Стивен Бут - Blind to the Bones

Finally, he could see up towards the road. And he realized Scott Oxley had organized the other boys to clear the trees they had felled only a short time before, and were waving wildly at a fire appliance approaching the entrance. Cooper stooped to look at Jake. He was breathing, though raggedly.

Now the air was full of the sound of sirens. Cooper imagined the convoy coming up the road — fire appliances, police vehicles, ambulances, a whole parade, like the arrival of a besieging army. Maybe they didn’t quite have catapults and ballistas, but the firemen would have axes and heavy cutting gear, and he was willing to bet there would be a police van with a battering ram or two. Maybe it was time for him to choose sides.

Together, Ben Cooper and Lucas Oxley waited, listening to the sound of the sirens dipping and soaring as the emergency vehicles crested one hill after another on the road into Withens.

Diane Fry waited for the ambulance to move off. She had been standing watching Ben Cooper for several minutes while Jake Oxley was lifted on to a stretcher and loaded into the ambulance by the paramedics, accompanied by his father.

Finally, Cooper looked up and saw her. Fry saw the expression of surprise on his face, and remembered that she was still wearing the hard hat she’d borrowed from one of the contractors. She must look almost as bad as he did, with his face and hands blackened by smoke, like one of the Border Rats made up for a performance.

‘Ben,’ she said, ‘how often have I told you — no heroics.’

Half an hour later, DC Gavin Murfin arrived in Withens with the latest contingent of emergency services. Ben Cooper had been sent off to hospital with orders to get himself checked over. And after Murfin enquired about casualties, he had some news for Diane Fry.

‘That missing teddy bear turned up,’ he said.

‘Emma Renshaw’s golden plush?’

‘Yep. Guess where?’

‘I’ve no idea, Gavin. Did Alex Dearden have it? Have we traced where the antiques are stored?’

‘No such luck. It was in the car.’

‘Which car?’

‘ Her car — Emma’s. It was in the boot.’

‘So the Renshaws had it all the time, and didn’t know.’

‘Looks like it. Bit odd, that.’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, and the hospital say the verdict is hopeful on the vicar. He was lucky — the wall of the building he was standing next to took some of the blast, and most of the shotgun pellets that hit him went into his arm and leg down the right side. Good job someone got to him quick, though — the doctors say he might have bled to death otherwise.’

‘Is he feeling well enough to talk yet?’

‘Nope. He’s had most of the pellets dug out of him, but he’s still in dreamland from the painkillers.’

‘Pity.’

Murfin looked at her.

‘You’re sure everybody’s all right, Diane?’

‘Yes,’ said Fry. ‘Everybody’s fine.’

Murfin turned towards where some uniformed officers were trying to restore order among the residents of Withens. ‘I’ll see what’s going on over there, then,’ he said.

‘Gavin...’

‘Yeah?’

‘Weren’t you supposed to be checking on what calls Neil Granger had been making on his mobile the night he was killed?’

‘I did. I told you.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ said Fry.

‘Well, I tried to anyway. But you were talking to Ben at the time. You were having some kind of heart to heart, like.’

‘Tell me again, Gavin.’

‘Neil Granger made several calls to a number in Glossop. The number was in his phone’s memory, so it was easy to find out who it was.’

Fry stared at him. ‘You should have told me this, Gavin. If I was busy, you should have told me later. This is important.’

‘Not really,’ said Murfin defensively. ‘It was only who you might have expected him to be phoning.’

‘Hey!’

Diane Fry turned at the shout. A man in a yellow fluorescent jacket and a hard hat was standing behind her, holding a roll of blue plastic sheeting.

‘What do you want? Are you one of the contractors? I’m afraid you’ll have to wait. There’ll be no work on this site today.’

‘No, I work for the National Grid. Tunnel maintenance.’

‘I’m sorry, but whatever it is you want, you’re in the wrong place. You’ll have to move away.’

‘Well, I’m only doing what I was told. And it was one of your blokes that told me to do it.’

The man seemed to be about to offer Fry the roll of plastic he was carrying. She backed away.

‘Sorry? What are you talking about? Who did you say you are?’

‘My name’s Norton. Sandy Norton.’ He clutched the plastic sheeting to his chest again and inclined his head sideways. ‘ He knows me. That one over there.’

Fry followed his gesture. ‘Gavin! There’s a gentleman here says he knows you. Deal with him, will you?’

‘Hey up, mate,’ said Murfin, walking back across the road. ‘How’s it going down in Tunnel Town? What have you got there?’

‘It’s what I found.’

‘Found?’

‘In the middle tunnel. Under the air shaft. We had a look, like your mate told us we should. This is what we found. I thought you’d want to see it. But say so if you’re not bothered, and I’ll burn it.’

‘Let’s see.’

Norton began to unwrap the plastic. There were several layers, and Fry was beginning to think there was nothing inside it at all, when the contents finally appeared.

‘A stick,’ she said. ‘Gavin, it looks like one of those sticks the Border Rats use.’

‘You’re right.’

Norton pointed with a grubby finger. ‘And look, at this end—’

‘Don’t touch it!’ said Fry. ‘Have you touched it?’

‘I was wearing gloves in the tunnel,’ said Norton defensively. ‘And as soon as I saw this, I wrapped it up. Was that the right thing to do?’

‘It’ll do fine, thank you.’

‘Well, I’m glad about that. It’s blood, isn’t it?’

‘It looks like it.’

‘It was the other bloke that told me to look, you know. But I couldn’t find him to give it to him. Was he right, then?’

Fry looked over her shoulder at the black terrace and the smouldering buildings behind it. The grey shapes of a few wood pigeons still flapped in and out of the clouds of smoke. They would have to look for a new home soon.

‘Yes, he was right,’ she said.

Monday

By the bank holiday Monday, Withens didn’t feel quite so isolated. In fact, the entire world was rushing by only yards away, and it seemed to be coming nearer.

There were visitors in the village to see the well dressing, and the Quiet Shepherd was doing good trade. But Ben Cooper felt the world was intruding in other ways, too, perhaps more subtly. Walkers following Euroroute E8 all the way from Turkey were ending up in Longdendale. Lorries on trans-Pennine journeys often turned off the A628 to park overnight by the side of the road above Withens, gradually creating their own lay-by by churning up the grass and compacting the ground. Those lorries were from all over the world. Even the acid rain destroying the peat moors might be from anywhere, too — not just Manchester.

Sitting in his car with his mobile phone pressed to his ear, Cooper reflected that if he drew everything on to a map, it would show the village surrounded, though still isolated. It was cut off by the traffic roaring by to the south, and by the power cables of the National Grid and the proposed new trans-Pennine expresses in the tunnels to the west. Together, they formed a net that Withens would never escape. Perhaps the water company would want to clear the whole valley to preserve the purity of its water. The land might be needed for a lorry park or maintenance sheds for the new rail link. And when that happened what would become of people like the Oxleys?