‘So what happened to the coffee?’ she said when he reached her.
‘Sorry?’
She smiled. ‘You invited me round for coffee the night before last, and when I called you weren’t in. Or you didn’t answer the door anyway. Did I get the time wrong?’
‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’
‘You forgot.’
‘Well …’
‘I was hoping you got called away on urgent police business or something exciting.’
‘Well, it was something like that.’
‘You’re not very convincing, Ben.’
‘I’m really sorry.’
‘And now you’re blushing.’
‘Look, can we make it Monday instead? I’m off duty then. Or maybe we can have lunch?’
‘OK, that would be great.’
To Cooper’s relief, she seemed to put it out of her mind then, and turned to watch the dancers. They had begun a chant. The words seemed to be something about darkness and light, death and renewal.
Peggy had an expensive-looking digital camera with an LCD display on the back panel. Cooper watched her try to focus on the performance over the shoulders of the crowd.
‘Why digital?’ he said.
‘I’m going to e-mail some shots to my mom in Chicago,’ said Peggy. ‘She can’t wait to see what Edendale is like now.’
‘I see.’
‘Also, I have a personal website. I’m going to put up a report of my trip when I get back.’
Before Cooper could say more, an ominous drum roll preceded the next dance. The dancers lined up in two rows of four, shouldering their sticks and steadying their breathing. The drum stopped, and there was a tense pause. Then, from a passage between the shops, the rat ran out into the courtyard.
Cooper knew that when the Border Rats talked about their beast, they didn’t mean what everyone else might mean. ‘Beast’ could be used by a cattle farmer to refer to one of his animals. It was also prison slang for the despised sex offenders, particularly paedophiles. But when the Border Rats referred to their ‘beast’, they meant the man in the rat costume.
Lots of dance teams had a beast – it was traditional, like the Betty and Tommy in the mummers’ plays. Most beasts were a hobbyhorse, or something like that. But it might as well be a rat. So the rat was the beast. And Lucas Oxley was its operator, the man called the Beast Master.
The costume consisted of grey painted canvas stretched over a wire frame that concealed Lucas’s body. The large head was complete with eyes, ears and mouth, and there were even whiskers around a sharp-pointed nose. A long tail dragged on the floor behind Lucas. Cooper couldn’t see what it was made of, or how the right impression of scaliness had been achieved. The overall result ought to have been absurd, but it was more than countered by Lucas Oxley’s jerky, scurrying movements, the spasmodic clutching of his wiry fingers, and the scrape of the tail on the paving stones. The audience drew back and hung on to their children, as if they might be snatched away by the rat. Some of the adults looked distinctly nervous, too – especially when the dancers suddenly surrounded Lucas. That was when the screaming began.
The dance itself involved little springs in the air while clashing the stick on the ground, like monkeys in a display of aggression. The dancers moved around the circle, banging their sticks on the ground, narrowly missing the feet of the rat caught in the middle. They built up the rhythm steadily, and there was no mistaking the threatening message. They were hunters who had caught their prey and were building themselves up for the finishing stroke.
They rapped their sticks on the ground, crouching and splaying their arms to keep their balance. Beneath the pounding of their sticks was the sound of their boots scraping on the flags and the rustling of their rag coats. They struck so hard and so fast that it seemed certain they would splinter their sticks. But gradually they were moving forward, step by step, cracking their sticks and grinning from their black faces.
And in the middle of it all Lucas darted backwards and forwards in his rat costume, screaming the high-pitched scream that Cooper had heard him practising at the Quiet Shepherd. It was certainly realistic. Somewhere nearby in the crowds, Cooper could hear dogs starting to bark. A terrier of some kind was working itself into a frenzy.
Some of the Border Rats’ sticks were taking a hammering now. Fragments of bark were flying off, and splinters of the pale wood were flaking away. The dancers put so much energy into the dance that bits of their rag coats fell off, too, and occasionally a flower from their hats. When they’d finished, sweat was pouring from their temples and streaking their black make-up.
‘So what is it supposed to represent?’ said Peggy Check. ‘Do you know, Ben? I bet you do.’
‘Well, as it happens, I do.’
‘I knew I’d picked the right person.’
‘The tradition started in the nineteenth century,’ said Cooper, ‘when workmen were building some railway tunnels a few miles north of here. The site was infested with rats, and the dance represents the workmen killing the rats with sticks.’
‘Mmm.’ Peggy sounded doubtful.
‘They call themselves the Border Rats. Border is the old working men’s dance tradition, with the sticks and blacked-up faces, like mummers. And the rats bit is obvious.’
‘It looked like more than that to me,’ said Peggy. ‘I studied a bit of folklore as an undergraduate. And this looked like a classic resurrection ritual. They were always performed around this time of year. They represent the death of winter and the arrival of spring, the growth of new crops.’
‘But the rat –’
‘Someone is being symbolically killed. I think the rat is a symbol. Of course, the blacking of faces is just a disguise.’
‘Nathan Pidcock,’ said Cooper.
‘Excuse me?’
‘A killing. But not symbolic. A real one.’
Cooper looked across the courtyard to where Eric Oxley stood next to the musicians watching the dance. Eric had said there were foreigners in the pub the night that Neil Granger was killed. What foreigners? Did he mean lorry drivers? But they parked their lorries in the lay-bys on the A628, and they wouldn’t want to walk all the way down into Withens. Or were the foreigners walkers on Euroroute E8? Perhaps. But surely Eric Oxley wouldn’t be bothered by a few hikers passing through the village, even if they did have foreign accents? It was possible that by ‘foreigners’ he might mean people from the other side of the hill, in Yorkshire. Attitudes like that still survived in the more isolated valleys of the North of England. In Longdendale, Cooper himself was a foreigner.
A few minutes later, Cooper reached his car and began the battle to get out of Edendale through the tourist traffic and the diversions. He found he was passing the cricket ground, where the first match of the season was getting under way. Because of a stoppage ahead of him, he had to sit in his car watching the players moving slowly around the pitch.
From a distance, the cricketers in their white flannels bore a striking resemblance to the Cotswold morris dancers. Some of the players wore hats, and the batsmen were padded up and carried the bats over their shoulders. Many of the players even had beards and beer guts. As Cooper watched, they took their places in the field and began the first innings. After only a couple of deliveries, the entire field seemed to leap into the air and give a cry of ‘howzat!’ The bowler took out a hankie and mopped his brow. After six balls, they all changed places.
To an untrained eye, there weren’t all that many differences. The ritual was pretty much the same. Their square had been carefully prepared and marked out – what had the Reverend Alton called that sacred space? The temenos. Cooper had no doubt the cricketers would consider their square sacred, something to be worshipped and protected, preserved for their weekly ritual. And the first match on the sacred ground marked the end of the winter and the start of spring, the rebirth of their hopes for a successful season. Later on, perhaps, there would be a harvest of trophies and winners’ medals. Or maybe not, in E
dendale’s case.
Cooper glanced at the sky. It was starting to look like rain.
Lucas Oxley was still in his rat costume. But Diane Fry peered into the mouth and saw his face was bright red and glistening.
‘Mr Oxley?’ she said.
‘Who are you?’
‘Detective Sergeant Fry. Would you like to take the costume off, sir, so I can talk to you properly?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I can’t be seen out of character by the public. It ruins the illusion. I have to put it on and take it off in the van.’
‘Nobody’s looking. They’ve all gone off to watch something else.’
‘Besides, I’m not wearing any clothes under here. It gets too hot.’
‘Right.’
Fry glared at Gavin Murfin, who was beginning to snigger. He was standing near a coil of the rat’s tail, as if he might be about to stamp on it.
‘I need a beer anyway,’ said Lucas. ‘What the hell do you want?’
‘There was an incident yesterday at Hey Bridge, sir. We had some complaints of damage and intimidation.’
‘Oh, that. We were just practising. We call it a raid – we turn up somewhere we’re not expected. It’s traditional.’
‘Why did you take Mr Alton with you?’ said Fry.
‘The vicar? He wanted to come. He’s been desperate to get in with the Border Rats ever since he arrived. He comes and watches the rehearsals, and practises the moves and the words to himself in that church of his. He loves every minute of it.’
‘It seems strange for him to have taken part in this escapade with you just at that time.’
‘Eh? Oh, skeletons in the churchyard. Well, I suppose it helped take his mind off it.’
Fry could see moisture gathering in the lower folds of the rat costume and soaking through the canvas. It must be really hot in there.
‘Mr Oxley, when was the churchyard last cleared? Was it before Mr Alton came to the village?’
‘Yes, it would be.’
‘Was it cleared after the last incumbent left?’
‘The old chap? I don’t know. Can’t remember.’
‘Who used to do the work?’
‘There were a few folk chipped in. Look, I’m fed up of this. I’m going for that beer now.’
Lucas Oxley tried to walk away past Diane Fry, but found himself brought to a halt near her shoulder.
‘I’m afraid my colleague appears to be standing on your tail,’ said Fry.
‘Tell him to get off.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be gentle. He’s an animal lover.’
‘Some of us went up to the church to help sometimes. Me, Dad. Scott did a bit. Marion nagged us to do it, because she’s a churchwarden. Is that what you wanted to know?’
‘That’s very helpful, sir. But why did Mrs Oxley stop nagging?’
‘Things got hard. We had to go looking for work more. We didn’t have time.’
‘No time to clear some weeds from the churchyard?’
‘No.’
‘Are you telling me the truth?’
‘If your bloody ape doesn’t get off my tail, I’m going to make a complaint.’
‘By all means,’ said Fry. ‘The RSPCA is round the corner.’
Now the Border Rats were on a high. With their performance over, they were left almost delirious from the physical exertion, the noise and the sound of the music, the response of the crowd and the different level they seemed to be lifted to when people performed in harmony. It was what they had put so much time and effort into practising for, week after week. Their legs ached and their hands and wrists tingled from the repeated impact of their sticks. One of the Hey Bridge men had taken a blow on the shoulder from Scott’s stick, and he would have a terrific bruise in the morning. But he didn’t care.
It would take a while for them to come down again. And relaxing properly involved beer. Lucas seemed to be busy, so the dancers left the musicians to pack up their instruments and count the money, and they edged away towards the Wheatsheaf, each with the same thought in mind. Scott told them he knew a short cut, so they followed him.
They had to pass through a narrow alleyway between tall buildings. The moment they stepped out of the square and into the shadows of the alley, they began to feel cold. The sun never reached here, and the dampness from the river beneath them was rising through the setts. Their sweat began to dry uncomfortably on their skin. But they were still laughing and joking as they emerged at the top of a flight of stone steps that led down into the lane off Bargate, where the Wheatsheaf stood. The Rats had kept their sticks with them, ready for another set after the beer break. Unconsciously, they were still moving almost in step, with the rhythm of the drum still sounding in their ears. In a few minutes, they would be shouting at each other to be heard above the noise of the pub, and the rhythm would gradually subside in their minds.
But there was shouting already in the lane beneath them. Scott and Melvyn were in front, and they halted on the top step, with the others crowding behind them. They lowered their sticks from their shoulders.
In front of the pub, a group of youths had knocked a Cotswold morris dancer to the ground. He was on his knees, and his white shirt and trousers were covered in dirt, and his baldrick was torn and flapping loose. He put his hand to the side of his head, where a stream of blood was running into his beard. One of the youths put his boot to the dancer’s backside and pushed him over, making the bells on his legs jingle. The rest of the youths cheered, and gathered round the fallen morris man.
‘What’s going on here?’ said Melvyn.
At first, they thought it was an impromptu performance being staged by one of the Cotswold sides. It was strange that there was no music, and they didn’t recognize the dance. In fact, there seemed to be no pattern to it, and the dancers kept falling over a bit too often, even for hanky men. And how come the audience seemed to be joining in, and doing less falling over than the dancers?
‘Fight,’ said Scott, with a note of admiration in his voice. He never knew that hanky dancers were fighters.
‘They’re getting a pasting, aren’t they?’
And in fact, it was clear through the slight haze of alcohol that two white-outfitted Cotswold morris men were being given a kicking by a group of football supporters. No doubt the row had started with some sarcastic comment. But it didn’t usually descend to this level of violence.
Then one of the group looked up and nudged the youth next to him.
‘Hey, look,’ he said. ‘What the hell’s that?’
The youths turned towards the steps and looked at the Border Rats. They saw figures dressed all in black, with blackened faces and mirrored sunglasses, and heavy sticks in their hands.
‘Hey, mate, you need a wash!’ shouted one youth. ‘Have you been up a chimney?’
‘Well, there’s no need to give me a black look. Ha!’
Scott and Melvyn could hear the other Rats breathing excitedly behind them, and were conscious of their strength as a group. They looked at each other briefly, though they couldn’t see each other’s eyes because of the mirrored sunglasses. They took a firmer grip on their sticks and leaned forward, balancing their weight on their toes. Renewed energy flowed through their limbs. At a silent count of three, they leaped into the alley. Their screams reverberated off the stone walls as their sticks swung through the air. And then they attacked.
35
Alex Dearden was going to upset Gavin Murfin again. His silence was wasting tape. And not just one tape, but triplicate tapes, all turning slowly in the West Street interview room. With a solicitor sitting alongside him, Dearden was saying nothing.
‘Would you care to tell us why you needed to borrow the Audi car from the Renshaws?’ said Diane Fry. ‘You have a car of your own, don’t you? A Mercedes, I understand.’
‘My client accepts that he asked Mr and Mrs Renshaw for the loan of a vehicle when his own had mechanical problems,’ said the solic
itor. ‘He also agrees that he has a vehicle of his own, which is a Mercedes. Beyond that, he declines to answer any questions.’
‘The car in question is an Audi, which was seen in the Southwoods area, near Southwoods Grange. Would you tell us why you were near Southwoods Grange on the night you borrowed this car?’
Dearden was wearing black jeans again, but a different T-shirt. His goatee beard was neatly trimmed, and almost as dark as the T-shirt.
‘We’ve made enquiries at Eden Valley Software Solutions, Mr Dearden, and it seems you’ve bought yourself a partnership in the subsidiary company that will develop uses of the software you were telling us about the other day. That must have been the chance of a lifetime, from what you were saying. It could bring you a fortune. At such a young age, too.’
Alex Dearden smiled a little. His solicitor began to smile too, but resumed his professional seriousness when he found Gavin Murfin glowering at him.
‘You must have needed a large amount of money quickly, so as not to miss that opportunity. How much do you earn, Mr Dearden?’
The solicitor leaned over and whispered.
‘My client is prepared to produce his salary details. He’s quite well paid, and has very few commitments.’
‘Really? But stolen antiques are much more lucrative, I imagine. Large quantities shipped to the right buyers. But I can’t see you as a burglar, so what was your role? Are you the man with the right contacts?’
Dearden could have been quite good-looking. He had good bone structure, and he was well groomed. If he made an effort to be pleasant and courteous, it would be no surprise that Sarah Renshaw had a soft spot for him. Besides, he was a link to Emma.
‘DC Murfin here has been talking to some of your contacts,’ said Fry.
He frowned for the first time then. His hands, which had been quite still, moved a little on the table.
Murfin looked at his notebook. ‘You’ve been to the USA quite a bit in the last couple of years,’ he said. ‘I’ve never had the chance to go myself. But they tell me they’re very hospitable, the Americans. And very keen on British heritage, stuff like that. Not having much history themselves, like.’
Blind to the Bones Page 43