Stephen Booth - Dancing With the Virgins

‘Where is everyone?’ asked Fry, hushing her voice automatically at the first bounce of the echo from the breeze-block walls.

‘In the back, probably,’ said Cooper. ‘Near the sale rings.’

‘OK.’

She set off down the passageway opposite the ramp, walking between the steel pens.

‘Are you sure you want me to wait here, Diane?’

‘Yes. Just keep an eye out.’

‘I might be able to show you the way,’ called Cooper, his voice getting louder and more insistent, echoing in the roof space.

‘For God’s sake,’ she snapped. ‘I can find my way through an empty building without your assistance.’

Fry had hardly got halfway down the passage when a gate clanged open somewhere. She heard Cooper call something else to her, a single word that sounded like an insult. She couldn’t quite hear what he said because of the noise, a crashing of gates and the thudding of hooves on concrete. But she reacted angrily to the sound of the word, and turned to answer him.

‘Did you say “bollocks”?’ she yelled.

Cooper began to shake his head and opened his mouth to shout at her again. But Fry was distracted by a vibration in the ground, the impression of an earthquake approaching from behind. She turned and saw double doors open and a great bellowing rush of animals burst through the gap into the passage where she was standing. The heaving beasts filled the entire width of the passageway as they barrelled towards her.

Fry spun to her left and found a section of brick wall and a six-foot wide pen that had long since lost its gate. She dodged into the pen as the cattle reached her, but found one of the animals following her blindly, barged aside by the rush of its companions. It was frightened and angry, and it swung its head from side to side, catching her clothes with the sharp points of its horns. She backed against the wall, braced herself and lashed out with a kick, which landed on the animal’s heavily muscled shoulder. It hardly seemed to notice.

Now the beast was confused. It slipped and lurched around the pen, making Fry jump to keep her feet out of the way of its hooves. She smacked it twice on the nose with her fist. It shook its head, and backed off. She took the opportunity to leap out of the way over the nearest gate and into the next pen, where she slipped on the damp floor, twisted her ankle and fell flat on her back.

She became aware of Ben Cooper standing over her. She was infuriated to see a smile playing across his face as he looked down at her.

‘Actually, I shouted “bullocks”,’ he said.

The driver of the transporter had appeared and joined Cooper on the loading bay as the cattle thundered up the ramp into the wagon. He watched in amazement as Fry clambered from pen to pen.

‘You could hurt yourself doing that,’ he said.

Looking around for someone to blame, Fry saw a dark-haired youth in a pair of green wellingtons coming towards her.

‘I nearly got trampled by those animals then,’ she said. ‘Aren’t there any precautions?’

The youth merely chortled, flapping uneven teeth at her as he passed. Behind him, Abel Pilkington himself glowered from the wall of the sale ring, hooking his thumbs through the braces of his overalls.

‘Any fool knows not to stand in the passages when cattle’s being moved. How did you get in?’ he said.

‘Through the loading bay.’

‘Well, you’ve no right. There’s signs, you know. Authorized persons only past this point, they say.’

The dark-haired youth had connected a thick hose to a tap. A high-pressure jet began to hit the ground where the cattle had passed, and water cascaded down the passageway. Fry had to raise her voice above the noise, but Pilkington seemed used to it.

‘We’re looking for Keith Teasdale,’ she said.

‘Why didn’t you say so? He’s not here. Once we finish the sale, he goes off to his other job. Down at Lowbridge.’

‘Do you mean the abattoir?’ said Cooper.

‘That’s it. That’s where you’ll find Slasher Teasdale.’

‘Why Slasher?’ said Fry.

‘It’s a nickname. If you ask him nicely, happen he’ll demonstrate.’

Pilkington continued to glower at them, and didn’t bother saying goodbye as they walked back towards the loading bay. By the time they reached the car, Fry was limping slightly.

‘Have you hurt your leg?’ said Cooper.

‘I slipped, that’s all. The floor’s wet in some of those pens.’

‘Diane, you’ve, er, got your shoes a bit messy, too. It looks like cow shit.’

Fry looked down at her feet. ‘Bullocks’,’ she said.

Lowbridge was called a village, but the spread of development along the valley bottom from Edendale meant there was no distinction any more between the two places — no green fields or farms to separate them, only a road sign indicating the point where one house was in Edendale and the one next door was in Lowbridge.

The abattoir was off the Castleton Road. Unlike the cattle market, it was modern and clean, all stainless steel and white tiles, like a vast urinal, its surfaces washed constantly. The air smelled of disinfectant, and the men moving around inside sloshed about in plastic aprons and thigh boots, with white caps covering their hair. The atmosphere reminded Fry of a hospital operating theatre.

‘Ben,’ she said, ‘I know Teasdale claims to have a legitimate reason to be in the Ringham area when Jenny Weston was killed. .’

‘But you’re sceptical. Maybe you’re thinking about this nickname, Slasher. But it would be a bit of a giveaway, don’t you think? Like a burglar wearing a striped sweater and carrying a bag marked “swag”.’

‘Look at this place he works. Don’t you think he might have some expertise with a knife — and access to a nice, sharp blade of his choice?’ She got irritated when he didn’t respond. ‘Too obvious for you, is it? I suppose you prefer to look for the inner meaning of things?’

‘Not necessarily. But I find keeping an open mind allows a bit of fresh air in.’

‘Don’t talk to me about an open mind. Your mind is so rustic it should be in a woolly coat with a sheepdog behind it.’

‘Thanks.’

Fry took a deep breath. ‘Let’s have a word with Teasdale’s employer before we speak to the man himself.’

She took a cautious peek round the wall into the building, and was relieved to see no dead animals, and no blood.

‘Teasdale?’ said the manager when they found him in his office. ‘Keith Teasdale? Yes, he’s on the books.’

The office was like any other — a computer in the corner and a desk littered with paperwork. From the extent of it, it looked as though an abattoir manager might actually have more paperwork to deal with than a police officer, though it was hard to believe. The manager had his work clothes in a kind of ante-room with a washbasin.

‘Well, you can talk to Teasdale if you really want to. He’s around the place somewhere.’

‘How long has he been with you?’ asked Fry.

‘Oh, a year or two. I’m not sure exactly without looking it up. He’s not one of the full-time staff, you know.’

‘But experienced, though?’

‘Experienced? Well. . In what way?’

‘Experienced in the use of a knife? For bleeding animals. Gutting, and so on. Whatever it is you do here.’

‘Teasdale?’ The manager stared at Fry. ‘We are talking about Keith Teasdale?’

‘I believe so, sir.’

The manager began to laugh. ‘Expertise with a knife.’ He laughed some more. Cooper and Fry looked at each other.

‘Could we share the joke?’ asked Fry.

The manager pulled a tissue from a box on the desk. They expected him to wipe the tears of laughter from his eyes. But instead he began to wipe his hands, rubbing between the fingers as if to dry a sudden outbreak of sweat.