‘Those will be long-distance drivers,’ said Elder. ‘Blokes doing a haul up to Scotland or somewhere. They’re miles away from home, you see. They have to stop where they can. Most of them are from the Continent these days – Germans and French and Italians. I saw one the other day from a place called Azerbaijan. I don’t even know where that is. I couldn’t find it on the map. A damn great Mercedes he was driving, too. Just think of it. Miles away from home. Miles and miles and miles.’
‘Not all of them are from the Continent, Mr Elder,’ said Fry. ‘Some of them aren’t far away from home at all.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘See this make and registration?’ said Fry, showing the note. ‘This DAF was recorded by one of our patrols as being parked at Godfrey’s Rough. It’s a local registration, Mr Elder. This lorry doesn’t belong to any Frenchman or Azerbaijani. It belongs to you.’
Fry paused the interview tapes again. Jack Elder was developing the classic breathless, bewildered look of the guilty person suddenly finding himself smothered under the weight of evidence that he’d either overlooked or had never imagined could exist.
‘We’ll take a break, shall we, Mr Elder? You can settle into your cell while we wait for the duty solicitor to arrive. It will probably be tomorrow when we can talk again. I hope you didn’t have plans for Christmas.’
Tom Farnham was only thirty-eight years old. He jogged a couple of miles through the woods whenever he had time, and he visited the gym about once a month. He was as fit as he wanted to be, for his age. Though he was struggling financially right now, he had lots of plans for future enterprises, when the time was right. Tom Farnham liked money.
When Farnham went out to his workshop that night, the wind had risen. He could hear a continuous rustling in the woods, as if the trees were whispering to each other, whispering secrets that ought to be kept quiet. It was still raining, and the trees were sodden. In these woods, the sound of dripping water could be mistaken for footsteps after a while.
As usual, he’d left the door of the garage open to disperse the petrol fumes. The lawnmower was pretty much finished, and he just wanted to see how the newly sprayed paint was drying. Those detectives had interrupted him, and he wasn’t sure whether he’d made as good a job of it as he’d have liked.
In a way, it was a relief to have rid of that skull from his property. He’d never liked the thing, and anything that couldn’t make him money was a waste of space, in the end. All the stuff about it bringing luck and protecting you was nonsense, of course. Ridiculous superstition that only the likes of Derek Sutton believed in.
While he was bending over the lawnmower, Farnham sensed that the quality of the light had changed, and realized that his security light had come on outside. That wasn’t unusual. Wild animals strayed out of the woods sometimes and got into his garden. Foxes, badgers, even a small deer occasionally. It was surprising what lurked in Pity Wood.
It was only when he heard the crash of his garage door thrown back and the thump of boots on concrete that Farnham began to rise. He had barely straightened up when the first of the dark figures burst into the light, meeting the turn of his shoulder with the impact of a baseball bat.
Fry was a good driver, trained in the West Midlands force driving school to handle pursuit cars. But she spent most of the drive home distracted from the road. She was trying to avoid Christmas songs on the radio, flicking from station to station until she found something unseasonal. She ended up listening to ‘Crosstown Traffic’ from Jimi Hendrix’s
Electric Ladyland
– the only rock song she could think of that featured a kazoo. Nothing Christmassy about that.
For the past few hours, Fry had been trying to keep the conversation with DI Hitchens out of her mind. But that was only possible during the day, when she was working. The Pity Wood Farm enquiry provided enough to occupy her mind and take her full concentration. It wasn’t the case when she left the station in West Street and headed out towards her flat in Grosvenor Avenue. The concentration started to slip, despite her best efforts.
Fry knew that she ought to have gone south, to London. They always needed officers in the Met, and it would have suited her much better in a big city where nobody cared who you were or what you did with your life. By now, she would have been well established, fast-tracking to promotion, instead of dickering about in this rural force.
Turning her Peugeot into Castleton Road, Fry stopped at the little corner shop run by an Asian family. The young couple had always been pleasant to her, even when she hadn’t been in a mood to reciprocate. A friendly greeting could be welcome at times.
She wasn’t really hungry, but she bought enough supplies to keep body and soul together for another twenty-four hours. Cheese and toast would satisfy her. Anything else would sit uncomfortably on that tight, anxious knot in her stomach. She passed over the cakes and chocolate displays, and instead picked up a yogurt. And not just any yogurt, but an organic bio-live luscious low-fat fruit yogurt, raspberry and cranberry flavour. She felt strangely virtuous.
Groups of young men and women tottered or staggered around the pubs on the corner of Grosvenor Avenue, some of them with tinsel in their hair or reindeer antlers on their heads. It was Saturday night, of course. She’d forgotten that. At weekends, some of her fellow flat-dwellers lived dangerous and unpredictable private lives. Not her concern when she was off duty, though.
‘Just stay out of my way, or I’ll run you over,’ she muttered at a drunk who stumbled off the kerb into the path of her car. What difference would another dead body make?
But a fresh body was a different matter from aged remains. Pity Wood Farm was a classic historical case. Fry knew that most of the evidence in any historical investigation was found in the form of layers. It didn’t matter whether you were researching your family history, or hunting for a serial killer. There would be layers on top of each other – different levels of meaning and significance. Over the years, meanings distorted and accumulated irrelevant associations. An enquiry had to dig down to the lowest level to find the one that was most accurate, the most free of irrelevant material. A good bit of digging, that was what she needed. But psychological digging, not the knee-deep-in-mud type.
She was aware that the lorry driver, Jack Elder, might turn out to be a complete red herring. But it was comforting to have someone in custody. Anyone. At least there would be charges at some point.
But somewhere, waiting to be dug up, were the identities of the two victims at Pity Wood Farm. They couldn’t remain Victim A and Victim B, a couple of reference numbers in the anthropologist’s report, and a Forensic Science Service casework enquiries code. They had been human beings once, and they were owed a proper identity.
The body that Jamie Ward discovered had made the message clear. Fry wouldn’t forget that grey hand, bent in a pathetic summons, coaxing her towards the grave, and ensuring that she could never turn her back on it.
Of course, once an ID was established, that was really only the beginning. These young women had families – partners, parents, perhaps even children – who were wondering where they’d gone, and waiting to hear from them.
There was an astonishing statistic that Fry had once been given. Something like ninety-eight per cent of couples who lost a son or daughter through murder would separate within a couple of years of the crime. It was because the loss of a child was an experience that destroyed your life, and put such a strain on a relationship that the damage might never be repaired.
Ninety-eight per cent. That was a really bad statistic. When a victim had been a teenager or young woman when she went missing, the parents would no longer be together, almost certainly. She would be looking for people whose lives had already been wrecked. She’d be turning up on their doorstep to tell them a body had been discovered, and she thought it was probably their daughter. Could they come along and confirm that? Oh, and Merry Christmas, by the way.
Fry finally pulled up at number twelve and walked up to her flat on the first floor. Angie was out, of course, but her clothes were still here. Outside, the noise of drunken revellers would go on for hours yet, and the rain wouldn’t stop them. It had been dark since before she called at the museum to see the hand of glory. But that was the nature of late December.
Rain and dark nights. Ideal for festive jollity.
Farnham’s clothes were soaking wet now, and his shoes slithered in the mud as he dodged from tree to tree, stumbling over roots. His breath was ragged against the sound of rain and the whip of branches hitting his face. The noise of his breathing went ahead of him through the woods. But it was the sound of a man whose life was already over.
For a second, he stopped and leaned against the trunk of an oak tree. He shook his head, spraying rain, sweat and mud from his face. His jacket was streaked with dirt, and fragments of vegetation clung to his jeans where he had charged through the undergrowth. Ahead of him were more trees, and the bank of a fast-running stream, brown water surging noisily in the night.
His wheezing concealed any noises from behind him, except for one soft footstep. There was a moment of silence. Birds rustled their damp wings in the branches, and a small shower of water fell on his face. As his breath blew out painfully into the air, he knew it might be his last.
‘You don’t want to do this,’ he called. ‘Stop it, now.’
He heard his own voice shaking with fear, and became angry at the humiliation he was being forced to suffer.
‘You’re making a mistake. You know that? A big mistake.’
A bullet whistled over his head and shredded a branch before burying itself in the trunk of a tree. It was no more than a bit of foreplay, though. Farnham heard the cocking of a hammer.
He began to run again, dodging left and right, slithering in the mud between the trees. He was almost back at his house, desperately trying to reach a phone, when the second bullet entered the back of his thigh, just above the knee. It snapped a tendon, punched a hole out of the femur and pierced the full thickness of his thigh muscle. The bullet emerged from a rip in his jeans and buried itself in the earth as he fell forward on to his face.
Farnham tried to get up again, but found his right leg refused to support his weight. He was crying as he flopped helplessly on the ground, terrified of the footsteps moving slowly towards him – a deliberate, skating tread which barely disturbed the wet leaves. He heard a rustling, and then a voice, quiet and low.
‘We all make mistakes,’ it said.
And Farnham never even noticed the third bullet.
When they’d finished what they came to do, the two men dragged Tom Farnham’s body back into the workshop and closed the door. Then they vanished as quickly as they’d come, slipping away into the darkness among the trees.
They left nothing behind them that moved. Nothing, except a thin, red ribbon of blood, meandering slowly across the concrete floor.
22
Sunday
All Saints parish church in Edendale was unusually full for the Sunday-morning service. There was nothing like a baptism or a wedding to attract the sort of congregation you’d never normally get on a Sunday.
Cooper felt uncomfortable in his suit. He must have put a bit of weight on since he last wore it. Liz looked great, though. She’d broken out a dress from her wardrobe, put on shoes with heels and brushed back her hair. Cooper was unduly proud to be seen with her. She scrubbed up really well, as the saying went around here.
Across the aisle, Liz’s friend and her family were squeezed into the front three pews. Mums and grandmas had come in their best hats, and dads coughed uneasily, glancing at their watches, wondering whether they’d be free before the pubs opened. The baby herself was there somewhere, clutched by her mother in a long, trailing christening gown. She was a remarkably well-behaved baby, who hadn’t cried once yet.
When everyone was settled, the vicar began performing the introduction.
‘
Here we are washed by the Holy Spirit and made
clean. Here we are clothed with Christ, dying to
sin that we may live his risen life
.’
With mounting horror, Cooper realized that he was thinking of the pantomime from a couple of nights before. There was a startling similarity between the priest in his vestments intoning the opening lines of the service and the Pedlar stepping out on to the stage at the Royal Theatre for the first scene of Aladdin.
Oh, I’m a man from a distant land
,
A place where camels roam
And if they don’t like your face, they’ll cut off
your hand
…
Liz gave him a warning look. Maybe he’d let a smile show, or twitched in the wrong way. Cooper took a breath and tried to control himself. This was not the way to behave in church.
After a couple of hymns, the vicar lit a candle and called for ‘The Decision’. Raggedly, the congregation answered his questions, reading the replies from their order of service.
‘
To follow Christ means dying to sin and rising
to new life with him. Do you reject the Devil and
all rebellion against God?
’
Cooper found himself mentally drifting away from the church. His mouth was still moving as if he was giving the replies with everyone else. But his mind was a mile away, in the lounge at The Oaks care home, where the staff would be serving a glass of sherry soon and the residents would be looking forward to their lunch.
‘
Do you renounce the deceit and corruption of
evil? Do you repent of the sins that separate us
from God and neighbour?
’
He felt sure those words would really mean something to Raymond Sutton. Far more than they meant to him, or to any of the people squirming impatiently in their pews.
Sins that separate us from God and neighbour
.
What sins were committed at Pity Wood Farm that had separated the Suttons from their neighbours, and from God?
Cooper suddenly had a terrible intuition of the torment that Raymond Sutton must have been going through all this time. Whatever had happened at Pity Wood, he’d either been a part of it, or he’d acted as a passive witness. It was surely impossible for him to have lived at the farm and not been aware of what went on. Raymond must have known every inch of that place like the back of his hand, as anyone would who’d lived on a farm his entire life.
Liz nudged him hard, and Cooper realized that the congregation was about to go into another hymn, and he was clutching the wrong book, his eyes distant, his mind wandering.
‘Pay attention,’ she said.
‘Sorry.’
As the organ music began, Cooper recalled one of the sheepdogs at Bridge End dying when he was child. His great-uncle had buried the dog behind the barn, out of sight. But Ben had known something was wrong the instant he arrived home from school. He’d prowled the farm buildings until he found the disturbed ground. He’d never needed to ask anyone. The very soil and air had talked to him and told him all he needed to know.
Cooper murmured under his breath. ‘
Raymond,
there’s no way you could forget that. You know
exactly what happened
.’
The parents and godparents of the child had finally gathered around the font at the back of the church for the climax of the service.
‘
We thank you, Father, for the water of baptism.
In it we are buried with Christ in his death
.’
And the baby, who had been so quiet and well behaved throughout the service, began to scream as the water hit her face.
It looked as though residents in the care home had been having a good time at their Christmas party. Cooper found Raymond Sutton sitting in the lounge wearing a paper party hat, the kind that came out of a cracker and only lasted an hour or so before it fell off or got ripped. Mr Sutton’s hat was green. His fellow residents had got the red and yellow ones.
‘We have the party before Christmas because some of the residents spend the day itself with their families,’ explained Elaine. ‘It means all the staff can come in, too.’
‘Mr Sutton won’t be going anywhere on Christmas Day, I presume?’ said Cooper.
‘I don’t know. Does he have any family locally?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. But I’d be interested to hear if he gets any visitors.’
‘I’ll let you know. But you come here so often yourself, Detective Constable Cooper, that you’re already his most frequent visitor.’
Cooper smiled at her, noticing her properly for the first time. ‘I’m sorry if I’m being a nuisance, Elaine.’
‘Not at all. In fact …’
‘Yes?’
‘I wondered what you’d be doing after work?’
‘More work, probably.’
She gave him a quizzical smile. ‘They must let you have some time off? But never mind.’
In the lounge, Cooper allowed an old lady to persuade him to pull a cracker with her. She read him the joke, and he laughed to please her. But he drew the line at wearing the paper hat, and she went away in disgust.
‘You never had any children, did you, Mr Sutton?’
‘No, I was never married.’
‘I understand marriage isn’t necessary any more, sir.’
‘A child out of wedlock? It would be shameful.’
‘No one would care these days, you know. Not in the least.’
‘So they tell me. But I’ve never understood it. When was it that decent behaviour went out of fashion?’
‘I don’t think it went out of fashion exactly, sir. It’s just stopped being compulsory these days.’
Sutton scowled. ‘Well, I don’t live in “these days”, do I? I live in the past. That’s what everyone always tells me. And why not? Maybe the past was a better time, and a better place.’
‘Even when evil things happened?’
Cooper felt the old man’s glare becoming more angry and more aggressive.
‘You’re trying to trap me,’ he said.
‘No, sir. I just want to understand what happened at the farm. Two women died, and that’s wrong. I think you know who was responsible. Don’t you want to see justice done?’
‘
Follow justice and justice alone, so that you may
live and possess the land the Lord your God is
giving you. Cursed is the man who withholds justice
from the alien, the fatherless or the widow. Then
all the people shall say, “Amen!
”’
Sutton’s words faded away into a tired squeak, and his head began to nod. Within moments, he was asleep in his chair.
Cooper shook his head in defeat. Raymond Sutton was like a man who’d been parachuted in from another century. He might have learned to accept cars and television, but he still clung to his set of Victorian beliefs as if they were a life raft. Even his voice seemed to have rusted over from neglect.
Only Mr Brindley was at home today, not the rest of the family. There must be a second car if his wife was out, because the Range Rover still stood, gleaming, on the drive.
‘Well, we’d been talking about it between ourselves the night before, turning it over in our minds,’ said Brindley when Fry asked him about his information on Elder. ‘And when we saw the temporary police office in the village, we felt obliged to call in, as good citizens. I hope it was the right thing to do.’
‘Certainly. That’s what it was sited there for, sir. I’m glad you felt able to come forward. Not many people in Rakedale have.’
‘Well, I’m not surprised. I suppose the village people are rather clannish, aren’t they? They want to stand by their own. But we’re already outsiders, you see, so it doesn’t matter what we do or say. It will hardly make any difference to our relations with our neighbours, will it?’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure, you know,’ said Fry, thinking of the incident of the crows in the bedroom. That had been in this very house, hadn’t it? She couldn’t know whether Jo Brindley had told her husband about it, so she didn’t mention it.
‘What do you mean, Sergeant?’
‘It might be advisable to check your security measures. Just in case word gets out and somebody takes exception.’
He looked concerned. ‘Oh, I suppose you’re right. They’ve never really been aggressive to us before. Rude, yes. We’ve had some unpleasant comments made to us in the pub from time to time, when we’ve called in. But outright aggression, no. I wonder if we did the right thing, after all.’
‘Yes, of course you did. If you’d kept information like that to yourself, you’d be as bad as they are, wouldn’t you?’
‘Ah. And I wouldn’t want that, would I? A good point, Sergeant, well made.’
‘Could you just explain to me what your connection is with Mr Jack Elder? I know you’ve been through it before, but –’
‘No, that’s all right.’ Brindley steepled his hands. ‘It must have been a few years ago that I first came across him. I can’t be sure how long exactly. It was one of those occasions that we’d been into the pub, Jo and I.’
‘This would be the Dog Inn?’
‘In Rakedale, yes. We do call in from time to time, to try and show our faces. We’ve done our best to mix in, Sergeant, really we have. But the locals always seem very hostile. They whisper among themselves – and, even worse, some of them make quite outrageous comments out loud. Elder was one of those. He always seemed to be in the same corner of the pub whenever we went in, and we came to dread seeing him there. That’s why we stopped calling. Personally, I hated to stop, because it looked like cowardice. But Jo would get upset, so I went along with her.’
‘And then there was an encounter with Mr Elder away from the pub, I understand?’
‘Yes. Well, I used to see him many times away from the pub. But there was one specific occasion I recalled for the officers in Rakedale. Elder actually came here, to the house, once. Fortunately, no one else was home at the time, except for me. I often work from home, you see. That day, I couldn’t believe it when I saw Jack Elder park his lorry in my gateway and come up to the house. I was ready for an unpleasant scene, I can tell you.’
‘And what happened?’
‘Well, I answered the door, and he stood there, grinning at me through that awful beard. At first, I couldn’t understand what he wanted. But eventually it became clear that he was trying to sell me cheap fuel. He kept pointing at my car and saying, “Look, mate, it’s diesel, in’t it?”, or something like that. He got very aggressive after a while, and started making comments about Jo. Obviously, I shut the door and he went away again. I’m ashamed to say I was a bit shaken by the incident.’
‘But you didn’t report it?’
‘No. Well, it would only cause more trouble in the village. I’m thinking about the welfare of Jo and the children.’
‘So what made you change your mind now?’
‘The murders,’ said Brindley. ‘That’s what they are, aren’t they? The two bodies at Pity Wood Farm? If Jack Elder is connected in any way to those, I couldn’t possibly keep quiet any longer.’
‘But what makes you think he might be connected?’
Brindley leaned forward. ‘I said I’d seen him many times away from the pub. Perhaps I didn’t make it clear that the place I used to see him most often was coming and going from Pity Wood Farm with his lorry.’
Fry made a note in her notebook, listening to the quietness in the house.
‘Is your wife not at home, sir?’
‘No,’ said Brindley, relaxing again. ‘She’s at extra rehearsals in Edendale today. Some panic over a few changes to the dance routines for the chorus.’
‘A Christmas production of some kind?’ asked Fry, recalling that theatres came into the Brindleys’ lifestyle, along with restaurants and shopping.
‘Yes. I can tell you where she’s rehearsing, if you want to speak to her. I must warn you, she might be a bit distracted, though. She really gets into character, you know.’
Brindley laughed, showing a perfect set of teeth. Fry smiled politely, but she didn’t get the joke. Well, not until later.
While Fry was on the way back to Edendale, Murfin rang her mobile with a message. He sounded muffled, as though he’d started eating mince pies early. Fry fully expected to find the office carpet scattered with crumbs next time she went in.
‘Diane, there was a call for Ben Cooper,’ he said. ‘But he isn’t here, so I thought you ought to know about it.’
‘What, Gavin?’
‘The Garda Síochána have traced Martin Rourke.’
‘The Garda? So he’s back in Ireland then, just as Farnham thought he might be.’
‘Yes, he’s back on his home patch in Dublin. Running a souvenir business, apparently. Seems he’s given up manual labour and gone into the tourist industry.’
‘It’s where the money tends to be these days,’ said Fry. ‘It’s true here, and I’m sure it’s true in Ireland.’