Стивен Бут - Blind to the Bones

‘I don’t believe it was Craig Oxley alone who killed Barry Cully,’ said Cooper into his phone. ‘Do you? It’s too convenient.’

Diane Fry’s voice sounded distant. Not only was she miles away in Edendale, but her mind would be on other things, preparing for an important interview. She was always meticulous about planning interviews, making notes on the areas she wanted to make sure she covered with her questions. Nothing was to be missed out.

‘There’s no evidence otherwise, Ben,’ she said. ‘The rest of the Oxleys are saying nothing at all.’

‘And they won’t, no matter how often they’re interviewed. I think Ryan only spoke up because he’s been terrified by the Anti-Social Behaviour Order. He knew that if anyone else got into trouble, the whole family would be out of Waterloo Terrace. So he decided it was safer to break ranks and blame Craig, who is safely dead and out of the way already. But I’m convinced the Oxleys do things together, not alone.’

‘And that’s your theory, Ben?’

‘And the story is right here, in the collective memory of the Oxleys, and it always will be. We just have no way of getting access to it. Not in a way that we could present to a judge and jury.’

Cooper watched a group of people passing along the road in their black rag coats and their hats and sunglasses. They were some of the dancers and musicians arriving from Hey Bridge for the May Day performance of the Border Rats.

‘You mean all that Border Rats nonsense?’ said Fry. ‘The Crown Prosecution Service would love us if we presented them with that lot as key witnesses.’

Because of the crowds and the displays in the village, Cooper had been obliged to park his car on the roadside below the village, on the other side of the church. Somebody driving too fast into Withens had hit a carrion crow that had been feeding on the squashed remains of a rabbit. Its tattered black shape lay half in a pothole on the verge.

Cooper stared at the remains of the crow, its pinions fluttering in the slipstream of a passing car.

‘Nature turned out not to be on their side, didn’t it?’ he said.

‘Who?’

‘The Oxleys.’

‘Don’t talk rubbish, Ben,’ said Fry.

Cooper didn’t bother to defend himself. He was watching the movement of the loose scree on the opposite slope as it slid a little bit nearer to Withens. It might take time, but nature never did give up the war.

‘I was thinking about Craig Oxley on the way here,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure what the point is of sending young people into custody. Not in the present system. They just come out worse at the end of it.’

‘I know.’

‘If there’s one group in the prison system who could actually be helped, surely it’s young people. If anybody really cared about them, their lives could be turned round at that age. They could be given education, at least. I mean proper education — not training for a future as a car thief or a mobile-phone bandit.’

‘There aren’t all that many cases like his, Ben.’

‘No. The system probably considers Craig Oxley to be one of its successes. He won’t be clogging up the courts again, will he? He won’t be taking up valuable police time any more.’

‘There’s no point in talking to you when you’re in this mood, Ben,’ said Fry. ‘Go home and get some sleep, see if you can get a dose of reality. Or a sense of proportion at least. You’ll have got over it in the morning. And don’t forget, we’ve got a meeting to re-schedule. We still need to have that talk about your future.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Not at all.’

‘Give me a break, Diane.’

‘We can’t keep putting it off.’

‘But you’ll be busy.’

‘Not too busy for you, Ben.’

There was a pause while Cooper tried to picture the expression on her face. Sometimes phones just weren’t good enough for communication.

‘You said you’d be in Withens later on?’ said Fry. ‘You want to see this Border Rats thing through to the end, don’t you?’

‘That’s right. You’re still coming, aren’t you?’

‘Unfortunately. I have to see the Renshaws one last time. I promised them I’d keep them informed personally about progress on the enquiry. I wish I didn’t have to come to Withens ever again. It isn’t going to be easy this afternoon.’

‘No,’ said Cooper. ‘Not easy at all.’

The picture in the Withens well dressing depicted the sainthood of St Asaph. The legend, picked out in blue hydrangea petals and buttercups, explained that 1 May was his patronal day. The makers of the well dressing had used chrysanthemums and maize, sweetcorn and rice, some of it coloured with icing-sugar dyes. Everything had to be natural.

Ben Cooper saw Eric Oxley holding a plastic watering can. He was spraying the picture with water to make sure it didn’t dry out. Already, the background of the picture was starting to crumble away a little, the fluorspar trickling to the bottom of the frame, like fine gravel.

‘A pity Derek Alton won’t be here to bless the well dressing,’ said Cooper, standing behind Eric’s shoulder. ‘But at least you can use the church. We’ve finished with the graveyard now.’

Eric turned round, sending a spray of water on to Cooper’s trousers. But he was already damp from the steady drizzle, so it didn’t matter.

‘I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear Mr Alton will recover fully, after he’s had all the shotgun pellets removed from his side. He’ll be in a state of shock for a while though, I think. In fact, he had two bad shocks. I don’t know which was worse.’

‘Everyone knows you don’t disturb that end of the graveyard,’ said Eric. ‘It’s where the railwaymen are buried.’

‘The ones who died of cholera?’

‘That’s right. Who would go digging up the ground there?’

‘The Reverend Alton would, obviously.’

‘Daft bugger.’

Cooper shook his head. ‘If it hadn’t been him, it would have been somebody else. A stranger. Even a foreigner.’

But Eric just stared at him. Cooper supposed this superstitious fear of ‘disturbing’ the cholera had somehow been inherited from the ancestors who had lived in the shanty town and had good reason to fear the disease. Where better to hide a dead body than among so many others? But the Oxleys’ decision had been based on the belief that the tradition of leaving that part of the graveyard undisturbed would continue indefinitely. They hadn’t seen that things were changing. They hadn’t understood that change was inevitable. And that was always a mistake. Always.

‘At least you’ve still got your traditions,’ said Cooper.

‘What, the Border Rats? It won’t last much longer,’ said Eric.

‘Why?’

‘Well, for one thing, these grandsons of mine won’t keep it up without me and their dad to make them do it. The tradition will pass on to the folk from Hey Bridge, and other places. And they’ll make of it whatever they want. It won’t ever be the same again.’

Eric Oxley picked up his hat and his stick, and shook his head.

‘Times change,’ he said. ‘And our time is nearly over.’

In the car park, a crowd had gathered in the rain to watch the morning performance by the Border Rats. Though the musicians from Hey Bridge were doing their best, the dancers lacked the energy and enthusiasm of their earlier display in Edendale.

Cooper could see that they were approaching the final dance, the ritual killing of the rat. Did the aggressive banging of the sticks on the ground really represent the tunnel workers killing rats? Was it a celebration of the murder of Nathan Pidcock? Was there any difference?

The men who began the ritual might have known its meaning, but by the third, fourth and fifth generation, the story had changed. It meant whatever it had to mean for those performing it.