Stephen Booth - The Dead Place

‘Mum?’

Her eyes were closed — as if she, too, were asleep. He wondered what she’d be dreaming about. Ben put his palm against her forehead. It was smooth — smoother than her skin had been for years. And much cooler, too.

He looked at the unnatural whiteness of her still face, and at first he thought that she must have been replaced with a marble statue of herself while he slept. A beautiful statue, finely sculpted, but lacking the vital spark of life.

‘Mum?’

But he’d seen it often enough to know the truth. His mother’s stillness was beyond sleep, beyond the slightest trace of breathing.

Ben laid his mother’s hand gently on the cover, making sure it was in a comfortable position. Then he patted it twice and looked up at the window. He wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to feel at this moment. He’d expected to go through all kinds of emotions, but none of them seemed to come. There was only a spreading numbness, a sort of emptiness waiting for something to fill it.

Finally, he got up from the bed and opened the door. He turned once and took a last look at his mother. She seemed peaceful, for which he was grateful. And her bed had recently been made, so that she looked neat and tidy, clean and comfortable. That seemed to be important, too.

Slowly, Ben walked the few yards down the corridor to the nurses’ station. A young nurse in a blue uniform looked up at him, and smiled.

‘Yes, sir? Is there anything I can do for you?’

‘It’s my mother,’ he said. ‘I think she’s dead.’

Although it was two days after his mother had died, Diane Fry was still being unusually attentive. It made Cooper nervous. Like an efficient supervisor, she’d been concerned for his welfare, tentatively asking the usual questions to test his state of mind, his ability to do the job, and wondering whether she should send him home, in case he embarrassed his colleagues. And now she’d left a message asking him to meet her here at the sculpture trail in Tideswell Dale, if he felt up to it. What was all that about?

In the end, she’d even agreed to collect Cooper at his flat, since his foot had stiffened up and was making it impossible for him to drive.

‘We’ve had a busy two days,’ Fry said in the car.

‘I’m sorry I missed them.’

‘We’ve had a whole mass of interviews to do. Not just Abraham Slack — who still won’t talk, by the way. But we’ve also had Melvyn Hudson in, and Billy McGowan again. And your friend Tom Jarvis. He’s a straight talker, isn’t he? Mr Jarvis, I mean?’

‘Yes, you could say that.’

‘I quite liked him.’

Cooper’s eyebrows rose at that. Fry never liked anybody.

‘And he speaks highly of you, Ben.’

‘I don’t know why. I never did much for him.’

‘They were a mixed bunch, those three. But they had one thing in common. They all hated Richard Slack.’

Fry stopped to fumble for change and put some money in the machine for the car park. The gate was unlocked, allowing them to drive through on to the track that led up to the picnic area above the sculpture trail.

‘It doesn’t surprise me,’ said Cooper. ‘They all knew Vernon’s history, I suppose. And none of them wanted to put him through any more than he’d suffered already at the hands of his father.’

‘Clannish people in the funeral business, aren’t they?’

‘It’s “them and us”. Remember?’

‘Don’t I just?’

Fry got out of the car to close the gate. The choked stream moved sluggishly just below the track.

‘Look down there in the water,’ said Cooper.

‘What? I can’t see anything.’

‘Look at the plants.’

‘The giant rhubarb?’

‘That’s Gunnera manicata , from the South American swamps. But that wasn’t what I meant. I was looking at the other stuff, the giant hogweed.’

‘Oh, yeah. And where does that come from?’

‘The Caucasus, I think.’

‘I never knew the vegetation of Derbyshire was so cosmopolitan.’

‘Be careful you don’t touch it,’ he said, as Fry took a step closer to the edge of the stream.

‘Why?’

‘It secretes a sap that burns the skin and causes blisters. It’s a photosensitivity problem, I think. But it can cause temporary blindness, and in some cases serious long-term damage such as recurrent dermatitis. You daren’t cut the things down with a strimmer without wearing protective gear. They’re a real menace.’

‘Vernon Slack had blisters on his hands,’ said Fry.

‘He got them from touching giant hogweed while he was crossing the stream at Litton Foot.’

‘On his way to Fox House Farm.’

‘Yes.’

‘Apparently, he used to leave his motorbike at Tom Jarvis’s, then cross the stream and climb up through the woods. He told Jarvis he was doing a bit of poaching on the Alder Hall estate. He probably left him a rabbit or a pheasant occasionally, as proof.’

‘Did Jarvis ever suspect there was more to it?’

‘We don’t know,’ said Fry. ‘He doesn’t say.’

‘No, he doesn’t give much away. But it’s best to pay attention to what he does say.’

Fry frowned. ‘He was clearly being intimidated by someone. I think the poachers must have been trying to warn him away from their territory, don’t you? All that business with the dog and the bag of excreta.’

‘I never thought Tom Jarvis was the type to be easily intimidated,’ said Cooper.

‘Maybe.’

Cooper reflected that there had never been any evidence that the bag had actually existed, either. Mr Jarvis might have had reasons of his own for laying a false trail.

Fry parked at the edge of the picnic area, near enough to reach the carved miner overlooking the road. Cooper remembered these carvings from when the wood had been a sort of reddish golden brown. Now they were weathered from exposure and had developed a patina of green mould.

‘There must still be some of Audrey Steele’s bones scattered across the hillside over there,’ said Cooper. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever find the last bits of her.’

‘We’re not even looking for them any more,’ admitted Fry.

‘So they’ll stay there for ever, unless they turn up in a bird’s nest some day.’

‘What’s the matter, Ben?’

‘I’m wondering whether it’ll make any difference to her family. They thought they already had all of her once. Then Audrey turns up again, but some of her is missing. I’m not sure how I’d feel about that myself. I’m trying to work it through in my mind.’

‘If you really need to know, you could ask them,’ said Fry.

Cooper looked at her, feeling a brief pity at her lack of experience in human relationships.

‘People never tell the truth about any subject that has to do with death,’ he said. ‘They only tell you what you want to hear, or what they think sounds respectable. All of it is a pretence. No one can examine their true feelings about death too closely. It’s much too frightening.’

‘You mean people don’t want to admit they’re glad someone is dead, because they’re expected to show grief?’

Cooper turned away. ‘That isn’t really what I meant. But never mind.’

On the other hand, he knew it was possible for people to accept death into their lives in unusual ways, like Mrs Askew keeping her husband’s cremated remains in her terrarium. It was practical and down to earth, yet her husband was never completely out of her memory. He just hoped Mr Askew had been fond of small reptiles.

‘What did you mean, then?’ said Fry. She sounded as though she was trying hard not to be irritable with him.

But Cooper shook his head. ‘You know, I was initially misled by Ellen Walker’s comments about the weather on the day of Audrey’s funeral. I pictured the family standing outside the crematorium chapel, admiring the floral tributes in the sleet. But they didn’t go to the crem, only to the funeral service at St Mark’s. They decided not to witness the final disposal — and that was a form of denial in its way, of course. It was a decision that provided the opportunity for what came afterwards.’