Blind to the Bones (16 page)

‘Yes, I'm fine,' she said.

‘I just thought you seemed a bit down today.'

‘Down?'

‘Fed up. I don't want to intrude, but if you ever wanted to have a chat, you know, we could go out for a drink some time.'

Fry tried to remember what they might have talked about at Mr Tailby's party. Had she given the impression she wanted to be friendly? Surely she hadn't told Liz Petty anything about her private life?

‘Well, thanks for the offer,' she said.

‘That's OK, Diane. Just let me know.' Petty stood up and stretched her legs, rustling in her white protective suit. ‘Anyway, I'm about to pack up here. There's a suspicious death up in Longdendale they need some assistance with.'

‘Yes, I know,' said Fry. ‘I heard.'

‘You're not going to be working on it?'

‘Apparently, not. I have enough to contend with at the moment.'

Petty clambered over the wall and began to put away her equipment in her van. ‘It probably won't be anything interesting anyway,' she said.

Fry looked at the grass where Emma Renshaw's mobile phone had been found, and thought of Emma's parents, perhaps waiting even now for their daughter to come home.

‘Probably not,' she said. ‘But at least it might be something in the real world.'

T
he police officers protecting the scene at the air shaft were starting to get a bit edgy. The place was difficult to find, and it had taken a couple of attempts by the fire service to guide them up the track. Another patrol car had been positioned at the gateway off the A628, but there was no sign yet of the rest of the team – the forensic medical examiner, the CID, the Scientific Support van, or the senior officer who would take charge.

The gradual arrival of daylight made the scene look even worse than it had in the light of their torches. PC Greg Knott was the more experienced officer. He had attended sudden deaths before, and he knew from the smell, and the condition of the area surrounding the body, that this death had occurred some time ago. The gases building up in the body as decomposition set in had begun to expel the contents of the stomach and intestines, and blood from the victim's nose and ears caused a confusing picture of the injuries he had sustained.

Worst were the eyes, though. In the place where they should have been there were black, clotted pools that almost seemed to match the unnatural colour of the victim's face.

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.

D
etective 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.

T
he 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.