Stephen Booth - The Corpse Bridge

Cooper was imagining a vast cathedral-like space filled with stacks of paper and cardboard boxes, but Latham hadn’t finished.

‘Well, the really interesting thing,’ he said, ‘is that St Martin’s had a small graveyard. Over the years graves had been dug deep and coffins stacked on top of each other to make maximum use of the available space. When the church was deconsecrated, the coffins were exhumed and moved to other graveyards. Rumour has it that some of them were never located and might still be buried under the grounds today.’

‘Really?’

Latham laughed gently. ‘Well, if it’s true, there’s a jacuzzi and a barbecue patio over the top of them now. Fortunately, those deepest graves would be very old burials. The forgotten ones.’

Cooper thought of Bowden village and Knowle Abbey, and some of the people he’d spoken to during the last few days.

‘I don’t think there are any forgotten ones in this case,’ he said.

Half an hour later Cooper was walking along the ragged lines of headstones in the burial ground at Bowden and looking at the names inscribed on them. Several familiar surnames appeared. Shaw, Beresford, Kilner, Mellor, Blair.

The church was still locked, even though it was Sunday. But then, it wasn’t just closed. It had been declared redundant. It would never be opened again, not as a place of worship at least. The bulldozer waiting behind the church took on a new meaning now. He could see it had nothing to do with the bonfire.

Mrs Mellor must have seen him from the window of the cottage and recognised him. She came across the green and walked through the graveyard to see what he was looking at.

‘Yes, some of my family are here too,’ she said, touching one of the gravestones.

‘So I see.’

‘I take it you know what’s going to happen to this? To the church and the graveyard?’

‘Yes, I know. But there have been objections from the families, haven’t there?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘But there are no plans to build over the burial ground itself. The church will be converted, probably for residential use. Then the burials that can be found will be removed and the graveyard will be landscaped. That’s what the plans say.’

‘Residential use, you think?’

‘Well, we’ve heard there’s a local artist who wants to turn the church into an art gallery. But it will probably be a holiday home for someone with plenty of money. Like the cottages.’

Cooper looked up. ‘Cottages?’

Mrs Mellor pointed. ‘There are a couple of cottages a bit further into the park. They used to be workers’ homes, but the tenants were given notice. They’re going to be converted into holiday rentals for tourists. Another money-spinner, no doubt.’

‘Was one of those the Blairs’ home?’

‘That’s right.’

She looked quite pleased with him, now that he had figured something out for himself, without being told.

‘It’s terrible about Sandra,’ she said. ‘I heard they confirmed that the body found at the bridge was hers.’

‘Yes.’

‘That family seem to have been fated.’

Mrs Mellor began to drift slowly away as Cooper stood for a few moments by the graves. For generations workers from the estate had been buried in this graveyard. They’d lived in tied cottages on the estate, paid their rent at the estate office, and owed their livelihoods to the earl. When they died, they were buried on the earl’s land. Where else would they go?

The Manbys themselves had their memorials at the Lady Chapel attached to the hall, instead of down here with the workers on the edge of the park. Now some of the workers’ cottages had to be vacated. They were going to be converted into holiday rentals for tourists. The burial ground would be deconsecrated by the bishop, the burials probably transferred to the cemetery at Buxton. The church would be advertised as a potential residential conversion. It would suit a couple looking for rural seclusion and wonderful views, as long as they had enough money to spend.

‘Mrs Mellor,’ called Cooper before the woman had left the graveyard. ‘Do you know Jason Shaw? Does he still have family here in Bowden?’

‘Jason? He has no family and no friends. Nobody has much to do with him. Why?’

‘We know he was in the area near the bridge when Sandra died.’

‘I can’t tell you much about him. He works at night. In fact, he’s a bit strange like that. He hardly ever goes out in the daylight.’

‘Well, it’s true it was dark at the time,’ said Cooper. ‘Mr Shaw said he was walking his dog that night.’

Mrs Mellor scowled. ‘He never walks that dog. It lives in a run in his yard. I call it cruel myself.’

Diane Fry had just finished a phone call with her DCI, Alistair Mackenzie. A team would be arriving from St Ann’s soon. This was no longer a case that could be left to Divisional CID.

The second body had been found at a place called Pilsbury Castle. Fry knew enough about the Peak District by now to guess that her mental image of a medieval fortress with high towers and a drawbridge leading over a moat to a portcullised gate would be completely wrong. Maps of England were still marked with the names of castles all over the countryside, but most of the buildings themselves seemed to be long gone.

And she turned out to be right, of course. Like so many other sites, there was nothing left at Pilsbury but a series of mounds and hollows, and a fragment of crumbling stone wall that only an archaeologist could have identified as a castle. Well, if it wasn’t for the interpretation boards anyway. You could read about the history, even if you couldn’t see it.

Apart from the forensic examiners and some uniformed officers, the only CID presence when she arrived was DC Luke Irvine. She’d been Irvine’s sergeant when she was serving in Edendale. She knew he was loyal to Ben Cooper. But that hardly mattered now.

At the inner cordon Fry found the crime-scene manager, Wayne Abbott, stripping off his mask and pulling back the hood of his scene suit. He grinned when he saw her. His face was slightly flushed, either from the warmth of the suit or the physical exertion of his task, or perhaps for some other reason entirely. He seemed unusually cheerful this morning, she thought. In fact, he was almost giggly. In other circumstances she might have said he was a bit tipsy. But surely not even Abbott would come on duty like that.

‘So what have you found?’ she asked when she reached the CSM.

‘Oh, eight million fingerprints,’ said Abbott breezily.

He laughed and Luke Irvine joined in. If Abbott had made a joke, Fry didn’t find it very funny. Not for the first time, she felt as though she were missing out on some aspect of everyday conversation. She hated the use of obscure allusions whose meaning seemed to be shared by relative strangers, but not by her.

‘ Exactly eight million?’ she said, with a frown.

Abbott sighed and shook his head. ‘Never mind.’

Fry looked at Irvine for an explanation, as she often did when she was baffled by something like this.

‘It’s a popular culture reference, Diane,’ he said patiently.

‘Oh. Don’t tell me — a TV show?’

‘Yes. Homeland . I suppose you’ve never heard of it?’

‘Some kind of property programme?’

‘No, Diane.’

Irvine seemed reluctant to explain it any further, so she left it at that. It didn’t matter anyway. Whatever Homeland was, it couldn’t be of any importance.

‘It looks as though your victim took a header off the crag up there,’ said Abbott. ‘There’s a bit of scuffling and more than one set of shoe marks. And we found a rip in the sleeve of the victim’s jacket, which doesn’t look as though it was caused by his collision with the tree.’