‘No, you’re wrong.’
‘Oh dear. It doesn’t fit the image, does it? Had you built up some nice, rosy picture of Angie and Di settling down together, sharing girly chats about boyfriends and babies? Holding each other’s hands when we need a good cry, giggling in bed together over a couple of good books? It ain’t going to happen, Sis. So it’s about time you faced up to the real world.’
‘Look, I know you’ve changed. God knows, I’ve made allowances for that. All those years we were apart, we were bound to go our different ways –’
‘Changed? You’re damn right. Yes, I’m the one who’s grown up. I grew up a long time ago.’
‘Oh, yes? Using heroin isn’t a sign of being grown up, you know.’
‘Fuck off.’
Diane took a step forward. She saw Angie begin to edge towards the door, and realized that her sister was actually scared of her. The physical outburst a few minutes ago had taken Angie by surprise and frightened her a little. She, too, had things to discover about her kid sister that she might not like very much.
‘Come on, we can make this work, Angie. We just have to be honest with each other.’
‘Oh, and you want me to go first, right? Confession time, is it? “Come on, dear, tell the nice police officer everything you know. How about the names and addresses of all your friends for a start?” Di, you’re just not getting it, are you?’
Diane didn’t answer. Second by second, she was watching their relationship turn round, seeing her big sister become more and more uneasy in her presence, like a guilty child. For the first time in her life, Diane felt as though she was the one with the power. In some way, she had the ability to affect Angie’s life, instead of the other way about. She knew this, but she didn’t understand why. And the knowledge didn’t make her feel any better.
Angie looked at her uncertainly, pulling on her jacket. ‘I’m off to work, then.’
‘You can’t escape for ever. We’ll have to sort things out between us some time soon.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say.’
As she watched Angie sneak towards the door, Diane found herself torn by conflicting impulses – a desire to bring her sister closer, but the urge to hurt her at the same time.
‘There’s one thing you’re just not getting either, Angie,’ she said.
‘Tell me about it some other time.’
Then her sister had slipped out of the room, and her feet were clattering on the stairs as she ran towards the front door.
Diane stood at the top of the stairs, unable to control something inside her that refused to let go of the argument.
‘And why did you go to Ben Cooper?’ she shouted. ‘Right at the beginning, why did you go to
him
?’
Angie stopped, but only to shout back. ‘Because
he
cares about people.’
‘Oh, yes? Well, I care about people, too. I just don’t care about
you
.’
As soon as the front door slammed, Diane had begun to regret her last words. But it was too late by then.
She glared at one of the students from the next flat, who’d stuck her head round the corner to see what was going on. As the student disappeared, Diane wondered whether she might ever get another chance to tell Angie what it was that she just wasn’t getting.
Diane went back into the flat and began to pick up the cushions that had been knocked on the floor. She was surprised by how much mess there was, almost as if the place had been broken into and ransacked. If it had been a crime scene she was visiting, she would have said there was evidence of a violent altercation.
Was the heroin still the problem with Angie? She didn’t think so, but addicts did need large amounts of money on a regular basis. Many women were out there on the streets to feed their habit, and for no other reason. Heroin or crack cocaine, or both. OK, drugs might not have put them on the street in the first place, but it was heroin that kept them there.
Diane knew that drug dealers from the big cities had moved into smaller towns like Edendale years ago. You could find drugs everywhere, pretty much anything you wanted. They were cheap, too. Perhaps it was some kind of marketing ploy to expand the customer base, but intelligence showed that Edendale was one of the least expensive towns in the country for buying drugs. Last she heard, heroin was going for about twenty pounds a bag.
It had just gradually crept in, that link between heroin and prostitution. Now it was unbreakable. The vicious circle was in play.
Diane was surprised by a sudden taste in her mouth. Dark, bitter, comforting. It was a very familiar taste, so full of memories that it seemed to sum up the whole of her life, all the low points and loneliest moments encapsulated in one brief tingle of the taste buds.
It was the return of her old craving for chocolate, and the familiarity was so intense it was almost shocking. She hadn’t thought about the craving for months, not really. But some residual instinct had leaked into the nerve endings of her mouth, triggered by a moment of stress.
It wasn’t so easy to get rid of an addiction. It could still creep up and surprise you long after you thought you’d beaten it. It lurked in your body and waited for a moment of weakness. But Diane Fry knew she wasn’t weak, not any more.
Addictions were for everyone else, but not for her.
7
Friday
Jamie Ward woke up late next day. For a while, he lay in bed listening for noises in the house, or in the street outside, not sure what he was expecting to hear. His parents’ semi-detached was in a comfortable suburb of Edendale, close to the best secondary school and the nicest church. There was rarely anything interesting to hear. The sirens were always across town, on the housing estates.
At first, Jamie’s mind shied away from remembering the day before, but gradually the memories crept back. All the details were still there, fresh and vivid. The mud, the police, the argument. The hand.
And then he had a sudden conviction that this couldn’t just be a normal day, not after what had happened at Pity Wood Farm. It was inconceivable that life would go on in its ordinary, routine way. Getting up, having breakfast, going for a jog, phoning his mates for a chat. It just wouldn’t feel right.
Jamie went into the bathroom and found his muddy jeans on top of the laundry basket. The first day he’d turned up for work at the building site, he’d been wearing his trainers. His second best pair, not the cool ones he went out with his friends in. And Nikolai had laughed at him. So had all the other blokes, though not quite so obviously.
‘Little Jamie, do you want to lose your toes?’ Nikolai had said, lighting up a Benson and Hedges and blowing the smoke towards his feet. ‘Boy, you won’t last a day on my site. We’ll find you some proper boots, OK?’
‘OK, Nikolai.’
‘Call me Nik.’
Most of what had gone on at the site was a mystery to Jamie. The brickies and carpenters and plasterers were skilled men who worked quickly and often silently, wielding specialist tools he didn’t even know the names for.
Some of it was obvious – the trenches dug for the new drains, the gravel laid for site access. But a few things had been odd. If he’d felt more comfortable with the other men, he would have asked them the reasons for things they did. Jamie knew that you should ask if you didn’t understand something, and not worry about looking stupid. If you didn’t ask questions, you’d never know the answers, and that was more stupid, wasn’t it?
The only good thing about the way he’d been treated on the site was that Nikolai and the men hadn’t always worried about whether he was hanging around with them, or how hard he was working.
Jamie showered and hunted out some clean clothes. Then he went to find his mother, to see if he could borrow her car to drive over to Rakedale.
Cooper arrived at work that morning to find forty-three new emails in his inbox. No spam, no jokes, no personal emails – in accordance with force policy, the IT department had blocked all those. No, these forty-three were all work-related. Not necessarily related to his
own
work, of course. Unfortunately, he had to open every one of them and read it all the way through before he could be sure it wasn’t relevant to him.
Today, he’d received a fairly typical batch. There were the usual requests from the Criminal Justice Unit for completed statements and copies of notebook entries. There was a series of directives and advisory notices from the senior management team, many of them related to key performance indicators. He had a couple of emails from the Police Federation, and there were notifications of five entirely new policies and procedures, all with start dates in the next month.
Each new policy had accompanying documents, which he was supposed to study and learn, then apply. He didn’t know where to begin. But some desk jockey would be appointed as a compliance officer to monitor the new policies, so he’d have to get up to speed.
Now and then, Cooper kept some congratulatory emails about the force’s Investors in People and Work Life Balance Awards. Just in case he needed cheering up some time.
‘Happiness is an empty inbox,’ said Murfin.
‘Emails?’
‘Yes. But I never read them.’
‘How do you get away with that, Gavin?’
‘Dunno. I tend to look at them the way I do all the junk mail I get at home, wanting to give me a bigger penis. I reckon they’re meant for someone else, since I obviously don’t need them.’
‘There might be something about a new course for you to go on,’ suggested Cooper.
‘I don’t need one of those, either. Not since I did my sewage training.’
Cooper laughed. Gavin had never recovered from the shock of being sent on a public order training exercise last year. Along with a couple of hundred other officers, he’d been kitted out in riot gear and deployed to the sewage works in Derby. For a couple of hours, he’d faced an angry mob of Severn Trent Water staff and special constables hurling bricks and petrol bombs at him, just to make the exercise as realistic as possible. His PDR said he’d gained valuable experience in policing a major disturbance. Gavin said all he’d learned was that shit stinks.
Still laughing, Cooper glanced at the first email attachment he’d opened. He read it a second time, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. It made a reference to something called the Community Security Policy Compliance Matrix.
The briefing that morning was relatively low-key. Detective Chief Inspector Oliver Kessen was present as crime manager for the division, though he was currently Senior Investigating Officer for a major enquiry in the Matlock area. It wasn’t uncommon for the same senior detective to be SIO for more than one case at a time, but right now Pity Wood hadn’t even been officially classed as a murder enquiry.
‘It’s too early to start combing through the missing persons reports,’ said DI Hitchens when the team had assembled. ‘Not until we have an idea of the age of the victim and the time of death. The list is too long otherwise – we need something to narrow it down. There are no records of incidents at Pity Wood Farm, or any missing persons reports anywhere in Rakedale. We have to cast the net wider. Any suggestions?’
‘We could still start with the owners of the farm. How long has the place been empty?’ asked someone.
‘Nine months. But there were no women recorded in the household. Pity Wood Farm was run by two elderly brothers, Derek and Raymond Sutton. Derek died twelve months ago, and Raymond is in residential care in Edendale, diagnosed as suffering from the early stages of Alzheimer’s. Perhaps the farm was sold to pay for his care. He wouldn’t have been able to run it now, anyway.’
‘They must have had some help with the farm work,’ said Fry. ‘The place is pretty run down, but two old men couldn’t have managed on their own, could they?’
‘Have you seen some of these hill farmers?’ said Cooper. ‘They’re a tough bunch. Some of them just keep on going until they wear out.’
‘Even so …’
‘Well, there was clearly some labour employed at Pity Wood from time to time, but there’s no indication so far that any of the help was female. The brothers must have cooked and cleaned for themselves, by the looks of it.’
Cooper remembered the state of the farmhouse, and didn’t answer for a moment. There might have been some cooking going on in that kitchen, but he was pretty sure cleaning wasn’t high on the brothers’ agenda. Maybe squalor would be called a lifestyle choice these days.
‘The trouble with that is, the more workers we trace, the more potential suspects it gives us.’
‘Is there actually evidence of a crime?’
‘Well, illegal disposal of a body, anyway. Someone dug the grave, then filled it in, didn’t they? But as for the cause of death … I can’t tell you. Also, I can’t say whether it was murder, suicide, accident or natural causes. Sorry.’
‘But what facts have we got, Paul?’ asked Kessen. ‘Apart from the presence of a body with an unknown cause of death, do we have any evidence of unlawful killing?’
This was a tough question, but the answer was crucial. If the SIO misinterpreted the scene and set up a murder investigation when it turned out to be a suicide or death from natural causes, he could find himself criticized for wasting resources. On the other hand, if he attributed death to natural causes and a subsequent postmortem contradicted him, then his decision could have serious consequences for the success of any future investigation. The SIO’s assessment had to be made under pressure, so it took judgement to get it right, to make an accurate decision based on limited information.
‘We’re reserving judgement at the moment,’ said Hitchens. ‘There’s no murder enquiry yet.’
Kessen grunted noncommittally. ‘So who’s going to look into the farming background?’
‘DC Cooper. He’s the man with his roots in the soil. All right, Ben?’
Cooper nodded automatically, not having been given any chance to think about it.
‘Meanwhile, I’m hoping the forensics teams can find me some fresh evidence. Fresher than the body, at least.’
‘Fresher than the body – that shouldn’t be difficult,’ said Murfin quietly to Cooper.
‘We’ve got house-to-house in the village today, and that means all hands to the pumps,’ said Hitchens. ‘Rakedale is a small village, so we’ll be hitting every household. And don’t miss the isolated farms. You all know what these places are like – local knowledge could be the key. Some old biddy will provide us with that vital bit of information. So let’s get to it.’
‘Before you go,’ said Kessen, raising his voice above the developing hubbub, ‘the Chief has an announcement to make. He wants to see the CID team in his office, as soon as we’re finished here.’
‘Uh-oh,’ said Murfin. ‘This sounds like bad news.’
In her official photograph, she looked stiff and humourless. She gave the impression of a woman who wouldn’t normally have worn make-up, but had felt obliged to make the effort when she posed for the photographer. Cooper thought someone ought to have given her a bit of cosmetics advice. But perhaps they’d all been too frightened of her to say anything. Instead, she’d applied lipstick and mascara with an unpractised hand, and the result was unnatural. He was beginning to feel nervous of her already.
‘And this is …?’ asked Fry.
Hitchens smiled a grim smile. ‘Our new boss.’
‘What?’
Their divisional commander, Chief Superintendent Jepson, was chairing the meeting of the CID team in his office. He gestured at Hitchens to hush him.
‘Ripley have finally made an appointment to the SMT,’ said Jepson. ‘E Division has a new detective superintendent.’
There was a moment of silence as everyone looked at the photo. The latest addition to the senior management team, another source of motivational emails.
‘DS Hazel Branagh,’ said Hitchens to break the tension. The tone of his voice was difficult to pin down, as if he’d made a particular effort to sound neutral.
‘She’s a ferociously efficient administrator,’ said Jepson. ‘And highly respected by her present team. All the people who work for her say the same thing. With Superintendent Branagh, they know exactly where they stand.’
‘Not within striking range, I imagine,’ whispered Murfin to Cooper.
Jepson frowned at the interruption, though he hadn’t heard what had been said. ‘You know, some managers aren’t able to keep their distance from the troops. They try to be too friendly with their junior officers. I know what a temptation it is to do that – you want to be all mates together, that sort of thing. Bonding, they call it these days. But it doesn’t work, you know – you just lose their respect, in the end.’
He was looking at Hitchens, and kept his gaze fixed in that direction until the DI felt obliged to respond.
‘Yes, sir. Absolutely.’
‘No matter how much you crave popularity, you’ve got to stand apart from the crowd to be a real leader. Now Hazel Branagh, on the other hand – she has
tremendous
respect from the officers in her team.’
Cooper looked at the photo again. Branagh’s badly applied make-up gave her the appearance of a recently deceased auntie who’d been prepared by the funeral director. In this case, the family had been so impressed that they’d propped Aunt Flo in a chair for one last photo before they buried her.
‘The word is that she won’t be with us very long anyway, sir,’ said Hitchens.
‘In tune with the canteen gossip, are we?’ asked Jepson.
‘Something like that.’ The DI didn’t bother to point out that they weren’t allowed to have a canteen any more, to discourage the formation of a canteen culture. ‘I’ve heard the possibility discussed, that’s all.’
‘Well, you’re right, Paul. Superintendent Branagh has already earned a reputation for herself all around the country. The next force that has an ACC’s job up for grabs, it’s certain somebody will come sniffing around here. You can bet on it.’
* * *
Diane Fry laid back her head and closed her eyes. Gradually, the stiffness began to ease, and the tension drained from her shoulders. For hours, she’d been staring at her computer screen, wading through figures and reports, checking online forms, reading endless emails from the SMT. It would take a while longer for the weariness to clear from her brain.
On this side of the building, they had to keep the lights on all day in December, much to the frustration of the admin officer, who’d found it impossible to deal with the lack of daylight by writing a memo.
For Fry, the quality of the light was further hampered by the strings of glittery tinsel and concertinas of red-and-green decorations spelling out ‘Merry Christmas’ above the desks, as if no one would know what time of year it was otherwise. She was surprised that Christmas decorations were allowed under Health and Safety regulations. This was one occasion when she would have welcomed a memo. She was tempted to write one herself, but knew she’d be nicknamed ‘Scrooge’ for the rest of her career.
There was a desultory display of Christmas cards on top of the filing cabinets. Most of the cards were from other agencies, one from their local MP. Cooper had received a few personal messages from members of the public – ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done for us’, that sort of thing. Tasteless cards with teddy bears and glittery nativities, signed with little hearts. He’d put them among the general collection, but that only made it worse.