Стивен Бут - Blind to the Bones

‘How old are you, Ryan?’ said Alton. ‘I can’t quite remember.’

‘Eighteen, Vicar.’

‘And how old is young Sean here?’

‘Eighteen, Vicar.’

‘I see.’

The interior of the van smelled strongly of theatrical paint and sweat, and leather boots, along with the beer that the younger ones occasionally spilled on their trousers or on the floor of the van, which was covered with an old carpet. Alton looked down at the carpet suspiciously. It seemed to be embedded with small pieces of coal and splinters of wood. He wondered what Lucas Oxley normally used the van for when it wasn’t serving as the team bus. For a moment, he also wondered whether it was legal — but he put the thought hastily out of his mind as unworthy. It was just that he had never known what Lucas did for a living. Or any of the Oxleys, come to that.

They bumped up a hill and round a few more bends before descending again. There was a steel grille between the body of the van and the driver’s cab, and Alton wouldn’t have been able to see where they were going, even if he had taken his sunglasses off, which he didn’t like to do, because all the others were wearing theirs. He very much wanted to be part of the side, to do whatever they did. Almost whatever. When Scott wiped the neck of his beer bottle and offered it to him, he managed to refuse.

‘Yes, it’s probably best not to, if you’re a bit nervous, Vicar,’ said Scott.

‘There’s nothing to be nervous about really,’ said Alton. ‘I know the dance perfectly.’

But he could hear the tremble in his own voice, so he didn’t expect Scott or any of the others to be in the least convinced. They all looked at him and smiled. He hoped they were sympathetic smiles, but their mirrored sunglasses made it impossible for him to see the look in their eyes, to tell whether they were mocking him.

‘Where did you say we’re going?’ asked Alton again.

‘To bring a bit of fertility to our neighbours.’

The others laughed and cheered. Scott Oxley stared steadily at the vicar.

‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘some of them actually believe this fertility stuff. There are women who come to watch us on May Day, then turn up again the following year clutching a baby and telling us we were responsible for her getting pregnant.’

‘Aye, but those are all the birds that Scott’s shagged,’ said Ryan. ‘Only they can’t tell which of us it was because of the black faces, see.’

Scott continued as if his brother hadn’t spoken. ‘Fertility ritual! I mean, can you credit some folk? It only ever started off as a joke, to keep people in the crowd amused. You hear Fools talking it up around some sides, but it’s only like having a comedian making a few rude jokes, isn’t it? Why has anyone ever taken that stuff seriously?’

‘Here we are!’ called Lucas from the cab at last. ‘Let the band get started first, then go for it on the signal. And remember — you go out dancing! What do you say?’

‘Rats!’ the boys shouted, so loudly that they almost deafened Derek Alton. He came in late, only managed to mouth the word a beat behind the others, and felt ashamed that he had missed the cue. He swore that he’d get everything else right from now on.

As soon as the van doors open and he clambered out after the others, Alton recognized the church, and realized they were in Tintwistle. Then it dawned on him why there was a crowd of spectators to greet them.

‘Oh my God. It’s the blessing of the wells. There’s the Rural Dean and the church choir, and the whole of the women’s institute, and... Oh Lord, what are they going to do?’

Although it hadn’t been used by its owner for two years, the Audi was fully taxed. The disc inside the windscreen showed that its road fund licence didn’t run out until March 2004. Fry was willing to bet that its insurance cover had been renewed by the Renshaws, too. Everything was ready for the moment Emma returned. Or was it?

‘So you must have had it MoT’d,’ she said.

‘Sorry?’

One look at Sarah Renshaw’s face made it obvious that the question hadn’t even occurred to her. But every vehicle had to go through an annual MoT test, once it was three years old.

Fry looked at Howard. His expression was impassive, and she found she couldn’t read anything into his manner. But whatever the reason for his pretence, he was fully aware of the age of the car.

Howard turned towards his wife, touching her arm gently.

‘I had that done a few months ago,’ he said.

‘Yes. Thank you.’ But Sarah still looked as if she didn’t understand.

Fry opened the driver’s door of the Audi. From inside the car wafted a strong scent she didn’t recognize at first. It seemed to rise from the carpet and seep out of the upholstery of the seats, a warm, woody smell. She realized she was inhaling the lingering traces of Emma Renshaw’s favourite fragrance, trapped inside her car for more than two years. Its emotional significance hit Fry powerfully. It was as if she had just found Emma herself sitting in the driving seat, laughing and flicking back her hair, and spraying Rive Gauche behind her ears.

Fry straightened and looked round at the Renshaws. She hadn’t been the only one to catch the scent, and for the Renshaws the effect of its release on the trapped air in the car had been devastating. Sarah’s face was suffused and contorted as tears flooded down her cheeks. Howard stared at Fry in despair as his wife buried herself in his Arran sweater.

Fry pictured Mrs Renshaw, watching out of the window all day long for her daughter to come home. The daughter she was expecting was not only alive and well, but still nineteen, and still wearing the same clothes as the day she went missing, ready to finish the picture she’d been painting or take her Audi for a run.

When young people went missing, they would always be remembered exactly as they had been on the day they disappeared. Perhaps that was the real secret of eternal youth — an early death.

‘Mr Renshaw, have you used this car recently?’

‘No, of course not,’ he said.

‘Has it been borrowed by anybody?’

‘No. We wouldn’t do that. It’s Emma’s car.’

Fry looked at Sarah, who seemed to be gradually shrinking away from her husband.

‘Mrs Renshaw, do you know whether this vehicle has left the garage recently?’

Sarah Renshaw glanced at her husband, who seemed to become aware of her silence. He turned away from the car to stare at her in astonishment.

‘It was only for a few hours,’ she said. ‘And I knew Emma wouldn’t mind. In fact, it seemed quite appropriate at the time.’

‘Sarah, what on earth are you talking about?’ said Howard.

‘I did think about what Emma would say, if she were here. And I knew she’d say “yes”. So I let him take the car. It was while you were away at that conference in London.’

‘Mrs Renshaw—’ said Fry.

‘I was sure it wouldn’t do any harm. It was a kind of connection. For a while, I was able to imagine that they’d gone out together and he’d bring Emma back with him when he returned the car.’

‘I can’t believe this,’ said Howard, smacking the wing of the car. ‘You did this while my back was turned. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I thought you might be angry. I thought you wouldn’t see it the same way.’

‘Mrs Renshaw,’ said Fry, ‘who did you allow to use this car?’

‘It was Alex,’ she said. ‘I let Alex Dearden borrow it.’

Gail Dearden stood in her kitchen at Shepley Head Lodge and stared at her husband. Suddenly, the kitchen didn’t seem to be hers any more. It had been made unfamiliar by an object that lay on the table.

‘Where did the shotgun come from?’ she said.