26
Monday
At ten o’clock on Monday morning, with a major incident room getting into full swing at Edendale, two care assistants from The Oaks drove their minibus into Pity Wood Farm. They steered into a parking place that had been cleared for them as close to the farmhouse as possible, and they unloaded Raymond Sutton in a wheelchair via the hydraulic ramp at the rear of the vehicle.
When Sutton emerged into the light, he looked bemused by all the activity going on at his old home.
‘I thought it was all dead and buried, this,’ he said.
‘Some things don’t stay buried, Mr Sutton,’ said Fry. ‘Not for ever.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
When Cooper heard him say that, he started to have doubts about Raymond Sutton. It sounded too much like the script trotted out by suspects in the interview. ‘
To tell you the truth
’ always meant ‘
I’m about to tell you a lie now
’. And ‘
To
be perfectly honest
’ could be translated as ‘
I’ve
never been honest in my life
’.
It might be unfair, but ‘
I don’t know what you
mean
’ was another of those phrases that he’d heard so often during interviews. Every police officer had heard it, many times. It was a diversionary phrase, a way of avoiding answering a difficult question that had just been put.
As he watched Sutton being wheeled towards the house, Cooper was distracted by the noises around him. Everyone seemed to be sneezing and coughing at Pity Wood that morning. It sounded like the ward of an isolation hospital.
‘Have you been passing your cold on, Diane?’ he said.
‘It’s this bloody weather. The only wonder is that we haven’t all got pneumonia.’
Cooper didn’t suffer much from winter colds himself. He put it down to his upbringing. Being brought up in a house where there was no heating in the bedrooms or in the bathroom, and the snow sometimes lay on the inside of the window ledges. Bad weather had never kept Matt and himself indoors when they were growing up. Rain, wind, snow, fog – they had been outside in everything, and it made you hardy.
But he had to admit that he was starting to feel a bit wheezy himself. There was an irritation at the back of his throat, and a tendency for his eyes to water in the cold wind.
A police photographer hovered a few yards away, video recording Raymond Sutton’s visit. It wasn’t clear what DI Hitchens hoped to glean from Sutton’s reactions, but they would be recorded for detailed evaluation later.
First they steered his wheelchair gingerly over the duckboards towards the tent covering the area where Jamie Ward had discovered the first body. Sutton looked around with bemused eyes. Cooper could see that he barely recognized the place. And why would he? Even before the police arrived with their vehicles and tents and began to dig up the farmyard, Nikolai Dudzik’s builders had already made a start on transforming Pity Wood into that gentleman’s residence.
‘Yes, we had a shed that stood here,’ he said, after the first question had been repeated to him. ‘But it’s long gone, twenty years or more. We broke up the foundations for hardcore. Is that what you want to know? No, I know nowt of any woman.’
Fry nodded, and one of the care assistants released the brake and pushed Sutton towards the back of the house. He physically flinched at the sight of the yellow skip and the trenches dug across his former property. He began to tremble and become agitated.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s all wrong. There’s no point in asking me these questions. You should be asking Farnham.’
‘If only we could, sir,’ said Fry.
‘Those people who worked here, they were brought by Farnham and the other bloke, the Irishman.’
‘Mr Rourke?’
‘Yes. They brought people here, they worked, they went away again. I never knew who they were, or where they went. I didn’t ask. I left it to Farnham. Was that wrong?’
‘Who can say, sir?’
‘The old caravan behind the house,’ said Cooper, as the wheelchair was turned round. ‘Was that used for housing some of the migrant workers?’
‘Aye, now and then. Farnham and Rourke used it for themselves, too.’
‘Did they? What for?’
‘Nay, I don’t know. And I didn’t –’
‘You didn’t ask. Of course.’
Despite Sutton’s words, his expression was tight with anxiety, his eyes close to tears, as if he was remembering more than he was telling, suffering pangs of guilt for things he’d done, or hadn’t done. Or maybe for what he’d never asked.
Sutton gazed around the farm, like a man saying a last goodbye.
‘When I die, this place will still be here, these hills and valleys, choose how.’
Fry looked at Cooper for a translation. ‘Choose how?’
‘He means “come what may”.’
‘Aye,’ said Sutton. ‘Choose how. Come what may. The hills and valleys, but not the farm. There are some cousins of ours over in Stoke – they can have whatever money there is when I’m gone, and welcome to it. I would never have given anyone the farm.’
‘This farm must have been here for centuries, Mr Sutton.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Sutton. ‘It’s middlin’ old.’
Cooper watched the old man until he seemed to be calmer.
‘Mr Sutton, we found Screaming Billy,’ he said.
‘Billy? Aye, where is he?’
‘Right now, he’s in a laboratory in Sheffield.’
‘Derek would have said it won’t do ’em any good. It was bad luck ever to move him, Derek said.’
‘But you didn’t believe in that, sir?’
‘No. Complete rubbish. The Lord has your fate in his hands, not some dirty old bit of bone.’
‘And was Derek trying to preserve a hand?’
‘A hand? I don’t know of any hand.’
But Sutton looked troubled, as if it was a possibility that seemed only too likely.
‘We found the materials in your kitchen for preserving a hand in saltpetre. It’s an old recipe. Your brother could have learned it from the museum in Edendale.’
‘I never knew what he was up to,’ muttered Sutton. ‘And never cared to ask, either. It would always end up in a row, and he knew it. Superstitious bastard, he was. I could never talk any sense into him.’
Cooper recalled Palfreyman’s description of the two brothers sitting silently in their kitchen, failing to exchange a word all evening. He wondered when exactly Raymond had tried talking sense to his brother. It would have been much easier just to let him get on with his odd ways, wouldn’t it? That was usually the way in families. Familiarity bred acceptance, and all kinds of bizarre and strange behaviour would be treated as normal within the family, no matter how likely it was to attract the men in white coats if it was seen on the outside.
‘Did he have any particular superstitions that bothered you, sir?’
‘Bothered me? Nowt bothers me,’ said Sutton. ‘Nowt.’
Wrong word. Try again. ‘There were some things he believed in that you disagreed with?’
‘Damn well all of them. Oh, he went to chapel, but he never followed the way. He was tainted, corrupted. Right from a child, he was. Our dad showed us the right way to do things, but Derek had to be different. He took after our mother, I reckon. Folk always said she was fey.’
Fey. It was many years since Cooper had heard that word. His mother had used it of one of their neighbours at one time. It had been meant in a disparaging way, he was sure. Disapproving, certainly. But he’d always felt there was a degree of admiration in the word, too. A sense of the awe and respect that had traditionally been accorded to the wise woman, the healer, the widow people surreptitiously visited at dusk to ask for advice, or a special herbal preparation.
She’s
a bit fey
. Attuned to the supernatural world – he supposed that would be the nearest translation. In touch with the fairies, perhaps. Blessed with visionary or clairvoyant ability, if you really wanted to be kind. But Cooper had an inkling there was another meaning, too.
‘And what about Alan?’
Sutton was suddenly silent. The tears that had been threatening to appear since he arrived at the farm started to trickle down his cheeks. Cooper immediately regretted being so blunt. And he prayed he never reached the stage in his own life where he could be made to weep so easily.
‘Alan is long gone, too,’ said Sutton.
‘What happened to him, Mr Sutton?’
‘He left. He couldn’t stand living here any more.’
‘Where is he now?’
Sutton gave a long, unsteady sigh. ‘I don’t know. Alan’s gone, Derek’s gone, the farm is gone. What else matters?’
Fry stood over his wheelchair. ‘Is Alan still alive?’ she asked.
Sutton turned away, refusing to look at her.
‘We haven’t heard from him for years. Eight years or more, it must be.’
Fry glanced across at Cooper, and he knew what she was thinking. An evasive answer.
But they let Sutton go with his carers, and he was helped back into the minibus for the return journey to The Oaks.
‘Did you notice something about Raymond Sutton’s behaviour?’ said Fry when the minibus had left. ‘Apart from the fact that he evaded a direct question, I mean.’
‘Oh, what?’ said Cooper.
‘He was fine with us – well, in his own way. But he had a bad reaction to the uniforms.’
‘Yes, I did notice that.’
‘Interesting.’
‘What are you thinking, Diane?’
‘I’m thinking I’d liked to have asked Mr Sutton what he remembers of PC David Palfreyman. In particular, why he’s so worried when he sees a police uniform on his farm.’
Suddenly, there was a commotion at the back of the farmhouse. Voices shouting, someone running heavily through mud, a door slamming, more shouts.
‘What the heck’s going on?’ called Fry to a SOCO standing at the corner of the house.
‘Someone got through the outer cordon. It looks like they’ve caught him inside that old caravan.’
‘Interesting,’ said Fry. ‘Let’s go and see what this is all about.’
By the time she and Cooper made their way to the broken-down caravan, two uniformed officers had their suspect secured and in the back of a car. One of the officers had slipped during the chase and was vainly trying to wipe the mud from his trousers.
Fry walked over to the car.
‘Do you see who I see, Ben?’
‘Yes, an old friend of yours.’
Fry opened the door. ‘Well, what are you doing here – again?’
Jamie Ward looked up at her from the car. He was a frightened boy again, white faced and dishevelled. The same young labourer she’d met that first day on the farm when he turned up human remains.
‘I wasn’t doing any harm,’ he said. ‘I told them, but they wouldn’t listen.’
‘Jamie, you shouldn’t be here at all. It’s a crime scene.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘What were you doing in the caravan?’ asked Fry. ‘Were you looking for something, Jamie?’
‘No.’
Fry shook her head. ‘Don’t lie to me. I don’t like it.’
Jamie turned away. ‘I can’t tell you. I don’t want to get in trouble.’
‘You’re already in trouble.’ Fry turned to the mud-spattered officer. ‘Has he been searched?’
‘Yes, Sergeant. Nothing on him but a few personal items.’
Fry regarded Jamie Ward sadly. ‘We’d better search the caravan then, hadn’t we? It was going to be done anyway, before long. I’m sure you realized that, Jamie.’
The young man groaned. ‘Oh, look – it’s only a bit of pot. It’s no big deal. I used to sneak into the caravan for a quick smoke in my break, when the other blokes weren’t looking. It was the only thing that made working here tolerable.’
‘Jamie, you’re a silly boy if you left your drugs lying around for anyone to find.’
‘Christ, it’s only a bit of pot. I couldn’t take it home with me, in case my mum found it.’
‘So is that all we’ll find when we search the caravan?’
Jamie wriggled uncomfortably, but didn’t answer.
‘It would be better if you told me now,’ said Fry, ‘rather than having to answer questions under caution down at the station.’
He hung his head. ‘All the blokes did it,’ he said. ‘They all took things from the site. They said if things had been left lying around, it was because no one wanted them. Nikolai said it himself. He was right, wasn’t he? It’s not really stealing.’
‘What did you take, Jamie?’
‘It’s in the drawer under the sink. None of the others ever went into the caravan, so I thought it would be safe.’
At Fry’s nod, Cooper pulled on a pair of latex gloves and went into the caravan.
‘It smells bad in here. And it’s not just the scent of cannabis being smoked, either.’
‘The drawer, Ben.’
‘OK, got it.’
Fry waited patiently. She was trying not to anticipate what Cooper would find in the drawer. But she couldn’t help images coming into her mind – visions of Derek Sutton lurking in the kitchen of Pity Wood Farm, bending over the sink, cooking up saltpetre for the preservation of a grisly relic.
But the object that Cooper was holding when he emerged was the wrong shape to match her mental image. It was a box covered in felt. When he opened it, she could see that it contained a medal on a purple-and-green ribbon.
‘Awarded to Private Raymond Sutton, 1st Battalion Sherwood Foresters,’ said Cooper.
‘Mr Sutton served in the war?’
‘Not the Second World War, he’s a bit too young. This is a General Service Medal, and the bar says Malaya. He must have been fighting Communists in the 1950s.’
‘So he really did leave his past behind.’ Fry looked at Jamie Ward again. ‘Don’t tell me – eBay?’
‘I’ve seen them going for fifty or sixty quid,’ he said. ‘I need the money.’
‘To help your studies? Or to buy more pot?’
‘I’m sorry.’
Jamie looked so ashamed of himself that Fry sighed. ‘You can go. But if I see you round here, Jamie, I’ll make sure you’re locked up.’
27
Later that morning, Cooper looked up the word ‘fey’ in a copy of the
Collins English Dictionary
. He’d borrowed the book a few weeks ago from his landlady, Mrs Shelley. She loved loaning him her books – she thought she was helping with his education, her tenant being an ignorant but well-meaning police constable and all.
He’d brought the dictionary to the office one day, and it had stayed in his desk drawer ever since. He really must remember to return it. He hated it when people borrowed his own books or CDs and never gave them back.
Yes, there
was
another meaning to ‘fey’. Fated to die, or doomed. From the Old English
faege
, marked for death. Tappy, in fact. Cooper nodded. Old Mrs Sutton had been tappy. And so had Derek Sutton. But who else at Pity Wood had been tappy or fey? Two young women, at least. Victim A and Victim B. They had certainly been fated to die.
This morning, E Division headquarters was the focus of activity. HOLMES staff had been arriving from Ripley and equipment was being set up. Detectives had been drafted in from other divisions and were being assigned their actions. Some teams were already out, chasing down associates of Tom Farnham’s, pursuing sightings of vehicles in the area at the time of his shooting, checking on the whereabouts of suspects in previous shootings. It had the look of a professional job, after all.
All the activity was making Cooper feel a bit left out. Even the identification of one of the bodies at Pity Wood Farm no longer appeared quite such a breakthrough as it had at the time. They knew who she was, but not how she’d died. No signs of major trauma – that’s what the postmortem said. Establishing how she’d met her fate was going to need a much bigger stroke of luck.
And they were still no nearer identifying any of the other migrant workers who’d been employed at Pity Wood Farm. Enquiries with agencies had drawn a complete blank. Gavin Murfin had just crossed the last one off the list this morning. Tom Farnham wasn’t going to be any further use – which left Fry’s trip to Ireland to interview Martin Rourke as the last hope, reluctant though she was to go.
‘Well, your nose might have been accurate, Ben,’ said Fry, striding into the office with a file and perching on the edge of a desk between his and Gavin’s. ‘According to the initial report from the chemist’s lab at the Forensic Science Service, there were a number of chemical traces found in the soil at Pity Wood Farm – and inside some of the buildings, too. Nothing out of the ordinary for a farm, so far as I can see.’
‘You have no idea what’s normal on a farm,’ protested Cooper.
Fry raised an eyebrow, but took it well. ‘Fair point. I’ve got a copy of the report here, so let’s run through the results, then. Gavin, are you listening?’
‘All ears,’ said Murfin, though, as far as Cooper could see, he was concentrating on a chocolate bar he’d found somewhere. Not one that had disappeared from the packed lunches the other day, was it?
‘First of all, hydrogen peroxide,’ said Fry. ‘That’s basically plain water with an extra oxygen atom, according to the chemist. I didn’t know that.’
‘Hair bleach?’
‘I’m thinking peroxide blondes,’ said Murfin. ‘Jean Harlow, Marilyn Monroe.’
‘Yes, back in the fifties and sixties, that was the popular way to dye your hair at home.’
‘Do people still use it?’ asked Cooper. ‘I heard it turns your hair orange.’
Fry gave him a challenging look. ‘How would I know, Ben?’
‘I’ve no idea. Sorry.’
‘Isn’t it used as a fuel, too?’ suggested Murfin. ‘I think it was leaking hydrogen peroxide that blew up that Russian submarine a few years ago.’
‘The
Kursk
, yes. How did you know that, Gavin?’
‘I’ve got a teenage lad. He’s interested in things like that, so I get lectured about them at the dinner table.’
‘The chemist’s report says that about half of hydrogen peroxide produced is used to bleach wood pulp or paper, as an alternative to chlorine-based bleaches. He also suggests mouthwash, contact-lens cleaning solutions, and dental-bleaching gels.’
‘More to the point,’ said Cooper, ‘it’s added to animal feed sometimes, to help fibre digestion. And it’s in some fertilizers, too. I think you can even use hydrogen peroxide in septic tank systems. It oxidizes the slime.’
‘Lovely. So no surprise to find it on a farm, then?’
‘What else is there in the report?’ persisted Cooper.
Fry sighed. ‘Dilute hydrochloric acid, also known as muriatic acid. Bricklayers use it to clean mortar off bricks, because the acid dissolves the lime in mortar. It’s used for cleaning concrete, too. It doesn’t take a big leap of the imagination to figure out where that came from. The builders have been at Pity Wood Farm for weeks.’
‘Isn’t hydrochloric acid dangerous?’ said Murfin. ‘It
sounds
dangerous.’
‘In the concentrated form, yes – you’d get a pretty severe burn without protective gear. But this is a commercial solution, and less dangerous. I’d still wear gloves and a face mask, though, if I were you.’
‘Next?’ asked Cooper.
‘Potassium hydroxide, also known as lye.’
‘Drain cleaner.’
‘Problems with the drains at Pity Wood? I should say so. What about you, Ben?’
‘OK.’
Fry turned to the second page of the report. ‘Iodine tincture.’
Cooper had used that himself many times, spraying it on to the umbilical cords of new-born lambs and calves as a disinfectant. There were always cans of iodine aerosol standing around at home.
Fry looked up for a comment, but got none. She was smiling now, feeling that she’d been proved right. She was on the home stretch if Cooper wasn’t even commenting.
‘Methanol,’ she said. ‘Even I know that’s antifreeze. Everyone has it, if they own a car. I’ve got some myself.’ There was a continued silence, and she pressed on quickly. ‘Last couple now. Propan-2-ol. Isopropyl alcohol. Any takers?’
‘Rubbing alcohol,’ said Cooper. ‘It’s an antiseptic and cleaner.’
‘And in everyone’s first-aid box,’ said Fry cheerfully. ‘Even farmers who cut themselves use it, I bet.’
‘Unless they drink the stuff,’ said Murfin.
‘Really?’
‘Well, just something I’ve heard.’
Fry shook her head, but didn’t seem downhearted. ‘And finally … something called pseudoephedrine.’ She stumbled over the last word and tried again, shifting the emphasis on the syllables. ‘Pseudoephedrine.’
‘What the heck is that?’
‘It says here it’s the active ingredient in proprietary decongestants, such as Sudafed. But there seems to be an awful lot of it.’
‘Someone had sinus problems at Pity Wood,’ suggested Murfin. ‘I’m not surprised. I reckon you’d be permanently bunged up with a cold, if you lived there. I was sneezing myself when I was up at the farm yesterday.’
Fry stared at him for a moment, as if horrified at the idea of Murfin with a head cold. Cooper could practically see her mind working, pieces falling into place in that efficient, clockwork way her brain had. There were no leaps of intuition with Fry, just the logical adding of one item of information with another, to come up with a final answer, already checked and validated.
At that moment, DI Hitchens entered the CID room with an envelope in his hand. He handed it to Fry with a slightly sheepish look.
‘Diane, here are your tickets for Dublin. I hope you’ve got your passport.’ Fry put the chemist’s report down. ‘I’m ready, sir.’
‘Good. Your flight leaves at one twenty-five.’
* * *
They’d booked her on a cheap Ryanair flight, of course. The fare to Dublin was less than it would have cost her to catch a bus to Sheffield and back. Robin Hood Airport, too – which meant she had to drive right over to Doncaster to catch her flight.
Fry checked in, went through security, and decided to have a drink at the airside bar. And then she had to sit and wait. An hour’s flight to Dublin, and an hour twiddling her thumbs. She watched her fellow passengers waiting patiently near the gate for boarding. Most of them seemed to have books or magazines, mindless stuff to while away the time. If only she could sit still and turn her brain off for an hour, the way these people were able to do.
When she’d finished her drink, Fry began to prowl the departure lounge, feeling restless and uneasy. She noted that ThomsonFly operated flights to Prague from this airport. That would have been handy for Nadezda Halak, she supposed, the Czech Republic being right next door to Slovakia. In fact, they used to be one country, didn’t they, before parts of Eastern Europe began to break up? But had Czechoslovakia separated before, or after, Nadezda arrived in the UK?
Fry found she had no idea. She couldn’t even guess. In fact, she knew nothing else about Slovakia, except that it was where the photocopier paper was made that they used in the office. It said so on the packaging.
She hated being so ignorant of important facts. And this
could
be an important one, since it made a difference to the nationality of the victim. Damn. It was an overlooked detail, and she didn’t like them. The wrong loose end could unravel a case completely.
She took her notebook out of her bag and jotted down a reminder to herself. She supposed she could call someone back in Edendale on her mobile, but she didn’t want to seem like a pest, some sad character who couldn’t leave her desk behind. Everyone else in the office seemed to be convinced that she was the lucky one to be flying to Ireland. A day off, they called it. A jaunt, a little jolly. She’d been conscious of envious glances, as if she was the teacher’s pet. ‘
Don’t drink too
much Guinness, Diane. And watch out for those
leprechauns
.’
Fry became aware that she was getting a headache. And she hadn’t brought her Lemsip capsules with her, so it was guaranteed that an hour in the recycled air of an economy class cabin would make her cold twice as bad. It had been lurking around for days now, barely suppressed by the medication, irritating her nose and throat. If she didn’t do something, she would arrive in Dublin with a sore throat, barely able to speak.
Well, she still had twenty minutes to spare before boarding, and there were some shops airside. No Boots the Chemist at a small regional airport like Robin Hood, but at least there was a World News. All the essentials for the happy traveller.
Keeping an ear out for announcements, Fry browsed the small range of pharmaceutical products on offer. She picked up a packet of Lemsip and some Paracetamol, then noticed the Sudafed. She wasn’t congested, not yet. But that was the worst symptom of a bad cold, and you couldn’t be too careful.
Out of habit, she turned each packet over to read the ingredients and contra-indications. She wasn’t a hypochondriac, but if she ever had an allergic reaction, she wanted to know exactly what she was allergic to.
Her eyes were drawn to the active ingredient in Sudafed. Pseudoephedrine. That word had been bothering her since she’d gone over the chemist’s report earlier in the day. There had been traces of the chemical found at Pity Wood Farm, scattered through the outbuildings and even in the soil surrounding them.
What else had there been on the list? Hydrogen peroxide, dilute hydrochloric acid, drain cleaner, iodine, anti-freeze, rubbing alcohol. And pseudoephedrine. A lot of pseudoephedrine. There was something she was missing, a loose end nagging at her here.
The first call came over the PA system for boarding Ryanair flight FR-1969. It was time to go. Fry grimaced, irritated by another detail that she wasn’t going to be able to pin down.
Fumbling for her money, she took one last look at the ingredients on her purchases. Sudafed, Paracetamol and Lemsip. Well, that should sort out her cold, all right. In fact, you could get really high on that lot.
‘Oh, my God.’
Fry froze at the counter, causing the assistant to stare at her as if she was mad. Then Fry turned and barged aside a queue of customers in her hurry to get out of the shop. She dragged her phone out of her bag as she ran and dialled a number. It was lucky she had it on speed dial, because her fingers were shaking with urgency. She tried to steady her voice, aware of her heart pounding in her chest and her breathing ragged with the surge of excitement and fear.
DI Hitchens came on the phone just as the final call for boarding was made and the last few passengers began to trickle through the gate for Dublin.
‘Sir, it’s DS Fry. Listen – I don’t have much time. We need to get everyone clear of Pity Wood Farm immediately. Yes, all of them. I suggest we establish a safe perimeter and pull everything back. We’ve got to get them out of that place –
now
!’