then took half a step towards him. The dogs sighed in exasperation and flopped back on to the boards.

  ‘Of course she’s bloody in,’ said Jarvis.

  ‘Well, could I perhaps …?’

  Jarvis grunted and turned on his heel towards the door of the house. Cooper took it as an invitation to follow. One of the dogs fell in close behind him, sniffing curiously at his heels as if it had found an interesting scent.

  *

  An extended search found Geoff Birley sitting in his Audi in a layby two miles away, on the edge of Edendale. He looked almost relieved when a patrol car drew up and two officers checked his identity before putting him into the back seat.

  When she heard the news, Diane Fry was still in the Birleys’ house, watching Sandra’s body being prepared for removal. She wondered whether to tell Mr Birley that he’d chosen the Devonshire Estate third option. He’d left his wife exactly where she fell when she died.

  At West Street, Fry stood at her desk in the CID room for a few minutes, trying to gather her thoughts. Anxious as she was to question Geoff Birley about the phone calls, it would take some time for him to be processed and ready for interview. They’d probably wait until all the evidence had been collected from the house and statements taken from the neighbours. If he could be placed in the right areas at the times when the calls were made, it might provide evidence of premeditation. The case would be as airtight as possible before they made a move.

  There were plenty of other things demanding her attention in the meantime. As always, it was a question of priorities.

  Freshest in Fry’s mind was the arson attack on Hudson and Slack. A night-shift worker at one of the industrial units had been loading a truck when the fire had started, and he reported seeing three figures running westwards along the cutting. That was lucky, because most people would have looked at the flames and seen nothing else, especially at night. Everyone loved the sight of a good fire. Uniformed officers were following up the lead, and trying to obtain sightings of a vehicle parked in the streets to the west. That would take time, too.

  According to a message he’d left for her, Ben Cooper had met a brick wall with Audrey Steele’s mother on the arson. But her cousin Ellen Walker had been more co-operative. A phone call to her had elicited details of Audrey’s funeral eighteen months ago. The service had been held at St Mark’s in Edendale, but the hearse had taken the coffin on to the crematorium afterwards. Mrs Walker had even remembered who the drivers were – Vernon Slack and Billy McGowa
n. Full marks to Cooper, then. That was exactly what he’d thought might have happened.

  An earlier message told her that Cooper had already spoken to McGowan, but not to Vernon Slack, who’d called in sick. Fry frowned at that. Cooper recommended bringing McGowan in for formal interview. She scrawled a big tick and ‘OK’ on the note, and looked around the office.

  ‘Gavin,’ she said, ‘set this up, will you?’

  Then there was Professor Freddy Robertson. He’d been responsible for carrying out an inventory of the bones in the crypt at Alder Hall. That probably meant nothing, but Fry still had a bad feeling about him. A gut instinct, perhaps, and no more. She shouldn’t let it influence her judgement.

  ‘By the way,’ said Murfin, ‘there’s a lady here who says she wants to talk to someone. A Mrs Somerville.’

  ‘Never heard of her. What does she want? Can’t you deal with her, Gavin?’

  ‘Well, I thought you might be interested in talking to her yourself, like. She says she’s Professor Robertson’s daughter.’

  Anne Jarvis lay on a sofa in the sitting room. Only her head and arms protruded from the quilt that had been used to cover her, and one hand hung limply towards the floor. The room was very warm, and somewhere a fly buzzed against a window pane.

  Cooper halted in the doorway of the room, taking in his surroundings. Almost the first thing he noticed was the quilt’s pink floral pattern. It was the worst possible thing for showing up the dog hairs. The atmosphere was stuffy, and the smell reminded him of his visits to the hospital. Where Mrs Jarvis’s skin showed, it was white and almost translucent, the light from a standard lamp above the sofa shining through to the veins, as if her body was held together by tissue paper.

  With an effort, she turned her head on a pillow and looked at him. ‘This is nice,’ she said. ‘Another visitor. I am honoured.’

  ‘I’m sorry to intrude,’ said Cooper. ‘I didn’t realize …’

  ‘That it was a sick room? Yes, I’m afraid so.’ Her voice was frail, but still lively. She moved her right hand, but didn’t quite complete the intended gesture. ‘Don’t be shy, whoever you are – sit down and have a cup of tea.’

  ‘I really can’t stop, Mrs Jarvis. I just came in to say hello.’

  ‘This is the policeman I told you about, Annie,’ said Jarvis, bending over her to lift her trailing hand back on to the quilt. ‘The detective.’

  ‘Oh, does he have a name?’

  ‘I’m DC Cooper, Mrs Jarvis.’

  ‘Cooper? I think I knew another policeman by that name once, but I forget what he did. I forget a lot of things.’

  Cooper fidgeted uncertainly. He had no idea what was wrong with Mrs Jarvis, and there was no way he could come straight out and ask. It just wasn’t done to be so direct. The dog that had followed him into the room sidled towards the sofa and settled itself into position against the edge of the quilt. Feckless, Pointless or Aimless, he couldn’t tell. But the animal remained quite still as Mrs Jarvis’s hand slipped slowly down and came to rest on top of its broad head.

  ‘It’s wet outside again,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, it is, Annie,’ said Jarvis.

  ‘I’m lucky, then, to get these visitors coming out in the rain to see me.’

  Cooper looked round the room. And only then did he see the other man, who was sitting very still in an armchair, partly hidden by the open door. He was about the same age as Tom Jarvis, but smaller and more worried looking, with a green cardigan bunched around his middle and a tweed hat clutched in his lap. He gave Cooper a small, apologetic smile, but said nothing.

  ‘This is my brother Maurice,’ said Mrs Jarvis, without turning her head fully.

  The effort seemed to exhaust her energy, and she closed her eyes. Her husband hovered uncertainly, and the dog looked anxious. Cooper bit his lip. Every moment he stayed here, he was being reminded more and more of his mother and her hospital bed.

  The brother stood up and touched his arm. ‘Time for us to go, I think. Annie’s tired.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Cooper felt himself coming properly alert again as they stepped out of the overheated sick room. He looked at Mrs Jarvis’s brother. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your last name, sir. Mr …?’

  The man nodded. ‘Goodwin,’ he said, holding out a hand. ‘Maurice Goodwin. Pleased to meet you, I suppose.’

  Lucy Somerville had the air of someone who had never been inside a police station before and was afraid of being contaminated if she touched anything. She sat with her knees tight together and her coat pulled close around her chest, shaking her head when she was offered tea or coffee.

  ‘The thing is, I’ve been worried about Dad for a while,’ she said. ‘He and Mum were very dependent on each other. When Mum was gone, he didn’t seem grounded any more. His interests started getting more bizarre. Just bit by bit – I don’t suppose it was ever any big decision on his part.’

  Fry estimated Mrs Somerville’s age at about forty-five. She looked comfortable and affluent – the coat was good-quality wool, the scarf silk, though that was all that could be seen of her clothes.

  ‘What sort of things do you mean, Mrs Somerville?’

  ‘Well, until then his research had been factual. It was a specialized branch of anthropology, nothing more than that. Dad studied cultural attitudes to death, the traditions and rituals of burial, and so on. A bit morbid, I suppose, but at least it was an academic interest. Once Mum died, he started drifting into areas that were more … esoteric. The internet made it easier. He found all kinds of things that I would never have suspected existed.’

  Fry nodded. She could believe anything of the internet. All the most illegal and unpleasant things in life seemed to thrive there. ‘Anything specific that you can remember?’

  ‘Oh, I once saw a reference on his computer to something called “Corpse of the Week”.’

  ‘What on earth is that?’

  Mrs Somerville shuddered a little at the memory. ‘I didn’t look. The name of it was enough to trouble me.’

  ‘Do you think it was a website?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Fry made a note of the name. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Well, Dad once talked to me about a kind of religion called Santeria. He said its practitioners gave themselves power by digging up a body to remove the head, and the fingers and toes. I think there were other bones, too. I forget which. Another time he talked about necromancy. I thought that was just a way of predicting the future or something, like reading tea leaves. But Dad said it was a means of communicating with the dead. There was a ritual to perform. But it had to be within a year of the person’s death, because that was how long the spirit hung around the body.’

  ‘Did he go into any more detail than that?’

  ‘No.’ Mrs Somerville hunched her shoulders and folded her arms across her body, as if she suddenly felt cold. ‘I gave him a piece of my mind then, told him to pull himself together. I said he was getting obsessed and should ask for professional help. He shut up, and didn’t mention it again.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he ever did seek help?’

  ‘I doubt it. He just shut himself up in his house, with his library and his computer.’

  ‘Mrs Somerville, do you have any reason to believe that your father took his interests further than theoretical research?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Do you think he ever tried to put some of those rituals into practice?’

  She swallowed, but shook her head vigorously. ‘No, no, he would never have gone that far. Dad isn’t a practical man, you see. The details would be quite beyond him.’

  ‘But if he used the internet a lot, he might have made contact with people who were more practical – individuals keen to exploit his interests. Did he ever mention anybody like that?’

  ‘No, he didn’t talk about anybody else. Do you mean, people who might … supply him?’

  ‘There are individuals who’ll provide any service, for
the right money,’ said Fry. ‘I presume Professor Robertson is reasonably well off?’

  ‘Yes, he has plenty of money put away.’

  ‘Are you sure he never referred to anybody else? If you remember anything, even the smallest hint, please tell me.’

  ‘No. I don’t think he had direct contact with many people, after the courses finished.’

  Fry had been about to get up and leave, but she stopped. ‘Courses?’

  ‘He had a little group of students at one time who came to him to learn about Thanatology. I think they were a sort of off-shoot from his university work. But they stopped coming when Mum was very ill. Dad didn’t want anybody in the house then.’

  ‘They used to come to the house?’

  ‘Yes, he gave private tuition. I don’t think there were more than half a dozen of them.’

  ‘Do you know any names?’

  ‘No, I never met any of them. But, please – I haven’t explained yet why I wanted to come in and see you tonight. You see, I spoke to Dad earlier today, and he sounded odd, not himself at all. I thought he was ill, but he told me to stop worrying. I didn’t believe him, so I arranged to go and visit him this evening in Totley. I wanted to see him for myself and assess his – well, his condition.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  Lucy Somerville sighed, and her head drooped. Fry saw now what had brought her into the station. She was feeling guilty. ‘I didn’t go, in the end. I had to do some shopping this afternoon, and when I got home there was a message from Dad on my answering machine. He said I was not to bother coming to see him, because he’d be out.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going?’ asked Fry.

  ‘Yes. That’s what worried me most of all. It was such an odd thing to say.’

  ‘What, Mrs Somerville?’

  ‘He said he was going to find “the dead place”.’

  *

  Cooper had to drive back through Litton to reach the road in Tideswell Dale. A sculpture trail had been created in the woods here. Thinking about it, he realized it must be barely more than a mile across the hill from Ravensdale, with only a farm and the grounds of Alder Hall lying between the dales.