Stephen Booth - Dead And Buried

Below him the road was crossed by the Limestone Way, one of Derbyshire’s most popular trails, which ended a few miles to the north in Castleton. Its name was pretty accurate. From Mayfield, in the south of the county, the route passed through the rugged greyish-white limestone landscape of the White Peak.

For centuries this had been the heart of England’s lead-mining industry, a rich ore field that had been mined continuously since Roman times. From the pigs of lead found with the official stamp and the abbreviation ‘Lut’, it was believed that Lutudarum, the Roman centre of lead mining, had been located somewhere in this area. Some sections of the Limestone Way used miners’ tracks, and even older pathways, a few of them dating back to the Bronze Age, when they’d linked prehistoric henges, hill forts and burial sites.

The Romans had built their own roads across this area, of course. And even in the Peaks they were straight as an arrow, irrespective of the hills. The route he’d crossed, known as Batham Gate, ran from the town of Buxton to the Roman fort of Navio, near Brough. Much of it was no longer used, but a Roman road could always be recognised on the map — their artificial straightness was such a contrast to the winding lanes that had grown up organically over hundreds of years of human activity, following the natural inclination to take the least demanding route.

The present Batham Gate was an oddity, though. Long stretches of it twisted and turned in a very un-Roman fashion, diverting to avoid the quarries and fluorspar workings that had sprung up alongside it. Curiously, the modern electricity pylons seemed to follow the route of the old Roman road, marching dead straight across the countryside in a way the road itself no longer did.

‘Parts of this area are quite dangerous,’ said the fire chief. ‘And I don’t mean because of the fires.’

‘Dangerous?’

‘The old mines. You have to be careful where you walk if you stray off the path.’

‘You’re right, of course.’

Because of its history, the area was riddled with old mine workings, capped-off shafts and thousands of small grassy hillocks covered in wild flowers, most of them spoil heaps, which formed the only visible legacy of the lead-mining glory days of the eighteenth century. And then there were the limestone and fluorspar quarries — great white gashes blasted from the hillsides, many of them now abandoned in their turn, grown over or gradually filling up with water.

With one hand Cooper swiped his mouth, realising that he could still taste smoke in his saliva when he swallowed. Unless the rain came in the next few days, this whole landscape could soon be reduced to ashes.

Cooper recognised the black Audi has as soon as it turned on to the track approaching Oxlow Moor. There was something about the tinted strip across the windscreen blocking out the sun, and the way the car was driven, slowly and skittishly, as if it was only used to travelling on dual carriage-ways and expected those stone walls to move in from either side and crush it.

Diane Fry looked thinner than ever, which hardly seemed possible. But he’d noticed something strange about her over the years. She’d always looked much more fragile outdoors, when she was out of her natural environment. Inside, in the office, she was quite a different person. She seemed to grow and become stronger. Her fair hair was longer than it used to be, which did at least soften her features.

‘Is there mud?’ called Fry when she got out of her car at the bottom of the track.

‘Not here.’

Fry walked across the verge, but halted the moment she stepped off on to the moor in the direction of the crime-scene tent.

‘Damn. I thought you said there wasn’t any mud?’

‘It isn’t mud, Sergeant. It’s burned heather and ashes. It’s wet because the fire service have just finished extinguishing a fire.’

‘In my book that makes it mud,’ said Fry.

She covered her mouth with her hand against the wisps of smoke still rising here and there from among the burnt heather.

‘We’ll have to get a supply of masks if we’re going to be out here any length of time,’ she said.

Cooper nodded. ‘I’ll organise it.’

So far she hadn’t greeted him, let alone acknowledged that she’d known him for years, had served with him, been his immediate supervisor before his promotion to detective sergeant. More than that, they’d been through a lot together, and no one could argue that they owed each other something. At least that was how Cooper felt.

He was used to this taciturn way, of course. Most of his own family were like that. But in their case they didn’t need to speak because they understood each other’s thoughts without words. It was a silence born of ease and familiarity. With Fry, there was no question of either. He felt neither easy nor familiar in her presence. If she didn’t speak, he had no idea what she was thinking.

A few minutes later they stood together at the partially excavated site. Fry looked down at what Abbott had uncovered.

‘David Pearson,’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘Any indication of, er …?’

‘Trisha. Yes, evidence of her too.’

‘There’s quite a story to the Pearson inquiry,’ said Fry.

‘It’s all in the file,’ said Cooper. ‘Not our greatest success.’

‘It was more than two years ago. But there were theories …’

Abbott shook his head. ‘I’ve done a presumptive test for blood on the rucksack. It’s positive.’

‘Could it be animal blood? If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my time in the Peak District, it’s that these sheep are suicidal. They all have a death wish.’

‘They might be suicidal,’ said Cooper, ‘but they don’t dig shallow graves for themselves. When they die, they generally just lie about on the surface until the scavengers get to them.’

‘Grave?’ said Fry.

‘Well, it seems to be where the possessions of David and Trisha Pearson were buried. Whether the Pearsons are also dead and buried … I guess that’s what you’re here to find out.’

‘No bodies, then.’

‘No,’ said Cooper. ‘No bodies. Not yet.’

Fry turned and pointed.

‘The building I passed a mile or two back,’ she said. ‘A pub, is it?’

‘It was.’

The auctioneer’s sign on the wall of the Light House was legible from half a mile away, and visible from much further. Historic landmark inn. Cooper wondered how many more questions he would have to give obvious answers to.

‘It’s been empty for about six months,’ he said.

‘Looks a grim place.’

‘It wasn’t so grim when it was open.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

‘You don’t remember it, do you?’

Fry frowned. On her face a frown looked more like a scowl, as if being forced to remember something made her really angry.

‘Have I been there?’ she said.

‘Yes, with me,’ said Cooper.

‘No, I don’t recall the occasion, then.’

‘Never mind.’

Cooper remembered it, though. He recalled sitting in the conservatory after driving up here from Fry’s flat in Edendale one summer evening, when it stayed light long enough for them to enjoy the spectacular views for an hour or two. It had been busy at the Light House that night, but they’d managed to get a table in the conservatory, just as the first drops of rain began to fall on the glass roof. He remembered being surprised when he offered to buy the drinks and Fry asked for a vodka. When he thought back, he could still recall the clatter of those raindrops on the roof, sounding much too loud in the awkward pauses in their conversation. The memory was so firmly lodged in his brain that the sound of rain had become a sort of musical accompaniment to the history of their relationship.