Stephen Booth - Dancing With the Virgins

‘We’d better get ready, if we’re going,’ said Karen.

‘Of course. But not for a minute yet.’

‘This is so decadent.’

‘I don’t care,’ said Marilyn.

‘Nor me.’

Marilyn Robb and Karen Tavisker had been friends for years. Twelve months previously, Marilyn and her husband had moved away to Herefordshire when Alan had been transferred to a new financial services centre at Ludlow. Now Marilyn was back for a visit with her old friend at Karen’s home in Mickleover — and the first thing she wanted to do was go for a walk in the Peak District, as they always had done before she moved away.

‘Where shall we go?’

‘Have you still got the OS maps?’

‘Of course. They’re right here. Dark Peak or White Peak?’

‘Hmm. Normally I might be feeling a bit dark. But today. .’

She looked out of the kitchen window. A brisk wind was tossing the dead leaves of the sycamores around the garden.

‘Yes, you’re right,’ said Karen. ‘It’ll be pretty wild up there today. Best to play safe.’

It might seem bright and breezy now, here in the leafy streets of Mickleover, but by the time they reached Buxton they would have climbed fifteen hundred feet and the climate would be totally different. On the tops, anything could be waiting for unwary walkers. In November, the hills of the Dark Peak could be merciless, with wind, rain and sleet ripping furiously across the shelterless stretches. Both women shivered as they contemplated it.

‘Somewhere in the White Peak then. It’s nearer, anyway.’

‘Why don’t we just set off and see where the car takes us?’

‘Why not? We’re ladies of leisure, after all.’

‘And a nice pub for lunch.’

‘Perfect.’

Like everyone else, Karen had heard of the women attacked on Ringham Moor. The Jenny Weston case had been in the papers for a few days, but other stories had replaced it now. There were always other, more newsworthy murders taking place somewhere around the country. Karen knew the police had been warning lone women to stay off the moor. But time had passed, and it had begun to feel safe again. And two women together? Surely they would be all right.

By the time they were dressed and had collected their boots and anoraks, they were becoming quite silly, like two schoolgirls on an outing. They found an old Bruce Springsteen tape at the back of the glove compartment in Karen’s car, and they sang along to the familiar tunes from fifteen years before, when they had been much younger and had enjoyed life together. They deafened each other with the chorus of ‘Dancing in the Dark’.

Marilyn began to talk about the people they had both known, years ago. Karen laughed, her spirits lifted by the company of her friend. She hadn’t decided consciously where they would go. But when they reached Ashbourne, she indicated left and turned on to the A515 towards Ringham Moor.

Diane Fry happened to be at Divisional Headquarters in West Street when the call came in. As soon as DI Hitchens appeared in the door of the CID room, she knew that something had happened. There was no mistaking that air of excitement that came when there had at last been a breakthrough in a frustrating case.

‘What is it?’ she said.

‘Another woman attacked,’ said Hitchens. ‘Near Ringham.’

Fry stood up, ready to go. ‘Dead?’

‘Oh no,’ said Hitchens, with the first hint of a smile. ‘This one’s very much alive. And shouting the place down.’

E Division’s problem had suddenly become a hot potato that nobody wanted. For the meeting later that morning, Detective Superintendent Prince made an appearance, looking like a man who had been reminded by the Assistant Chief Constable that he was supposed to be in charge.

Ben Cooper saw that even Owen Fox and Mark Roper were there. Owen looked uncomfortable in the stifling atmosphere. The heating had been turned up for the winter, but there were too many people in the room and there was no air conditioning. Away from the open air, Owen seemed out of his element. He was a slow, quietly-spoken middle-aged man among a crowd of younger people who were much noisier, more self-confident and aggressive. His untidy hair and beard made him look his age.

Also, Cooper now realized that it was only Owen’s fleece jacket that was red. The jacket was so distinctive that he hadn’t really noticed the rest of the Ranger’s uniform before. Apart from the red fleece, everything else that he wore was grey — the shirt, the trousers, the sweater. Without the jacket, the Ranger would be a grey man.

‘Well, if this was our assailant again, he made a big mistake,’ said Tailby, with more than a trace of satisfaction. ‘This time the woman he chose turned out not to be alone. If this lady, Karen Tavisker, had not walked on ahead when her friend stopped to rest, he would have realized there were two of them. I believe he would have left them alone and gone elsewhere. We have the lack of fitness of a thirty-five-year-old woman to thank for this breakthrough.’

Tailby pointed to the map of the Ringham area showing the sites of the previous attacks. He indicated a path above the village of Ringham Lees, which disappeared into a patch of green representing woodland before emerging among grey angular shapes that meant rocks.

‘Karen Tavisker wanted to reach the top of Ringham Edge,’ he said. ‘But the path was too steep for her friend, Marilyn Robb. She stopped to rest about here while Tavisker went on. We believe our man was waiting in the trees. He must have thought Tavisker was alone, but he got a shock. Robb was only a few yards away. Everything went wrong for him at that point.’

‘Did they both see him?’ asked Cooper.

‘Robb came running when her friend screamed. Unfortunately, the assailant was wearing a mask. But, yes, we now have two new witnesses.’ Tailby beamed proudly, as if he had just created the witnesses himself out of a washing-up liquid bottle and a few bits of string.

‘We’ve traced his approach route and we have some tyre tracks, plus reported sightings of a red Renault in the vicinity. Progress. It’s progress at last.’

Tailby indicated a photograph of Karen Tavisker, and they all looked at it as if she were their latest pin-up.

‘The other point is that Karen Tavisker lives out of the area and was on a passing visit. There seems little doubt that, in this case at least, the victim was chosen at random. Now DI Hitchens has a bit of news to share with you that may or may not be related.’

‘This morning we’ve heard from Greater Manchester Police,’ said Hitchens. ‘They inform us that they are seeking a suspect who could be in our area. His name’s Darren Howsley. They badly want to interview him about a series of attacks on women in the Oldham area. They say he has family connections in Derbyshire, having lived with an aunt at Chelmorton for a few years as a teenager. We’ve had his photo and details faxed over, and they’ll be in your files shortly.’

‘Is this particularly relevant?’ asked someone.

‘It is if you look at the nature of the incidents. These women were attacked while walking in the hills outside Oldham. The Saddleworth area.’

‘Just like our man.’

‘Right.’

‘The other thing is that he seems to have been missing from their patch for at least three weeks.’

‘Great.’

‘Apart from that little tidbit, it’s a question of going over old ground again, I’m afraid,’ said Tailby. ‘Roadside stops, questionnaires, appeals in the media. We need to involve the community. We’re getting serious pressure now. So we have to put pressure on in return, let people see we’re doing something. We revisit everyone who hasn’t been eliminated. If they were in the area and can’t account for their movements, then coincidence is abolished as far as I’m concerned.’