Стивен Бут - Blind to the Bones

Of course, the cats didn’t seem to belong to anyone, either. But that was perfectly normal. He had cleaned the cat hairs from the floor of the conservatory and washed the black specks of mould off the raffia chair that stood under the side window. He’d have liked to throw the chair out, but it wasn’t his property. He’d have liked to have a bonfire in the garden, and put the chair on top of it. But the garden wasn’t his.

The few possessions he had brought with him from Bridge End Farm were mostly in the sitting room — a Richard Martin print of Win Hill, a wooden cat on the window ledge. And, of course, the photograph over the fireplace — the one showing rows of solemn-faced police officers lined up in their uniforms, with Sergeant Joe Cooper standing in the second row. That would be his inheritance for ever.

‘I’m afraid I’ve let this garden go a bit since my husband died,’ said Mrs Shelley that evening, gazing vaguely through the glass of the conservatory as if she had completely forgotten there was anything out there. ‘The one at number six is enough for me to manage on my own, so this has got a bit neglected.’

‘I could tidy it up for you,’ said Cooper. ‘You’ve got some mature trees out there, but the rest of it is a bit overgrown.’

His landlady didn’t seem too sure why she had come next door, though Cooper had been asking her to for weeks, so they could talk about the garden.

‘I can’t actually see it from my own house,’ said Mrs Shelley, ‘so it hasn’t really bothered me.’

‘It’s a shame to let it deteriorate any more. Besides, the neighbours might start complaining.’

‘I suppose they might.’

‘Do you have a key for this door?’

Cooper could have opened the door easily. The wood was rotten around the lock, which was only an old barrel lock anyway. At some time, a small piece of wood had been screwed into the jamb to hold the catch in place where the wood had crumbled completely. A few seconds with a screwdriver, and he could have been out in the garden to take a look round, then put the piece of wood back, and Mrs Shelley would have been none the wiser. But he was on her property, and he had to abide by the rules.

‘There’s probably a key in a drawer somewhere,’ she said.

‘In your house? Or in here?’

Mrs Shelley looked around. An old table stood at one end of the conservatory, underneath a shelf of dying geraniums in plastic pots. The paint flaking from the table revealed that it had been several different colours in its lifetime, but most recently daffodil yellow.

‘Try the table drawer.’

Cooper had a rummage. ‘I think we’re in luck,’ he said, pulling out an iron key.

With a bang, Randy came through the cat flap. For the past weeks, it had been a source of increasing frustration for Cooper that the two cats had been free to come and go from the outside, while he was kept from it, able only to peer at the scenery sideways through panes of dusty glass. He put the feeling down to the arrival of spring. He could feel it in the air every time he went out of his front door on to the street or opened his kitchen window to let out the smell of his cooking. Even here, in the middle of Edendale, he could catch the scent of the fresh grass growing and the new leaves opening on the trees. He had started to get desperate for contact with nature.

Spring in Welbeck Street wasn’t like spring back at Bridge End Farm, where he had grown up and had lived until so recently. But the chance to touch something green and growing would help. Visiting his brother Matt and his family at the farm only made things worse. There were too many memories now.

The cat rubbed its long black fur against his leg. Randy was already starting to change into his summer coat. His winter fur was gradually coarsening and falling out bit by bit each day, so that his outline became sleeker and darker. Since Cooper had taken over his feeding, Randy had become slimmer and much fitter. Occasionally, he returned the favour with a dead vole or shrew he’d brought into the flat from the garden. Often, by the time Cooper got home, they were already smelling and attracting flies. The distinctive smell of death seemed to follow him around these days. It even arrived, as a gift, on his kitchen floor.

Monday

DCI Kessen took up a position at the front of the room for the morning briefing. In front of him on the table were a series of exhibits relating to the Neil Granger enquiry.

‘He looks like a Greek god to me,’ said Gavin Murfin, taking a chair next to Ben Cooper.

‘Well, I think he’s more like Neptune,’ said Cooper.

‘Why?’

‘It’s the beard. The way it’s sort of... forked.’

‘Yeah. Like the Devil.’

Kessen was waiting impassively for everyone to settle down. Diane Fry came in and sat on the front row, where no one ever wanted to be.

‘I bet he’s worth a lot, though,’ said Murfin. ‘Thousands.’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘How old would you say?’

‘A century or two, that’s all,’ said Cooper.

Kessen cleared his throat. The room gradually fell silent.

‘I know what you’re all wondering,’ he said. ‘I’ve decided to call him Fred.’

The DCI smiled without showing his teeth. The expression lacked humour. In fact, it looked more like a challenge to anyone who might dare to laugh.

‘Oh, my good Lord,’ said Murfin quietly.

Using both hands because of its weight, Kessen held up one of the evidence bags. It was made of clear plastic, and everyone could see what was inside it. There was also a large colour photograph of the item pinned up on one of the notice boards.

‘An antique bronze bust,’ said the DCI. ‘This was found in a vehicle belonging to the victim, Neil Granger. The vehicle in question is a Volkswagen Beetle, which had been left parked in a lay-by on the A628, a few hundred yards down the hill from where Mr Granger’s body was found.’

The bust was about nine inches high, with a dull green patina, and stood on a solid base. It represented the head of a man with a Roman nose, curly hair and a rather forked beard. Whoever he was, he gazed with blank eyes into the room. Cooper was reminded of a corpse he had once seen on the dissection table at the mortuary — a homeless Irishman who had been killed in a hit-and-run incident and left in a ditch. The Irishman’s hair had been black, but his face had carried a similar green tinge.

‘We know that there have been a number of burglaries from homes in the Longdendale area during the last few months,’ said Kessen. ‘During these burglaries, small antique items have been taken. This is a small antique item.’

The bust was heavy, and it landed with a thump when he rested it back on the table.

‘Initial enquiries into Neil Granger’s circumstances and his associates suggest that he may not have come into possession of this item in the normal manner.’

Kessen hesitated, and looked at the faces of some of the officers in the back row with an expression of disappointment.

‘We think it may have been stolen,’ he said.

‘Are we going to put photos of the bust in the media, sir?’ asked one officer.

‘Not just yet.’

‘We could get a quick identification that way, if the legitimate owner comes forward. Someone would be sure to recognize it if they saw it on TV or in the papers. It’s very distinctive.’

‘But we would also tip off the thieves that we have it,’ said Kessen. ‘I don’t want to do that yet. That’s a fact we’re going to keep to ourselves. Understood, everybody?’

There were nods, and a few shifty looks from officers who might already have mentioned the bronze bust to their wives or husbands.