Стивен Бут - Blind to the Bones

Fry didn’t even look at him. Her eyes stayed fixed on Cooper.

‘Gavin, take a tea break,’ she said.

Murfin’s eyebrows rose dramatically. ‘I’ve had a break already. I thought you’d want to know—’

‘Just get out of here and don’t come back for ten minutes. OK, Gavin?’

Murfin looked at Cooper. He screwed up his face into a snooty school-marm look and wagged his head from side to side before backing out of the room.

Fry waited until she heard the door close and Murfin’s footsteps in the corridor. Then she turned away from the window to face Cooper. Her forehead was damp from the condensation on the glass and her face was pale, but at least there was a flash of anger now in her eyes, rising beyond the tiredness. Her voice rose almost to a shout.

‘You have no right,’ she said. ‘You have no right to interfere in my life. What makes you think you can do this? You’re treading on my territory now, so back off.’

Cooper began backing straight away. His chair seemed to move of its own accord on its wheels, until it hit the desk behind him.

‘I was only trying to help,’ he said.

‘Well, don’t. OK?’

As usual after an attempt to get closer to Diane Fry, Cooper found himself covered in a sheen of sweat and pumped with adrenalin, as if he had just come through a life-threatening situation.

He wasn’t even sure he was making any progress. Most people would be worn down after a while and give a little bit of themselves in return. But Fry showed no signs of doing that. He had tried the recommended body language — the non-threatening stance, the ‘listening’ position. Maybe he ought to have tried Father Murphy.

Derek Alton’s car was waiting for him in the lay-by on the A628, near the start of the steep footpath. The same footpath that Neil had used.

It was already nine o’clock and completely dark when Alton drove past the Quiet Shepherd in Withens. The village was almost silent, but for a couple of vehicles leaving the car park of the pub. The Old Rectory, where the Renshaws lived, was in darkness except for the flickering glow of a candle in one of the windows.

Alton continued past the county boundary sign, entering South Yorkshire. At the end of the road, he parked his car in a gateway and sat for a few minutes, staring straight ahead.

Finally, he took a deep breath and got out of the car. There was no sound around him now, but for the murmuring of water moving constantly through the landscape, and the occasional call of a sheep above him on the moor. Alton looked for a light up ahead. But for some reason, the Deardens’ house was in darkness.

Michael Dearden had found an old kitchen chair and positioned it among the piles of ash and charred timber in the burnt-out stable. He carefully placed the chair so that he could see straight into the yard through part of the front wall that was almost completely gone. His field of vision included the side gate, the back of the garage and fifty yards of fencing along the back field. Whichever way they came, he was sure he would see them. Without telling Gail, he had disabled the sensors that activated the security lighting at the back of the property. That way, intruders would be encouraged to approach the back of the house. And there he would be waiting for them.

Dearden practised sighting along the barrels into the night. His eyes would soon get accustomed to the darkness. True, it would be impossible to see who his intruders were before he shot at them. But unless they were up to no good, they wouldn’t be in his yard at night, would they?

He moved the barrels slowly from side to side, allowing himself some satisfaction at the weight of the barrels and the hard nudge of the stock against his shoulder. He felt strong at last. Let them come now. He was ready for them.

It was only because his eyes were already adjusted to the darkness that Derek Alton saw the movement at all. Even then, it was far too late. The flash followed a second later. Alton would not have been able to say whether he had started to throw himself away from the direction of the discharge, or whether his body had simply rolled with the force of the blast. The impact hit him at the same time that the deafening roar filled the yard. It was a great blast of hot breath that scorched his body and burned his face, the stink filling his nostrils like a giant’s belch. Alton was spun sideways by the force of the hot breath, and his shoulder and right hand were thrashed against the edge of a wall as he fell.

For Derek Alton, it was the pain that came last. And by then its dark waves barely lapped at his awareness before he floated above it and away. He experienced a surge of joy and reassurance, like a man who had made a long overdue sacrifice.

Sunday

On Sunday, Ben Cooper was supposed to be off duty. Instead, he found himself that morning pulling his Toyota into the car park near the Yorkshire Traction bus stop at Withens. When he got out of the car, he could hear the rumble of heavy machinery somewhere — probably the sound of a tractor on the farm next to Waterloo Terrace.

Cooper cut through a path alongside the churchyard to reach the close where the Renshaws’ house was, the Old Rectory. There was some scaffolding against the side of the house, and the sound of hammering from the roof. Probably there were broken tiles to be replaced after the winter. By now, starlings and other birds would be looking for gaps in the roof so that they could get in to build their nests in a warm, insulated attic. The owners were sensible to get the repairs done.

Then Cooper realized the flat-bed lorry parked near the scaffolding looked familiar. Anonymous, but familiar.

He walked round the scaffolding until he could see one of the men working on the roof. He recognized the back of Scott Oxley’s head, but couldn’t see much else of him because he was hidden by some of the planks at the top of the scaffolding. He recognized Scott’s voice, too, when he shouted an instruction to his mate. Another figure came into view, and an arm reached out to pass Scott a hammer. A face peered over the scaffolding and looked down at Cooper. It was Ryan.

‘’Morning,’ said Cooper.

Ryan stared at him, still holding the hammer. Scott slithered down the roof a couple of feet and looked over his shoulder, but didn’t return the greeting. Above Scott, Cooper could see a gap in the roof about four feet across.

‘Replacing a few tiles?’ he said.

‘Is it illegal, then?’

‘Depends.’

Ryan looked vaguely worried. ‘What does it depend on?’

‘Shut up,’ said Scott. ‘He’s just trying to wind us up. Give me that hammer.’

‘Is the householder at home?’ said Cooper.

‘He’s gone out. And we don’t know when he’ll be back.’

‘Pity. I might have to talk to you two for a bit, then.’

Scott began to hit a roof nail with his hammer, muttering something that sounded like ‘nothing fuckin’ better to do’.

But Cooper wasn’t going to lose the opportunity of talking to a captive audience. The Oxleys couldn’t easily get off the roof and climb down the scaffolding to reach their van. There was no easy escape route today. And the home owner wasn’t even around to tell him to leave.

‘Much to do, is there?’ said Cooper. ‘How long are you going to be on this job?’

‘A day or two,’ said Scott.

Ryan was slowly moving back behind the scaffolding, so that Cooper couldn’t see him. How old was Ryan again? Was it fourteen or fifteen? But it was Sunday, of course, so there was no school for him to be attending.

‘Just a weekend job, then?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Finished by Monday?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That’s good, because they’ve forecast rain.’