Stephen Booth - Dancing With the Virgins

‘Have you seen this photograph? Calvin Lawrence looks a mass murderer if ever I saw one,’ said Fry.

‘But they’ve made Stride look like a half-wit.’

‘That youth needs psychiatric help. Have you seen their background reports? He dropped out of university during one of his recurring periods of acute depression.’

‘That doesn’t make him a half-wit,’ said Cooper.

‘Simon Bevington tried to kill himself twice. It might mean that he shouldn’t be out and about unsupervised. The bloke’s a nutter.’

‘He isn’t a danger to anybody but himself. Besides, I think he is supervised. Cal takes care of him. I reckon Stride’s better looked after where he is than he would be in any hostel. That’s real care in the community. He’s found someone who actually cares about him, no strings attached.’

‘Oh, lucky him.’

‘He isn’t dangerous,’ insisted Cooper. ‘He just sees the world in a different way from most people. Different, that’s what he is.’

‘Yeah, yeah. Different like the Yorkshire Ripper was different. He’s a nutter, Ben.’

‘He’s strange, that’s all. My mother would say he was a bit fey.’

Fry snorted. ‘You’re a bloody strange copper, Ben. Do you really think there are people in this world who are complete angels?’

‘Well. .’ said Cooper. ‘I suppose he is a bit like that. In a way.’

‘ What ?’

‘Innocent, you know. Detached from the real world. Ethereal.’

Fry stared at him. ‘Hey, you don’t have to look too far for nutters round these parts, do you?’ she said. ‘The real loonies can be right there in front of your eyes.’

Cooper read the newspaper article over her shoulder. ‘They quote Stride as saying the wind chimes and tree sculptures will keep away the vengeful spirits of the moor.’

‘Why do they print that crap?’

‘It gives them a chance for a funny headline: “Tate for tat? Quarry dwellers’ art is more than just rock and roll-ups”.’

‘Very clever. At least they don’t mention Simon Bevington’s history.’

‘No,’ said Cooper. ‘But I think they might have done enough.’

‘All the attention might persuade them to leave the quarry. That would be no loss, in my opinion.’

‘They’re all right. They’re the sort of people we should be protecting.’

‘ What are you talking about?’

‘You remember. That oath we took. “I do solemnly and sincerely declare and affirm. .”’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

‘“. . and prevent all offences against the person and properties of Her Majesty’s subjects.”’

‘Ben, do you realize you’re the only copper in the country who can still quote his oath more than two minutes after his swearing in?’

‘Maybe I happened to check on it the other day.’

‘What the hell has that got to do with those two van people, anyway?’

‘I think they’re at risk. Just like the others.’

‘What others?’

‘Well, like Jenny Weston and Maggie Crew. Like Will Leach and his brother, little Dougie. Their mother as well. Even their father, in a way. And, well. . others. They’re our responsibility.’

‘Ben, it’s a big mistake to think you’ve been recruited as one of the Knights of the Round Table. They don’t issue shining armour these days. And your name isn’t Sir Galahad.’

Cooper shook his head. ‘Maybe I’m a bit old-fashioned and quaint. The fact is, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t try to do something for the people who need protecting. What a joke, eh?’

And he began to walk off, scuffing the loose stones, so that they left white marks on the toes of his shoes.

Ben Cooper remembered very well reading and rereading the oath on the back of his father’s warrant card as a small boy. Whenever he had seen his father in his uniform, he had asked to read it again. He must have been a terrible pest. But, at the time, it had seemed the most noble and meaningful sentence in the world, a hero’s vow of honour. He had regarded it with the superstitious awe and respect that only an over-imaginative child can produce. Though his hero had faded, and finally died a futile death, the power of the words had left a lasting impression. What was he here for, except to protect the innocent?

A potential for violence seemed to hang around the moor like low clouds. Cooper had been dwelling too long on the fate of Jenny Weston, on the question of why death had picked her out and flung her lifeless among the stones. It was as if she had been just one more bit of dead foliage among the masses scattered on the moor — her veins full of toxins, her living tissue turned brown and useless. But there was one difference. Leaves were sacrificed for the sake of a new beginning, the start of new life. The death of Jenny Weston had no such justification.

Cooper wondered about himself, too. Had he really joined the police because of his father? Was everything he did aimed at outdoing the memory of the Hero of Edendale? Or were people like Jenny Weston also part of his motivation? He hoped so. But it was hard to be sure.

Cooper wasn’t surprised that his reception in the quarry was twenty degrees cooler than the last time. Cal and Stride had become a centre of attention since then — they had met the press, the police, and no doubt some of the less sympathetic elements of the public. It was surely enough to make them shut themselves off from the world.

Only Cal appeared in answer to Cooper’s knock. This time, there was only a crack in the door for him to peer through.

‘You. What?’

‘Just a word of advice, sir.’

‘Oh, wow. Surprise me, man.’

‘Those things up there. . those sculptures, or whatever you call them. The phallus farm.’

‘Yeah?’

‘I don’t think they’re very wise, just at the moment. Best to remove them. Put them out of sight somewhere.’

‘They’re a tribute to Gaia. We’re using her space, so we say thank you. We make her gifts with our own hands. We wish her fertility.’

‘Yes, fine. I’m not interested in all that. It’s the appearance of the things that’s the issue. People might get the wrong idea. They might be considered provocative.’

‘Provocative?’

‘There are lots of folk around here with different views to your own. They don’t understand. Think about it.’

‘OK, OK. We’ll think about it.’

‘It’s in your own interests. For your own safety.’

‘Our own safety! Cool.’

‘You should seriously — ’

Cooper found himself staring at the panel of the closed door. Directly level with his eyes, there were scratches in the paintwork, a few letters gouged right into the metal. They spelled: ‘Perverts’.

When she was back in the car, Diane Fry remembered Catherine Dyson’s sigh at the other end of the phone line in Ireland, just after she had let slip the fact of Maggie Crew having a daughter.

‘She’ll know it came from me,’ she’d said. ‘But it doesn’t matter. She’s barely speaking to me anyway these days.’

‘Did you say a daughter?’

‘Yes. Maggie had a little girl. It was about twenty years ago now. It wasn’t intended, far from it. Mags was a law student then. She didn’t believe in abortion — a relic of our Catholic upbringing, I’m afraid. So she had the child adopted — there was no way she could have raised her. It would have interfered too much with her plans for her career.’

Fry recalled Maggie’s comments about female police officers, and realized that she had probably been talking about her own situation.

‘And Mags never even achieved what she wanted. She reached a plateau. She ended up in a small town, instead of becoming a partner in a big city firm. And it was a small town no more than ten miles from where we were raised. She is never going to get any further away now. There’s some strange tie that she has to the area, though she would never admit it. She always thought I was the one who would stay around, and I would have agreed with her at one time. But when you reach a certain age you learn things about yourself — you learn that you’re not quite what other people always told you.’