Dancing With the Virgins (6 page)

‘
They can think what the hell they like.
’

Cooper stayed silent, ignoring the aggressive glare.
He was well used to it from the yobbos of Edendale.
The only surprise was to see it in a middle-aged Dales
farmer. But it was best to let Owen Fox deal with it —
it was a chance for him to use his Ranger diplomacy.

‘
I suppose I might just have a word with Yvonne then, before I go,' said Owen.

‘
What for? She's got nothing to say to you.
’

‘
Just being polite.
’

Leach grunted, and the chain tightened in his thick
hands until the steel links squealed against each other.

‘
It'll mean I'll have to move the cows down to the next field,' he said.

‘
Well, that's no problem, is it?'

‘
No problem? The grass is nearly finished in there.
My milk yields'll be gone to hell. They're down already
with all this disturbance.'

‘
It'll only be for a day or two, Warren.'

‘
Would there be compensation, maybe? The police
have got money. My money, from the Council Tax.
’

‘
I can't imagine so. Think of it as a public service.' Owen looked at Cooper, but Cooper just smiled.
'Balls to that,' said Leach.

‘
Come on, Warren.
’

Leach tossed the coupling pin into his other hand,
slapping it against his palm. On a plastic drum, he had
a square leather-bound case with steel clasps. Cooper
wondered what it was. Somehow it didn't look like a piece of farming equipment, more the sort of thing a
doctor might carry his kit in for testing a patient's blood
pressure.

‘
Only for a day or two, and that's it,' said Leach. 'Tell
your police friends they'll have to get a move on. Let
'em work the same hours that I have to work to keep
this farm going, instead of knocking off for tea every five minutes. I've seen it going on. I'm not stupid.'

‘
Thank you, sir,' said Cooper politely. But the farmer
only glowered. 'When would be convenient for an offi
cer to come and talk to you?'

‘
What?'

‘
We need to take a statement from you. You're well
positioned here to be a witness.'

‘
A witness to what? I went through all this with that
other bloody woman that ended up on my land. I never
saw this one either.'

‘
Do you know who she was?'

‘
Of course not.'

‘
Then how do you know you didn't see her?' Cooper
smiled. 'Somebody will probably call tomorrow to see
you.
’

The two men began to walk back towards the Ranger's Land Rover.

‘
I'll be back to see you soon, Warren,' said Owen.
'Don't bother, Ranger. As soon as I see that red jacket
of yours, I'll be halfway to Bakewell.
’

*

They almost ran right into Yvonne Leach in the gateway
as they drove out of the yard. She was a small woman,
with wide hips and strands of light brown hair tied loosely back from her face. Owen stopped the Land Rover, and the woman shied away, as nervous as a
sheep, rolling her eyes at the vehicle. But she couldn't
slip past quickly enough
.

Owen wound down the window. 'Yvonne — all right?
’

‘
Yes.'

‘
We've just had a word with Warren. I wanted to tell
you not to worry about what happened up there. There
are plenty of police about here. You'll be OK.'

‘
I'm not worried,' said Yvonne, though to Cooper's eye she looked as scared as any woman he had ever seen
.

Warren Leach's angry bellow came from the yard. 'Hey, what do you think you're doing? Get in the house.' They looked round and saw him glaring at
Yvonne. She took the chance of sliding along the side
of the Land Rover and scuttling round the corner
.

Owen drove on up the track. They had to open two
gates to get any further, and the Ranger took it slowly
to avoid alarming the cows.

‘
Marriage,' he said, after a minute.

‘
What about it?' said Cooper.

‘
The most bizarre thing ever invented, in my opinion.
You must see what I mean, in your job. Couples tied
together for no apparent reason, making each other's lives a misery. Isn't marriage one of the major factors in crime? Domestics, you call them. Aren't ninety per
cent of murders committed by the spouse?'

‘
Something like that.'

‘
Well, I rest my case. Weddings ought to be banned,
along with other blood sports.'

‘
I thought the police were cynical, but I don't think
I've reached your stage, yet,' said Cooper
.

Then Owen looked at Cooper sideways and waggled
his eyebrows. 'I can see you're not married yourself.
You don't have that harassed look. You weren't think
ing about it, by any chance, were you?'

‘
Well . . .' Cooper considered the answer for a moment. 'I suppose it's kind of the way I see my life going, some day.'

‘
Mmm. Well, close your eyes or look the other way,
then.
’

*

The Ranger pulled the Land Rover on to a flat area of
bare earth under a stand of beech trees. They were about
two hundred feet further up towards the moor, looking
down on the farm buildings and the fields around them.
Beyond the farm was the village of Ringham Lees, its
lights just visible in the trees in the valley bottom; and further away in the darkness, almost hidden by a spur
of hill, were the spires of the two churches in the bigger
village of Cargreave.

‘
Tell your lot they can park here,' said Owen. 'The
Virgins are just over the rise. That way to the right leads
into Top Quarry. Just ask if you want anything else.
They say I'm the man who knows these parts.
’

Cooper found the cab of the Land Rover was comfort
able and warm, full of things that had a practical use,
yet without the slightest conscious attempt at imposing
the driver's personality.

‘
Do you live locally, Owen?' he asked.

‘
I've got a house over there in Cargreave.'

‘
I take it you're not married either?'

‘
Me? You must be joking. I may not be Einstein, but
I'm not that stupid.'

‘
A bad experience?'

‘
Other people's experiences are enough for me, mate.
I've watched them all go the same way. Those young
lads that you meet, full of enthusiasm and vitality, all their lives in front of them. And what happens? A wife
and a mortgage. Before you know it, they're coming
into work half-asleep because the new baby's kept them awake all night, and then they're moving house to make
room for all the family. In the end, they have to get a
new job that they hate, just so that they can pay for it
all. It's like getting a life sentence without having the pleasure of committing the crime, the poor sods. Not
for me. There's just me and the cats, since Mother died.'

‘
Was that recently?' asked Cooper. The loss of his
own father was recent enough to make him curious about someone else's experience of the death of a parent.

‘
It was a year ago. She was very old, of course. And
she never feared death, that was a consolation. I used
to take her to church until she couldn't get there any
more. But she could see the church tower from her
bedroom, and that seemed to be enough at the end.'

‘
And your father?'

‘
Oh, he's been gone a long time.'

‘
Don't you find that losing a parent makes the one that's left seem very precious?' said Cooper
.

Owen looked at him cautiously. 'Yes, you're right.
Actually, I think I might have worked with
your
father
a time or two.'

‘
Yes,' said Cooper. 'I'm sure you did.
’

After a moment's silence, Owen chuckled into his beard. 'No, I'm on my own. I'm a happy bachelor.
Young, free and single, that's me. Well . . . two out of
three's not bad. Nobody's really free.
’

Cooper nodded. But he wasn't thinking about Owen
Fox. He was thinking of Yvonne Leach and the two boys he had seen at Ringham Edge Farm. It was one
thing to live a life restricted by obligations, in the
way that Owen described. But it was another thing altogether when it was fear that ruled your life
.

And Cooper's instincts told him that what he had seen at the farm was exactly that. It might be superficially concealed from the outside world, but it was bubbling very close to the surface. The Leaches were people whose lives were ruled by fear
.

5

Since Diane Fry had arrived, the woman had kept her
face turned away towards the window. The light from
the desk lamp fell only on her left side, outlining her
profile, delineating a high cheekbone and a straight
nose. It highlighted the gold in a strand of hair tucked
behind her ear, and it threw unmerciful shadows on the fine lines etched into the skin of her neck
.

The apartment she lived in was austere, with minimal
modern furniture, scrupulously clean, and cold, harsh
lighting that created stark lines between light and shade.
It was as if the rooms had been designed so that some
one moving around in their cool spaces could know precisely where the shadows fell, where details were distinct and where they were not. Fry pictured the
woman rehearsing her positioning in these rooms like
an actress walking about a stage, seeking the best angle,
presenting her most favourable side to the audience.
On the other hand, perhaps she moved through the
shadows by instinct alone — the instinct of a wounded
animal. Because there was no mirror in this room to examine the effect in. No mirror, but a pale patch on
the wall where one had once hung
.

Maggie Crew sat behind a desk, as if conducting a
formal interview with a client. On the desk, there were
only a few items — a telephone, an ashtray, a paper knife. Along the side wall were a couple of shelves of
law books and journals and a stereo system, finished
in matt black, with neat racks of CD cases, their titles
too small for Fry to make out
.

Behind Maggie was a big sash window looking out over the roofs of Matlock. It had a view down the Derwent Valley to the point where it narrowed into a high gorge, with a hill above it that had been hacked and blasted into pieces by quarrying. Heavy green
drapes hung from a brass rail over the window, capable
of shutting out the natural light entirely during the day.
Apart from that, there was little ornamentation in the
room. The furnishings spoke to Fry of pretension with
out showiness, a subtle statement of the owner's dis
regard for the comfort of her surroundings. According
to the reports, Crew spent all her time in this apartment
now, shut away from the world. It wasn't difficult to understand why. She had been an attractive woman once.

‘
My name is Diane Fry, Maggie.
’

Maggie nodded. She wore a man's Calvin Klein cube-design watch, all minimalist straight lines. A pad of A4
ruled paper lay near her hand, with a silver ballpoint
pen. But she made no move to write down Fry's name.

‘
I've been asked to work with you for a while, Maggie.
If that's all right with you, of course.'

‘
You know I've already agreed to this. Although I don't know what good it will do.'

‘
I want to go through with you again anything you
can remember. Any little detail may help us.'
Where you might have expected Maggie Crew to
have let her hair grow long to cover the disfigurement,
it was cut short, trimmed clear of her forehead. The left
side of her face was smooth and white, her cheeks like
the skin of someone who had spent too long in the dark.
Her hands, too, were pale, the backs of them flat and shapeless. Fry wondered if Maggie was a woman who struggled against gaining weight. But she was not fat
now. Her cheekbones were visible in her face, her shoul
ders were prominent under the fabric of a black jacket.
Fry herself liked to wear black. But on Maggie it seemed
to be more than practicality or an attempt to make her
self look slimmer; more, even, than a fashion statement.
There was an emotion in the blackness, a dark outer
show to match her feelings, to fit the atmosphere of the
room. It was a sort of mourning.

‘
What happened to the last one?' said Maggie.

‘
We just thought a change of personnel might help.
A new approach . . .'

‘
A fresh face.' Maggie smiled. She had small, white teeth, but her upper lip drew back a fraction too far,
exposing a strip of pink gum and removing the humour
from her smile.

‘
So.' She stared at Fry, measuring her like a potential
employee, a candidate for a domestic's job. 'Diane Fry.
What is different about
you,
then?'

‘
There's nothing different about me. I'm just here to
talk to you.'

‘
Do you know how many people have said that?'

‘
It's all in your file,' said Fry. 'I know your history.
’

‘
Ah, yes. You've read my file. So you have the advan
tage of coming here knowing absolutely everything
about me. How helpful that must be. Perhaps you think
you know more about me than I do myself. Perhaps
you think you know how my mind is working, exactly
how you might manipulate my subconscious?'

‘
Nobody wants to manipulate you, Maggie.'

‘
Then what
do
you want? What is it you all want with
me? Don't you know by now that I can't give it to you?
Isn't
that
in my file?'

‘
If
we
keep trying —'

‘
You think you might be able to make me remember.
Then what? My memories might be able to help
you,
yes. But what will they do to me? What if I don't want
to remember? What if my subconscious has wiped out
the memories?'

‘
Do you think that's the case?'

‘
The doctors say there is no physiological reason for
the memory loss. There is no damage to my brain. They
tell me it's probably shock; they call it trauma. They say it's a safety device, which shuts down memories that the brain doesn't want. Wipes them out.
’

Fry watched her, trying to hide the scepticism in her
face. She heard the words, and recognized some of the
phrases from the medical reports. But she didn't believe
that you could wipe out memories completely, no matter how unpleasant. They left their traces everywhere,
in the overlooked corners of your mind, and in the
sensations of your body — the touch of your skin against
your clothes, the sudden devastating echo in a sound,
or the malignant resonance of a smell. Memories were
cancerous growths, secretive and spiteful; sometimes
you didn't know they were there until it was too late.
Diane Fry knew all about memories.

‘
This is just an introductory meeting,' she said. 'I'll
come back to talk to you again tomorrow, Maggie. If that's all right with you.'

‘
If you must.'

‘
It's very important now.
’

`Ah.' Maggie hesitated. 'Does that mean you have another victim?'

‘
Yes, Maggie. And it's vital we catch this man before
he kills again.
’

Maggie stared at Diane Fry out of her good eye, assessing her sharply, staring with the unblinking curiosity of someone who rarely saw a new visitor.

‘
Kills?'

‘
Yes, it's murder this time. This victim died.
’

Fry watched for a reaction. The trembling in Maggie's
hands and the draining of the colour from her face gave
Fry a small measure of satisfaction.

‘
We also want to put you on a witness protection programme. You know what that means?'

‘
Of course. Remember I'm a lawyer.'

‘
We'll ask you to consider finding somewhere else to
stay, if possible, Maggie, until we think it's safe. In the
meantime, a technician will call to install alarms in your
apartment. You'll be given a phone number you can call at any time.
’

Maggie took a moment to recover her composure. 'Is
all that necessary?'

‘
Maggie, we're looking for a killer now. And you're the only person who can identify him.'

‘
I won't go away. I'm staying here.'

‘
But the other precautions . . .' said Fry.

‘
All right. But there's one condition.'

‘
Yes?'

‘
If you're going to visit me, do not feel sorry for me.
I won't talk to anyone who shows even the slightest sign of feeling sorry for me. Do you understand?'

‘
Of course.
’

Diane Fry was glad when Maggie Crew turned away.
Since she had met Maggie at the door- of her apartment,
it had taken her several minutes to settle down, to recover from the initial shock. The sight of her had
made Fry's stomach muscles clench with vicarious pain
as she tried to control her expression. But this woman
must be used to such reactions by now
.

Maggie Crew's face would never be the same again.
The knife had sliced her apart. No plastic surgery
could ever completely hide the long, ragged scar that
mutilated her cheekbone, splitting her face into two
halves like a zip, its raised lips still red and angry, the
flesh stretched painfully tight. No surgeon would ever
entirely smooth out the ridges of shredded and bruised
skin that puckered the corner of her right eye, pulling
down her bottom lid to expose the pink veins, and twisting the whole side of her face into a leer
.

But there was more even than that. There was the psychological damage that had been done to Maggie Crew. Even to Diane Fry the damage was obvious,
though she had never met the woman before. Maggie
was a partner in a firm of solicitors in Matlock. She
was a successful professional woman, used to feeling
self-confident and sure of her own worth. But now she
had lost that confidence; her image of herself had been
ravaged, slashed to pieces by the knife that had torn
her face
.

Fry knew that the attack on Maggie had happened
six weeks ago. As far as they could ascertain, she had
been attacked somewhere near the Cat Stones, the line
of rocks below the Hammond Tower, not half a mile from where Jenny Weston's body had been found.
Maggie had been the lucky one. She had managed to
stagger halfway off the moor before she collapsed from
shock and loss of blood in the shelter of a wall, where
she had been found by a farmer's wife next morning.
The doctors said Maggie had been lucky, in that the
knife had narrowly missed removing an eye. Fry hoped
that nobody had tried telling Maggie herself that she
was lucky
.

Now Maggie was recovering at home. And that
meant she had been sitting here, in this sparse room,
hiding from the light.

‘
I suppose I should be frightened,' said Maggie.
'We're just taking precautions. No need to be frightened.'

‘
It would make a change — a change from finding people are frightened of me. They don't know how to
react, most of them. They don't know what to say. They
don't want to talk about my face. Do you want to talk
about it? About what my injury means to me.
’

Fry shrugged. 'Not particularly.'Maggie looked surprised. Disappointed?

‘
They say plastic surgery might help. But not yet. The
injury is too recent.'

‘
Yes, it takes time.'

‘
Oh, the body heals itself to a certain extent, in time.
The blood clots, the wounds close over, fresh skin grows. They can do wonders with surgery, they keep
telling me. But it's never quite the same, is it? You can't
rebuild the original tissue, and your body remembers
the injury. You're always marked in some way.
’

The file said that Maggie Crew had received the
appropriate counselling. She had gone through all the
consultations with a psychiatrist. She had been encour
aged to write down her feelings, to talk to Victim Sup
port. The police had treated her with kid gloves for a time. But at the end of the day, they weren't getting what they wanted. Maggie Crew knew far more than
she had told them. She had seen her assailant and sur
vived. He was the same man, they now suspected, who
had killed Jenny Weston. It was at this moment, more
than ever, that they needed the information locked in
Maggie's head
.