Stephen Booth - Dancing With the Virgins

Weenink simply stared at the cycle hire man. This was his principal interrogation technique, the intimidatory stare. He had perfected the art of silent disbelief.

‘You’re quite observant really, Don,’ said Cooper.

‘I think so. You see all sorts here, you know. You get to recognize the types.’

‘It was a quarter to one when she came in, you said.’

‘That’s right. It’s in the book.’

‘You saw her arrive, did you?’

‘Yeah. I was standing in the doorway there, as it happens. It was quiet, like now. Maybe not so quiet as this, but quiet anyway. I saw her car pull up. A Fiat, right? So I came back in, and I had a bike ready for her. I knew what she’d want.’

‘Where did she park?’ asked Weenink, though he knew exactly where the Fiat had been found.

‘Just over there, the first bay on the left.’

‘Were there any other cars here?’

‘One or two. Three or four, maybe. I didn’t really count them.’

‘Anybody else that you knew? Any other regulars?’

‘No. But the ones who hired bikes are in the book here. The other policemen took their names and addresses. Of course, there are some folk who bring their own bikes. They don’t come in here at all unless they want a map or something, or they want to ask directions. Some walk or go jogging. Them I don’t notice so much.’

Cooper turned the book round to look at it. The next bike hire recorded after Jenny Weston’s entry was nearly half an hour later, when a tandem had been signed out to a couple called Sharman, from Matlock. Other hirers weren’t his concern, for now. Checking them out was somebody else’s job.

‘Did Jenny Weston ever tell you where she was heading?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Don. ‘But she usually set off eastwards, down the trail towards Ashbourne.’

‘Is that what she did yesterday?’

‘That’s right. It’s sensible for somebody on their own to tell me where they’re going. In case they have an accident or something, you know. There are times when people get lost and are really late back with the bikes. You start to wonder whether something’s happened to them. But there’s not much you can do, if you’ve no idea where they’ve set off to.’

‘Jenny’s bike was overdue for being returned, wasn’t it?’

‘Yeah, it was. She had a three-hour ticket. It should have been back here by a quarter to four, by rights. You have to pay extra if you go over — two pounds more. Or you can lose your twenty quid altogether. We’re supposed to close at dusk anyway.’

‘Did you worry about the fact she wasn’t back?’

‘I thought it was unusual, that’s all. There’s plenty of folk late back. But it was odd for her. She’d never been late before, so I did wonder. But when it came time to close, I would have been reporting in. Head office would have made a decision whether to call you lot. But, of course, young Mark Roper found her before that, didn’t he?’

Cooper pricked up his ears. ‘How did you hear that?’

‘Owen Fox told me. He came through from the Ranger centre when he heard. It’s practically next door, see.’

‘Do you work closely with the Rangers?’

‘We help each other out a bit. I’ve known Owen Fox for years. Good bloke, Owen.’

Weenink had wandered past the wooden barrier and was examining the bikes stacked in the back of the building.

‘Hey, look at this.’ He had found a machine that looked like a wheelchair with a unicycle welded on to the front. It had no pedals, but there were two handles in front of the rider, attached to a gear wheel. Weenink squeezed himself into the seat and waggled the steering from side to side.

‘They’re hand-cranked,’ said Don, watching him cautiously. ‘For disabled people, you know.’

‘Brilliant.’

Cooper felt Weenink was starting to become an embarrassment. It always happened when he got bored.

‘Well, thanks for your time, Don.’

‘No problem. As you can see, I’ve got no customers.’

‘You might find it gets busier later on.’

‘Doubt it. Not at this time of the year, on a Monday. And half-term isn’t until next week.’

‘No, you don’t understand. Once people see the news about the murder, it’ll be crowded down here.’

Don looked shocked. ‘You’re kidding, aren’t you? Why should people want to come here?’

Cooper shrugged. ‘I can’t explain it. But they will.’

‘Oh, they’ll be running coach trips,’ said Weenink, grinning from the doorway. ‘Tours for Ghouls Limited.’

‘Not to mention the newspapers and the TV cameras.’

‘Blimey.’ Don looked nervously out of the doorway at the bike compound. ‘I didn’t expect that,’ he said. ‘I didn’t expect people would be like that. Perhaps I’d better ring the boss and ask if I can close up for the day.’

‘Close? Why would you want to do that? You could be a TV star, mate,’ said Weenink.

Don smiled uncertainly. As they walked away, he was watching the car park entrance. He still wasn’t sure whether they were joking.

Diane Fry always forgot. It slipped her mind every time how hopeful the family of a victim were when they saw the police on their doorstep in the early stages of an enquiry. They had such confidence, so often misplaced. An early resolution was their main hope, an end to the nightmare. They believed the police were doing their best, but rarely was a detective able to bring them hope.

Mr Weston was in the front garden of his house in Alfreton, raking leaves with an absorbed expression. He looked up sharply when he heard the police car pull into the drive. But DI Hitchens simply shook his head, and Weston turned back to his driveway and attacked the leaves with his rake as if he wanted to stab them into the ground.

‘Was there something else you wanted to ask?’ he said, when they reached him.

‘A few things, Mr Weston,’ said Hitchens. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Can’t be helped, I suppose. It’ll go on and on, won’t it?’

The Westons’ house was a large semi in a style that might have been called 1920s mock Tudor, with stucco above and brick below. The Tudor effect was achieved by a few stray bits of black wood, which supported nothing, inserted into the walls.

But the house was substantial and well cared for. The front door was of some oak-like wood, and through the bay window Fry caught a glimpse of a lounge with cast-iron wall lights in the shape of flaming torches, a wheel-shaped chandelier supporting electric candles and a log basket on a brick hearth.

‘I’ve taken compassionate leave for a few days,’ said Weston. ‘I need to look after Susan. The head of my school has been very understanding.’

Fry became aware of Mrs Weston standing in the background, listening. She was pale and looked tired.

‘Have you found Martin Stafford?’ she asked.

‘Not yet, Mrs Weston,’ said Hitchens.

‘So he’s got away.’

‘We’ll locate him, eventually.’

‘He always had a violent tendency.’

‘We want to eliminate him from the enquiry, obviously.’

Mrs Weston stared at him as if she didn’t understand what he was saying.

‘Susan — ’ said her husband.

‘I always said he was no good,’ she said. ‘I was always afraid it would come to this.’

‘I don’t think we know any more about Martin Stafford than we’ve told you already,’ said Mr Weston. ‘There might be something at the house in Totley, I suppose. I mean Jenny’s house. He might have written to her or something.’

‘Trying to creep back,’ said his wife.

‘We’ve already looked there,’ said Hitchens. ‘We found this — ’

The Westons examined the photocopy that he showed them. It was a note rather than a letter — just a few lines about an arrangement to meet somewhere. But it was addressed to Jenny, and it was written in terms that suggested a close relationship.