Stephen Booth - The kill call

Of course, the pit was long since derelict and overgrown. When we were active, we were given an allowance to keep it tidy. Twenty-five pounds a year, I think it was. The grass wasn’t allowed to grow then, not a single weed or thistle was allowed.

In the real old days, we spent our time watching the sky for rats. But it was all different when the 1960s came round. Instead of the sky, we had a concrete ceiling and a pair of metal-framed bunk beds. Some blokes sneaked in a comfy chair or two, curtains, or an office desk. Once we took down some carpet pieces. Years afterwards, they still lay there, half-rotted.

I don’t know what would have happened if it had really all kicked off one time. I reckon it would have been a bit like musical chairs, a matter of luck who found themselves down below. We talked a lot about what would happen to our families. You wanted to be sure they were looked after, if you were one of the crew underground.

But some of us never knew, were never entirely sure, whether we’d leave our wives and children when it came to it. Once you were down there, you might have to stay for a fortnight. Imagine waiting for the message to come — those three fatal words: Attack Warning Red. Then measuring the fireball over your own county, taking the elevation and bearing, waiting for the radioactive dust cloud to arrive. Attack Warning Black.

And that meant the maroons. Three of them, of course. According to regulations, we were supposed to fire them, one after the other, to warn against nuclear fallout. Two bangs meant nothing; it was the third one that counted.

So what about Jimmy and Les? Did they mean nothing? Was Shirley’s death the one that really mattered, the final thump and scream that changed the whole world? There are some situations where we have no regulations to follow, some questions that can only be answered from the heart.

And here we are, forty years later… Did there have to be so many deaths to restore the balance? I thought there was just one, but I was wrong. There had to be another, and another.

It’s funny, really funny, how everything happens in threes.

Sunday

It had rained heavily again during the night. Below ground, the limestone caves of the White Peak would be flooding dangerously, water roaring through fissures and cracks like thunder, scouring another half a centimetre from the rock.

Yet when the sun came out after heavy rain, the amount of colour in the landscape was stunning. On the main street of Eyam that Sunday morning, Cooper could detect a real feeling of spring in the air. He could smell it, and taste it, and even sense its warmth on his skin.

Each year, it was becoming more difficult to judge when to expect this feeling. It seemed to come anywhere between the middle of January and April. That was climate change, he supposed. Hawthorns were in blossom in February instead of May, blackthorns had been flowering since the end of January. Once again, there had been no real winter.

Cooper had passed an ancient lock-up garage with a collapsing roof. And here on the village green were the stocks, still intact — a reminder of the days when justice was not only harsh, but had to be publicly seen to be done.

In this part of Eyam, there were no pavements or footpaths, doors opened directly on to the road. He could never resist peeking into the front windows that were so temptingly available to the passers-by. Didn’t other people do that?

He looked up at the sound of a car, but it passed him by, and he walked back down the road. He found himself standing in front of Plague Cottage again, where the Black Death had first arrived in Eyam. A massive stone lintel sat over the door of the cottage, pressing down on the frame, as if representing the great weight of history.

‘So this is Eyam. Sorry — Eem.’

Fry was standing on the pavement a few feet away, not looking at him but at the houses. She was regarding them as if they were exhibits in a museum — which, in a way, they were.

‘I didn’t think you would come,’ he said.

‘It was touch and go. The washing and ironing nearly won.’

Cooper smiled. He had been amazed when Fry agreed to come. He’d been expecting the usual rejection, the sharp response of someone who had far better things to do with her time than socialize with her colleagues, thank you very much. He didn’t know what had changed in her, to make her accept. But now she was here, he realized he had no proper plan. He’d only suggested Eyam because it seemed to have some relevance, a link to the one aspect of life they had in common.

‘And this is the Plague Cottage.’

Fry looked at the green plaque with its gold lettering.

Edward Cooper, aged four, died on the 22nd

September 1665

Jonathan Cooper, aged twelve, died on the 2nd

October 1665

Mary alone survived, but lost thirteen relatives.

‘Two brothers, who died within days of each other,’ said Fry.

‘They told us in school that the arrival of the Black Death was blamed on a miasma,’ said Cooper. ‘“Evil humours” drifting in the air. Women carried scented posies around to ward off the poisonous fumes, and men smoked pipes, hoping to protect themselves with tobacco smoke.’

He felt no need of maps or tourist guides to find his way around Eyam now. It had a familiar feel to it already. As they walked, they passed interesting little alleyways, passages into back yards and stone-flagged ginnels. At one point an enormous stone water trough stood by the side of the lane, a trickle of water still issuing from a pipe in the wall, as it must have done for centuries.

For a few minutes, they ploughed through the usual small talk. Cooper had wanted to prise Fry away from the office, disentangle her from any of her crime scenes, and get her on neutral ground where they could talk about something other than work. Eyam had been the best place he could think of, without sounding too unlikely.

But he was finding it hard going. Fry constantly steered the conversation back to a safe topic. Of course, the murder of Patrick Rawson had absorbed her attention for the past week. It had opened her eyes to subjects she hadn’t been aware of before, too. It was bound to be in her mind.

‘So what about the wife?’ said Cooper, finally giving in to the inevitable. ‘Deborah Rawson?’

‘She’ll be charged with conspiracy to murder. She didn’t kill her husband herself, but she arranged it, at least.’

‘And it was well planned, too.’

‘She’s a woman,’ said Fry. ‘She would have worked it all out in her mind, run through the scenario over and over, imagined what it would be like, and how she would feel afterwards. It wouldn’t have been some spontaneous impulse to violence, with no thought or emotion behind it. That’s a man’s type of crime.’

‘You think anyone is capable of murder, don’t you?’ said Cooper.

‘Yes.’

Cooper had parked the Toyota near St Lawrence’s Church, and they strolled through the churchyard as Fry told him the story. St Lawrence’s boasted a large sundial over the chancel door, and a small group of visitors stood in front of it, checking the time and trying to figure out the Roman numerals. At some time, a motto had been inscribed in Latin on the supporting stones. It was almost worn away, but Cooper could just make out in the right light: Ut umbra sic vita — ‘As the shadow passes, so does life’.

‘So Deborah Rawson contacted Naomi Widdowson and told her when her husband would be visiting Derbyshire?’ he said.

Fry nodded. ‘Yes. Naomi had been phoning Sutton Coldfield, trying to get hold of Patrick Rawson to give him a piece of her mind. Deborah got talking to her, and decided to use her. It’s all backed up by the phone records. She gave Miss Widdowson her husband’s mobile phone number, so she could arrange to meet him. It seems Naomi told him she had some horses for sale.’