Stephen Booth - Dancing With the Virgins

‘Not to mention scrapyards,’ said Fry.

‘Funny that people never seem to think of that, isn’t it? As if the countryside is here just for them to use as a huge dump-it site.’

‘We’re not here to worry about the environment, Ben. Leave that to your friends with the red jackets.’

But Cooper was still frowning. ‘And if you were going to do that, why leave the plates on? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘It isn’t our concern. We’ll pass it on to uniformed section.’

‘The funniest thing, though. .’ said Cooper, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Have you noticed? The funniest thing about this van. . is the smell.’

Fry sniffed, but shook her head. ‘Why, what is it? Petrol?’

‘No,’ said Cooper.

‘Well, what then?’

Cooper stared at the side door of the van, his head cocked on one side as though he was listening to the sounds of its suspension rusting, or its rubber seals slowly rotting in the damp air. He waited until he was absolutely sure of what his senses were telling him.

‘Chicken curry,’ he said.

Mark Roper had watched the police walk away from the farmhouse at Ringham Edge. They hadn’t got into the house, no more than anybody ever did. At first, he had thought the woman with Detective Constable Cooper might have been a social worker. Yvonne Leach had looked nervous when she opened the door, but it had soon become clear they had no knowledge or power that she might be afraid of. They hadn’t even glanced at the big shed behind the farmhouse, either.

For Mark, the choice was impossible. If he went to the police with his suspicions, it would be obvious where the information had come from. Obvious to Warren Leach, at least. It would be bad for farmers to get the idea that Rangers were spying on them, reporting them to the police, to social workers, or to the RSPCA over things that were none of the Rangers’ business. That would do nothing for relationships with landowners, which Owen said were so important to the Peak District National Park. There was no point in antagonizing Leach any further, so Owen said.

The source of the information would be obvious to Owen, too. And that would be even worse.

Mark moved slightly as Yvonne Leach crossed the yard. He knew his outline was camouflaged by the trees behind him on the hillside, and his red jacket was below the level of the stone wall. Mrs Leach wouldn’t see him, anyway. The woman was too absorbed in her own troubles to see what went on around her. Leach himself had gone out an hour before. There had been police parked up the hill under the beeches, but they had ignored the farmer. They had nothing on Warren Leach, then. Not yet. Mark would have to wait a bit longer.

He wondered what Owen would do in the same situation. Probably he would recommend patience. But how long could you be expected to wait? How long could Mark be patient?

Cautiously, Ben Cooper put his ear to the cold metal. It felt damp and uncomfortable. Fry looked as though she was about to speak, but he hastily held up a hand to silence her. He could hear vague stirrings from inside the van; he could even feel a slight movement in the side panel as the springs of the suspension shifted.

He gestured to Fry, and they both walked away from the van until they were out of earshot.

‘There’s definitely somebody in there. What do we do?’

Fry had no hesitation. ‘We get some back-up before we do anything. No heroics. Not even from you, understand?’

‘Fair enough,’ said Cooper, and held his hands up like a man pleading for a truce.

Fry called in, and they waited, watching the van. They knew there were officers not far away, up on the moor. They had no more than a few minutes to wait — but it could seem like a long time.

Finally, a uniformed sergeant and two PCs in stab-proof vests, with their hands on their side-handled batons, walked up to the van. As Cooper and Fry watched, the sergeant banged on the side door.

‘Police! Open up!’

The sergeant had a heavy fist and his pounding made a noise that must have reverberated deafeningly inside the van. There was a sudden scuffling and muffled cursing, a moment of silence, then a clunk as the latch on the side door went down. The door began to move, screeching as its runner stuck, then sliding slowly open. The officers near the van tensed and took a couple of steps backwards.

‘What do you want, man? Oh, shit.’

When the door was open about a foot, a face appeared, masked by a straggly beard and a woollen hat. The face was low down towards the floor of the van, with a bare arm stretched up to the handle. The rest of his body was wrapped up in a sleeping bag. All that was visible was the head and one arm.

‘Step out of the van, please,’ said the sergeant.

‘You what?’

‘Step out of the van, please, sir. Let me see your hands as you come out.’

‘I’m in fucking bed. What do you want?’

‘We need to talk to you. Is there anyone else in there?’

The sergeant ducked his head through the door, well clear of possible contact with the figure on the floor, and quick enough to avoid the door being slammed on his head.

‘Right. Let’s have both of you out. Sharp, now.’

Standing behind the sergeant, Cooper breathed deeply. A whole miasma of smells had been released by the opening of the door — not just the aroma of the chicken curry that had been eaten recently, but a small army of scents that competed with it for attention. Some of the smells were dark and musty, others sharp and metallic. Cooper longed to get inside the van and absorb the sensations. But he stood waiting patiently while the sergeant urged the occupants out into the welcoming arms of his constables.

‘Come on, come on. Let’s have you, son.’

‘Oh God, hang on then.’

The face disappeared for a few seconds, and there was a heaving as a body was hauled from a sleeping bag. The sergeant kept a hand causally on the door. Finally, a young man emerged, bundled in clothes and muttering. He sat on the step of the van until one of the PCs helped him up.

‘And your girlfriend as well. Out here.’

A second figure came out of the gloom, a slight, narrow-shouldered figure, moving more slowly, like someone still half-asleep. No — more than half-asleep, an actual sleep walker, with eyes that were barely aware of what was around them, as if they were focused on a dream world that no one else could see. This one said nothing, merely peering from a mass of tangled blond hair at the watching faces with faintly inquisitive eyes. Not angry or nervous, thought Cooper. Not frightened or aggressive. Just slightly puzzled, as if she had noticed an unfamiliar noise or spotted an animal she didn’t recognize. She was clutching a blanket to her chest with thin, pale hands.

Cooper left Fry’s side and moved a step closer to the van and took another sniff. There was no scent of drugs that he recognized. If they had been smoking cannabis inside the van, it would be detectable to the nose. But that didn’t mean they hadn’t been taking something else. He looked at the sergeant, who nodded in agreement. It might be an excuse for searching the van, if they wanted it. They could get a dog down here and take the vehicle apart in no time.

‘Are you the owner of this vehicle?’ the sergeant asked the youth with the straggly beard.

‘Yes, it’s mine,’ he said. ‘And it’s not nicked.’

‘Right. Let’s have your names.’

‘We’re not doing anything wrong.’

‘Names. You first.’ The sergeant pointed at the youth.

‘Homer Simpson,’ he said.

Cooper and Fry smiled. At first, the youth might actually have thought they were appreciating the joke. But advance information was very useful.