Stephen Booth - Dancing With the Virgins

Cooper paused. He wished he could still see the Commandments for inspiration. His lips moved silently. He had been about to ask Owen if he had noticed the cigarette stub in the bin before the police search. If nobody smoked at the Ranger centre, it was something he ought to have noticed.

‘Where did the cigarette in the bin come from, Owen? The bin had been emptied, but the ash was stuck to the bottom. Who uses that bin for their rubbish?’

‘Anybody could.’

‘And the rucksack. I know it’s yours, Owen. But could anybody else have used that rucksack?’

Owen said nothing. He stared at the high windows, as if wondering why the birds perched in the branches of the yew were silent, why the stained glass saints said nothing, why the whole world was waiting for his reply. A realization had come over him like the passing of a cloud.

‘Could anybody else use it?’ repeated Cooper.

And then Owen said: ‘Yes. Mark uses it.’

Owen Fox sat alone in one of the pews when Ben Cooper had gone. His head was down, his hands clenched together until the knuckles whitened. He had his eyes closed, like a man praying. But he wasn’t praying — he was remembering. Remembering the little girl.

She had been about six years old, and she had been alive at first. He had pulled her out of the back seat of the wrecked car, with his lungs full of fumes from the petrol pouring out of the ruptured fuel tank, and his eyes averted from the bloody and shattered bodies of the little girl’s parents, particularly the sight of her mother, with the branch of a tree skewering her cheek to the seat.

Owen had seen the car go out of control and hit the tree, and a second later he had heard screams that had died suddenly in the noise of the impact, lost in the crumpling thud of metal and the splintering of glass. He used his radio as he ran. But by the time he got to the road, he had no doubt the man and woman were dead.

The stench of the petrol panicked him when he saw the child still alive in the back seat. He barely knew what he was doing as he pulled her out, clumsily dragging her by her leg and a fistful of her blue dress, a thin summer dress that tore in his hand.

Then he had backed away to a safe distance and held the child in his arms while he waited for the ambulance to arrive. He seemed to be holding the girl for a long time, and he realized straight away that she was badly injured. He could feel the bones of her pelvis shift and bulge under his hand, and an unnatural swelling in her abdomen that seemed to grow and tighten under his fingers as he waited, not knowing what else to do. The child’s body felt like a flimsy plastic bag that was no longer able to support the weight of its contents. At any moment it was in danger of splitting open and leaking its liquids, spilling soft, glistening objects on the ground.

Owen had held the child gently, willing her to survive, trying to pour his own life into her through his hands to help her fight the shock of her injuries. He found his fingers becoming extraordinarily sensitive, as all his attention concentrated on his sense of touch, on the close physical contact with another human being. He held a small, fragile life in his hands, and the sensations were like nothing he had ever known. He was aware of the faint beating of her heart, the pulsing of her blood, the slow lift and fall of her chest and the living warmth of her skin against his own.

Then Owen had become conscious of other feelings as he held the girl. He had noticed the soft flesh of her upper thighs where her dress was torn and pulled up to her waist. He noticed the white smoothness of her belly; and he saw the shape of her genitals, tiny and clear through the fabric of her knickers.

He stood frozen in confusion at his own reactions, frightened to move, praying for the ambulance to arrive soon and take his burden away. Yet a few minutes later he continued to hold on to the girl, oblivious to the sound of sirens and the voices that followed, clustering around him, asking questions. He held the girl desperately to his chest, feeling her softness in his hands, her weight pulling on his shoulders, conscious of his fingers staining her pale innocence.

Finally, the girl had opened her eyes and focused on his face. In a moment of consciousness, she had seen his red jacket and his Peak Park badge.

‘Oh, you’re a Ranger,’ she said. And Owen remembered even now the rush of senseless, guilty pride he had felt that the girl could recognize who he was, and had felt secure in his arms.

Then the child’s eyes had closed, and a trickle of blood escaped from the corner of her mouth. And a warm flood of urine seeped from her and ran down the front of his red jacket, as she died.

In the incident room, the faces of the officers were expectant. They were thinking that there had to be something at last. After all this, there had to be some good news.

Examination of Ros Daniels’ body showed that she had died from serious head injuries, though there were other marks on her that awaited interpretation. The fibres of the victim’s clothing were distinctive. Forensics were sure they would have been shed on her assailant’s outer garments, if he had made contact. Vegetative traces and powdered gritstone taken from the scene might also have adhered. Cross-matching would provide proof of contact. Now all they needed was a firm suspect.

‘Owen Fox has been bailed in regard to a separate matter,’ said DCI Tailby. ‘We have discounted any connection with our present enquiry.’

There were murmurs of speculation. But Ben Cooper wasn’t surprised. The cigarette stubs they had found under Ros Daniels’ body could never have belonged to Owen Fox. Cooper could think of three people directly connected with the enquiry who smoked cigarettes, and Owen wasn’t one of them. Forensics had found traces of saliva remaining on the filters of the cigarettes, which had been prevented from drying out by the girl’s body lying on top of them. There was a residue of moisture in the tobacco, too. The cigarettes had been smoked very shortly before Ros Daniels’ death. And the DNA from the saliva would identify the person who had smoked them.

‘And so far we have been unable to establish a direct link with Warren Leach,’ said Tailby. ‘Though he remains a suspect.’

Leach hadn’t smoked, either. Not many farmers did, when they worked around hay and straw and agricultural fuel. Yet somebody had been smoking when Ros Daniels was attacked, and again when Jenny Weston was killed.

Tailby’s head drooped slightly. His face was tired, and his eyes were sunk into dark sockets. ‘We’re still looking for leads,’ he said. ‘But where?’

He spoke for the whole room. How was it possible that they could have two bodies and a third, surviving, victim, yet after ten days be further away than ever from identifying a suspect? A police officer had been injured by vigilantes, and no one had been arrested yet. Questions were being asked all the way up the line. And the newspaper headlines said: ‘How many more?’

Tailby hung his head. ‘Let’s think positively. Apart from the fact that Daniels stayed with Weston for a while, the only link we have between them is that they were both animal lovers. Paul?’

‘OK,’ said DI Hitchens. ‘Examination of the shed at Ringham Edge Farm by ourselves and the RSPCA confirms the suspicion that it was being used for dog-fighting. We know that Jenny Weston saw what was going on there. She passed by there one evening when she had been late on the moor. She reported her information to the RSPCA, and she claimed to have photographic evidence. Whether she went any further than that, we don’t know. Whether Daniels did the same, we don’t know either. However, with the help of the RSPCA special investigations unit, we have drawn up a list of known or suspected participants in the dog-fighting ring. There are some pretty unsavoury characters among them, and one or two are known to us.’