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With every moment that passed, PC Knott was getting more and more worried that there were things he ought to be doing. It had been a long, tedious night shift. And now, right at the end of it, Knott and his partner actually had an interesting call to attend. They were FOA at a suspicious death – the first officers to arrive. And that brought sudden responsibilities, the knowledge that the actions they took, or didn’t take, right now could affect the whole investigation, if it turned out to be a case of murder.
Their first priorities had been to assess and protect the scene. And he knew the first rule was not to interfere with anything at the scene, once they were sure that the victim was actually dead. But he hated standing around doing nothing. It went against his instincts. Knott wanted to poke around, to identify the victim, to try to figure out what had happened.
As more time passed, the urge to do something was becoming stronger. Knott told himself it would impress the senior officers when they arrived. But he looked at his partner, who was trying to find something secure to fasten the end of the blue-and-white tape to, and he was glad he wasn’t on his own. A bad mistake would be too easy to make. Above all things, any evidence at the scene had to be preserved from contamination. Knott looked at the sky, praying that the rain would hold off, because they had no means of protecting the body if the weather broke.
There was the noise of a car engine, whining as it approached.
‘Who’s that coming?’ said Knott.
‘Let’s hope it’s the medical examiner.’
They both looked down the hill, watching the spot where the track crested the rise and emerged from the banks of heather. Nothing appeared. Yet the sound of the engine became louder and louder, until it almost seemed to be on top of them.
‘Bloody hell!’ said Knott, spinning round. A black Mitsubishi pick-up was only a few yards away from them. But it was travelling down the hill, not up.
‘Where did that come from?’
‘I don’t know, but he’s going to drive right through the tape, if we don’t stop him,’ said Knott.
‘He’d better not, or we’re dead meat.’
‘Stop him, then.’
They both began waving and running towards the vehicle. The driver had already slowed to a crawl as he bumped over the stony track, and he finally came to a halt a few feet from the air shaft. He lowered the driver’s window.
‘What’s the problem?’ he said.
‘I’m afraid you can’t come through here, sir. This is a crime scene.’
‘A what?’
‘A crime scene, sir. There’s been a fatality.’
‘Oh.’
‘So if you don’t mind, sir –’
‘Has somebody been hurt, then?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Who is it?’
‘We don’t know. But I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to reverse back up the track. You need to turn round and go back the way you came.’
The driver leaned out of his window to look down the track. ‘I could just about squeeze past. The ground’s quite dry here, so I think the four-wheel drive could cope.’
‘No, sir. Go back, please.’
‘It’s a damned nuisance.’
‘Could I ask your name, sir?’
‘It’s Dearden.’
‘And whereabouts do you live?’
‘Over the other side of the hill. Shepley Head Lodge.’
Knott looked at his partner, who shrugged. ‘Surely you could take the road through Withens, Mr Dearden?’ he said.
‘Maybe.’
‘It would be much easier than negotiating this track, I would have thought. You’ll get a lot less damage to your suspension and your tyres, anyway.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Where are you heading for, sir?’
‘Glossop.’
‘Glossop? Well, this isn’t even a shortcut. You’d have to go back up the A628 to where the Withens road comes out anyway.’
‘All right, all right. I’m going.’
He revved the Mitsubishi, looked over his shoulder and began reversing up the hill towards where the track widened out at the old quarry.
Knott looked at the body of the young man. ‘If Mr Dearden lives nearby, maybe we should have asked him if he recognized the body,’ he said. ‘He might have been able to give us a quick ID.’
‘This lad won’t be from round here,’ said the other officer confidently.
‘You sure?’
‘They never are. Besides …’
‘What?’
‘I didn’t like the look of Mr Dearden too much. What was he doing driving over this way, when he could have gone up the Withens road? It would have been a lot easier and quicker for him. It doesn’t make sense.’
Knott shrugged. ‘Beats me. But take a note of his registration number before we lose sight of him anyway,’ he said, as he watched the Mitsubishi do a three-point turn. ‘We’ll pass his name on to CID. When they arrive.’
‘Who do you suppose we’ll get?’
‘Some bugger who’ll tell us we’ve done everything wrong,’ said PC Knott.
Detective Chief Inspector Oliver Kessen was a recent arrival in E Division. Some of the CID officers in the sections didn’t know him very well yet, but they were allowing him time to settle into the job.
His predecessor, DCI Stewart Tailby, had moved to his new job in the Corporate Development department at county headquarters in Ripley. Yet it was surprising how often he was to be seen hanging around West Street like a ghost, trying to engage his old colleagues in conversation. It was as if he was reluctant to let go of his old job, to leave his old patch behind. Maybe he was frightened that everyone would forget him, once he had truly gone. But gradually he was losing touch with what was going on in E Division. More and more new officers were arriving at the station who had no idea who he was.
By the time Kessen arrived at the scene by the air shaft, the forensic medical examiner had already attended, and the machinery for an enquiry into a suspicious death was starting to get into action. PC Knott was being kept occupied controlling access and recording the names of everyone who arrived in the scene log.
‘The victim is male, appears to be in his early twenties, and has suffered serious head injuries,’ said DI Paul Hitchens, as DCI Kessen struggled up the last few yards of the slope.
The track below was already filling up with police vehicles. Their white and orange looked ludicrously out of place in the dark, bare expanses of peat moor.
Kessen simply nodded, and took up a position from where he could see the body without entering the taped-off area. He was wearing a heavy overcoat that made him look twice his normal size and hid his real shape. He had a habit of keeping his lips pushed together, and he rarely smiled. When he did, he revealed crooked teeth that would have benefited from an orthodontist.
‘The doctor thinks that death occurred over twenty-four hours ago, from the condition of the body. The attendance of the pathologist has been requested, I understand?’
Kessen nodded again. He found a packet of mints in the pocket of his coat and put one in his mouth. He didn’t offer Hitchens one.
‘The SOCOs are here. At least they can start getting their photographs and videos before the pathologist arrives. If we get Mrs Van Doon, things should move quickly. The body was discovered by a couple of firefighters from Glossop. Luckily, they had the sense not to mess around too much with the scene.’
The DCI didn’t reply. His mouth moved as he sucked his mint. His eyes were fixed on the area marked off by tape, where the scenes of crime officers were clustering.
‘The Crime Scene Manager has established an approach path, and the major incident vehicle is on the way,’ said Hitchens. ‘And the really good news is that we’ve found an unattended car, parked in a lay-by just below here on the A628. It’s an old Volkswagen Beetle. If it turns out to belong to the victim, we could be in luck. This could be a forty-eight-hour job.’
Kessen coughed. Hitchens looked at him as if he thought he might actually be going to say something. But he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief from his pocket, and began to chew his mint again.
‘I assume you want to assess the body with the pathologist?’ said Hitchens. ‘Or would you rather I briefed you later? Perhaps you have other things to do?’
‘I want full forensic exploitation of the scene,’ said Kessen, without looking at him. ‘Tell them to extend the tape three yards up the hill, and two yards beyond the scene on the other side. There’s a disturbed area of bracken to the east of here that must be preserved. I want soil samples taken from three sites I’ll mark on the map. And get all these vehicles moved back down the track fifty yards. Nobody comes beyond that point, except the pathologist and the SOCOs. And for God’s sake, keep that person with the video camera away from whatever this stone structure is. He’s leaving his traces all over the bloody thing.’
‘It’s a ventilation shaft,’ said Hitchens.
‘I’ll be in my car. Let me know when the pathologist is ready for me.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Would you like a mint, Inspector?’
Hitchens took a mint from the packet he was offered, and stood with it in his fingers as he watched DCI Kessen walk back down the track to his car. Then he turned to look for the Crime Scene Manager.
The smell of a dead body was unmistakable. Ripe, sweet and intimate. Ben Cooper could detect it hanging around in the vicinity of the air shaft as soon as he arrived. It was as if an obscene tropical plant had suddenly flowered in the middle of the peat moor, spreading its noxious scent for hundreds of yards downwind.
By the time Cooper had made his way past the cluster of police vehicles, a small group of white-suited and masked figures was already moving forward beyond the tape to approach the body. Though they were difficult to identify, one would be the pathologist, Juliana Van Doon, and the others the Crime Scene Manager and the Senior Investigating Officer. He thought the stiff, stocky figure whose suit didn’t fit properly was probably DCI Oliver Kessen, who was therefore presumably SIO. Their approach was being recorded on video by a scenes of crime officer.
Cooper joined the officers he could see standing back from the scene. DI Hitchens was talking on his mobile phone, maybe trying to round up more specialized help for a search, or the attendance of a forensic scientist. There was also a detective sergeant he knew, but no sign of Diane Fry.
Though the day was mild and a breeze blew across the moor, a trickle of steam was drifting from the mouth of the air shaft, as if it were a kettle that had recently finished boiling.
A hundred yards into the heather, a pair of lapwing lifted and began to circle at a distance. A curlew was calling, but it was impossible to locate it against the landscape. Its bubbling song rolled around the slopes of the surrounding hills like running water.
The air shaft itself was at least twelve feet high, and about eighteen feet across, much too high to get a look inside without a ladder. It had been rebuilt at some time – and the builders had used any piece of stone that came to hand. Some were the original dressed chunks of sandstone, blackened by soot from the steam trains that had passed below ground. But in between there were smaller pieces of clean stone, their golds and reds mortared together with the black in a rough patchwork. From a distance, the result gave the air shaft a look of being in camouflage. It blended in well against the hillside behind it. It looked solid enough, but on the windward side the mortar was already beginning to crumble. No trained waller had rebuilt this.
It was one of those spells when there was nothing to do but wait. Cooper walked a little way across the peat from the air shaft. A snipe took off from almost under his feet, where it had been nesting invisibly in a boggy patch, hoping no one would notice it.
All around him, he could see the wet, black mounds of the moors, broken by small valleys. In some of these places, the peat had been eroded right to the bedrock, worn down to the bone.
Cooper tried to orientate himself to figure out which valley had Withens somewhere at the bottom. He located it by the trees and a glimpse of a road disappearing over a rise. He thought this air shaft was the one he had been able to see from the roadside above Withens.
He could see patterns burned into the heather moors below the road. They were so precise that they looked almost like giant letters, with exact verticals and horizontals linked neatly together. In fact, the series of shapes could have been a message designed to be read only by aliens in outer space. Cooper hoped the aliens had good dictionaries – the message seemed to consist entirely of ‘H’s.
In the midst of the high, empty spaces, the skyline was broken by a line of lorries heading towards Manchester on the A628. Somewhere up there were the remains of one of the ancient guide marks for the old packhorse roads. They were the only remaining signs of the trade that had once passed across these moors before the turnpike roads and railways had arrived. Medieval salters and badgers had relied on those stone markers to guide them across featureless terrain in all kinds of weather. The Dark Peak moors had created an almost impassable barrier. Even now, there was only the one road through Longdendale.
Activity behind him made him turn and join the group of officers. A quick search of the area around the body and the victim’s clothing had produced a wallet, with identification. The information was passed back from the area cordoned off at the air shaft.
‘Name of Neil Granger, with an address in Tintwistle,’ said DI Hitchens.
‘That’s only a few miles down Longdendale from here, sir.’
‘Good. Let’s hope we can keep it local.’
After a few minutes, DCI Kessen made his way carefully away from the body via the approach path that had been marked out. The protective suit did him no favours – his paunch protruded like a round cushion. Kessen stood a few feet away and waited patiently until he had everyone’s attention.
‘We have an ID, as you know,’ he said. ‘There are cash and credit cards in the victim’s wallet, so it seems we’re looking for a motive other than robbery. And down in a lay-by on the main road, we have a vehicle whose registered owner matches the ID from the victim.’
The DCI spoke in a flat, matter-of-fact tone that made him sound almost as if he were bored. But Cooper decided he quite liked it. It had an air of calmness and confidence that was sometimes lacking at the start of a major enquiry.
‘It’s an open scene, of course, but the perpetrator must have left some traces on his approach or departure, so I intend to fully exploit all forensic opportunities. And if the victim came up here voluntarily, then he came for a reason – and possibly in the company of his attacker. A check on the victim’s associates and his recent movements will produce some early lines of enquiry, I’m sure. Where’s the nearest civilization – anyone know?’
‘A village called Withens, sir,’ said Cooper. ‘Down in the valley to the east.’
‘Know it, do you?’
Kessen’s gaze was steady, almost impersonal. Cooper wondered whether the DCI had forgotten his name.
‘Yes, sir. I’m seconded to the Rural Crime Team for some enquiries down there, and I’m in the middle of conducting interviews. In fact, if this is the same Neil Granger, he’s related to several of the residents of Withens, and the vicar was expecting to see him yesterday.’
‘Ah. Keep on it, then. There’s a local connection here, I’m sure of it. And while you’re in Withens, you can have a word with this Michael Dearden, who the FOAs had to turn back from the scene in his car. In fact, perhaps you can do that first, in case there’s anything of interest. Find out what he was doing up that track in his four-wheel drive when there’s a perfectly good road. We looked at the maps, and he must have driven up past a disused quarry called Far Clough.’
‘I’ll find it.’
DI Hitchens rubbed his hands. ‘Yes, it could be fairly straightforward, sir,’ he said. ‘That was my own feeling from the start.’
Kessen looked at him, and said nothing. Behind the DCI, Neil Granger’s body was being turned over for the video cameras. And everyone could see that the victim’s face was covered in black make-up, streaked by the blood from his wounds.
11 (#ulink_7f1995ea-8efb-5581-9fc4-bc22a1bc6c3a)
In Withens, a few elderly people were arriving at the church as Ben Cooper drove past. Perhaps the vicar held an afternoon service for them. Cooper looked for the Reverend Alton in the churchyard, but couldn’t see him.
At Waterloo Terrace, some children watched him pass. Their bikes lay on the ground in a tangle, the spokes of their wheels lying on top of each other in complex patterns. There were two boys around the age of fifteen, one with short-cropped hair and the other with gelled spikes. There was a girl of about the same age, and a smaller boy who couldn’t be more than ten, who leered aggressively at the car. Behind them, Cooper glimpsed a taller figure, a well-built young man in his twenties. Could that be Scott Oxley, the eldest son?
Cooper barely had time to think about it before he found himself driving out of the village to the east, where he passed an old man standing in the road. In fact, he had to slow right down to avoid running him over. The man was wearing a tight tweed jacket and a pair of baggy trousers that had been made for a younger, bulkier man – a man who had worn them until the seat shone and the edges of the pockets were frayed like lace.
Cooper wound down the window of the Toyota.
‘I’m looking for Shepley Head Lodge,’ he said. ‘Am I on the right road?’
