Стивен Бут - Blind to the Bones

‘I’ll find it.’

DI Hitchens rubbed his hands. ‘Yes, it could be fairly straightforward, sir,’ he said. ‘That was my own feeling from the start.’

Kessen looked at him, and said nothing. Behind the DCI, Neil Granger’s body was being turned over for the video cameras. And everyone could see that the victim’s face was covered in black make-up, streaked by the blood from his wounds.

In Withens, a few elderly people were arriving at the church as Ben Cooper drove past. Perhaps the vicar held an afternoon service for them. Cooper looked for the Reverend Alton in the churchyard, but couldn’t see him.

At Waterloo Terrace, some children watched him pass. Their bikes lay on the ground in a tangle, the spokes of their wheels lying on top of each other in complex patterns. There were two boys around the age of fifteen, one with short-cropped hair and the other with gelled spikes. There was a girl of about the same age, and a smaller boy who couldn’t be more than ten, who leered aggressively at the car. Behind them, Cooper glimpsed a taller figure, a well-built young man in his twenties. Could that be Scott Oxley, the eldest son?

Cooper barely had time to think about it before he found himself driving out of the village to the east, where he passed an old man standing in the road. In fact, he had to slow right down to avoid running him over. The man was wearing a tight tweed jacket and a pair of baggy trousers that had been made for a younger, bulkier man — a man who had worn them until the seat shone and the edges of the pockets were frayed like lace.

Cooper wound down the window of the Toyota.

‘I’m looking for Shepley Head Lodge,’ he said. ‘Am I on the right road?’

‘There isn’t any other road.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘It’s just over the next hill. But I wouldn’t go up there, if I were you.’

Cooper laughed at his ominous tone. It sounded like a line from an old black-and-white horror film, but it ought to have been delivered by a Transylvanian coach driver, or some other superstitious yokel.

‘Especially not at this time of night?’ said Cooper.

‘Eh?’ The old man looked at him as if he were stupid.

‘No, I meant — the name of the people is Dearden, not Dracula. It isn’t even an anagram.’

‘You can laugh, if you want.’

‘Sorry. And have you heard of a place called Far Clough?’

‘Over there.’ The old man pointed across the road to the south. ‘Do you see a series of little valleys in the hillside? We call ’em cloughs in these parts. There are three of them over there, and they’re called Near Clough, Middle Clough and Far Clough.’

‘OK.’

‘Near Clough is the closest to the village, you see — that’s why it’s called Near Clough. It’s a shorter walk from here. The other two are further away.’

‘Yes, I see.’

‘Unless you drive there. In that case, Near Clough is the furthest, and Far Clough is the nearest.’

‘How do I get there by car?’ said Cooper, squinting up at the moor.

‘You can’t, there’s no road.’

‘But you just said—’

‘If you had a good tractor,’ he said, with a pitying look, ‘or maybe one of those ATV things, you could drive there. But not in that car you’ve got.’

‘It has four-wheel drive,’ said Cooper, feeling defensive about his Toyota.

‘Ah, well. Try it if you want to. You don’t have to listen to me. I’m only a daft old bugger who doesn’t know any better. But think on — there won’t be anybody around to rescue you, when you get stuck. Nobody goes up to the cloughs from one month to the next.’

‘OK,’ said Cooper. ‘I think I’ll walk.’

‘Do you good, I reckon, instead of sitting in a car all day.’

‘Do you live in Withens, sir?’ said Cooper.

‘Aye. What about it?’

‘It’s a bit out of the way, isn’t it?’

‘That has its advantages, I reckon.’

‘What advantages?’ said Cooper as he studied the view over Withens. ‘I mean, where’s the nearest shop, for example?’

‘Shop? Shop? Do you think there’s a supermarket round the corner here somewhere?’

‘Well, I just wondered...’

‘Oh, aye. There’s probably a whole bloody Meadowhall shopping centre behind the bus shelter. Not to mention the cinema and the drive-in chuffin’ McDonald’s.’

‘I was just wondering where the nearest shop is,’ said Cooper.

‘Glossop that way. Or Holmfirth that way. And bloody great hills in between, whichever way you go.’

‘Thanks.’

The man began to walk off, his shoulders stiff with affront.

‘Thanks a lot, anyway!’ called Cooper.

He shrugged as he watched the old man leave.

‘I’d better go and face the undead on my own, then.’

A hundred yards further up the road, Cooper crested a rise, and a house came into view on his left. It stood on an elbow of land nudging into the valley and had been hacked out of the hillside, with high stone walls behind it and a small copse of trees beyond a range of outbuildings. The copse was unusual in this landscape. It must have been deliberately planted and nurtured many years ago, probably when the lodge was built. The front windows of the house had a terrific view over the valley. And the road stopped at the gateway, where a gravel drive swung up towards the house. Beyond that, there was a field gate leading on to the moor.

Shepley Head Lodge was actually over the border in South Yorkshire. There was no sign at the county boundary, only a stone that someone had erected on the grass verge. On the hill above the house, Cooper could see a line of grouse butts near the western edge of Winscar Reservoir. Streams ran out of the cloughs towards the reservoir. On the steeper slopes, they formed tiny waterfalls, white and glittering, cutting into the rock like diamonds.

Why would anyone build a house way out here? It would have to be someone who loved the view, because it would send most people scurrying back down to the shelter of the valleys or the streets of a town.

The clouds were heavy and grey, and there was more rain on the way. There was no sign of castle battlements or bats circling overhead, and no sound of wolves howling in the trees, but Cooper did feel the first hint of doubt. Once he had turned the corner and come over the hill, he had left traffic noise behind him, even what there was of it in Withens. Shepley Head Lodge was rather a lonely spot.

He shook the feeling off, blaming the old man for his ridiculous warning. And he began to walk the last few yards to Shepley Head Lodge.

Michael Dearden turned out to be a lean, awkward man with a cold air. When Cooper showed him his ID on the doorstep, Dearden put on a poor pretence of incredulity and amazement.

‘So somebody has actually come to see us?’ he said. ‘Gail! Somebody from the police has come to see us!’

‘Were you expecting someone to call?’ said Cooper.

‘Expecting, no. Hoping, yes. But hoping doesn’t get us anywhere. We’ve phoned the police station so often that it’s on our “Friends and Family” list for discount calls.’

‘Actually,’ said Cooper, ‘I think you’ve probably been contacting South Yorkshire Police, haven’t you?’

‘Yes?’ said Dearden.

‘Well, I’m Derbyshire CID. You’re a bit out of my patch here, Mr Dearden. You’re over the county boundary. If you’ve been having problems of some kind, South Yorkshire will deal with them for you.’

‘Oh, will they?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Well, think again. And think differently this time.’

A pale woman had appeared from upstairs and was staring at Cooper from the bottom step.

‘Gail, can you believe this?’ said Dearden. ‘Someone from the police finally comes to see us, and he turns out to be from the wrong force.’