Blind to the Bones (40 page)

Some defenders had become expert at getting an acquittal on a technicality, picking at the threads of the procedural detail, so that even the most damning evidence of guilt might never be considered by the court. Police officers had learned that the most important thing in their lives was to follow correct procedure, if they were ever going to get a conviction. The fully documented chain of evidence, the properly executed search warrant, the interview conducted to the letter of the rule book – those were the only real strengths they could call on, under the scrutiny of a court. Justice, truth, and the suffering of victims were insignificant side issues.

And even time could be against them. The defence might find ways of delaying a case so long that witnesses forgot what they had seen, or changed their minds, or decided it might be more sensible, after all, not to appear in court.

But an Anti-Social Behaviour Order could be taken out in civil proceedings, which meant the same burden of proof wasn't needed. Just the number of complaints from neighbours could be enough for the council to obtain an ASBO, which obliged the family involved to refrain from anti-social behaviour for a specific period – in this case, five years. But the sting in the tail was that, although an ASBO was a civil action, breaking one was a criminal offence and could mean a jail sentence.

Of course, the threat posed by an ASBO might also mean that people would go to greater lengths to conceal offences.

Cooper thought about Lucas Oxley. He seemed like a man genuinely passionate about keeping his family in line, but also obsessive about preserving their privacy. What lengths would Lucas go to if he thought one of his family had stepped over that line?

Also in the heap of paper on his desk, Cooper found copies of the conviction records for the Oxleys and began to thumb through them. He saw that three years previously, Scott Oxley had been convicted of criminal damage, and given probation. No surprise there. But he had been charged jointly with Craig Alan Oxley, aged sixteen.

‘Who's Craig?' said Cooper.

Then there was another conviction. Two years ago, for taking a vehicle without the owner's consent, Scott had been sentenced to fifty hours community service. He was charged jointly with Craig Alan Oxley, aged seventeen.

‘Craig? There isn't a Craig.'

Cooper scanned the rest of the records. He wondered if that was how most of the Oxleys spent their time – doing community service instead of working for a living.

‘But the point is, who's Craig?'

Was he a middle brother? A cousin? Cooper searched for a separate record for Craig Alan Oxley. His address was given as 5 Waterloo Terrace, Withens. That was Fran Oxley's house.

If only the Oxleys were on the electoral roll, it would help a lot. But the Oxleys probably believed that if they were on the electoral roll, all sorts of people would come looking for them, to make them pay Council Tax and income tax.

And Fran's husband – what was his name? Barry Cully, that was it. But he wasn't her husband. Fran had told him that Barry was an electrician and was away working in Saudi Arabia at the moment. So Craig could be living at Fran's house.

But then Cooper turned to the last page of Craig Oxley's court records. No, he wasn't living in Fran's house. He was in Lancashire. For his last offence he had been sent to the Young Offenders' Institution at Hindley.

Cooper thought about trying to obtain school records for the Oxleys. Of course, he wasn't even certain that they were all Lucas's children. But one thing he felt sure of – for the Oxley boys, school would mean social isolation. Only at home in Withens were they among their own kind.

D
I Hitchens put his head round the door of the CID room and called Cooper away from his reports. Cooper had already stopped humming after reading about the ASBO and Craig Oxley. But this wasn't a good sign, either.

‘We've pulled in one of Neil Granger's associates, by the name of David Senior,' said Hitchens. ‘He seems to have the closest links to Granger, and he was actually seen near his house on Friday night, a few hours before Granger was killed.'

‘Are we interviewing him, sir?'

‘No, he's stewing in his own juices at the moment, waiting for the duty solicitor. But interestingly, we had a call from Granger's brother, who wants to talk to us.'

‘You think he has some information on this Senior?'

‘It seems likely. I'm scenting a breakthrough. You met Philip Granger, didn't you, Ben?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Let's go and see what he has to say, then.'

P
hilip Granger was looking a bit better than last time Cooper saw him. The initial shock had perhaps worn off now, and some more useful information might well be coming back to him. This was a strange time for relatives, following a suspicious death. Until someone was charged with murder, or twenty-eight days had passed, Neil Granger's body wouldn't be released for a funeral, so his brother might have to wait a month or so yet before he could start to put the whole business behind him.

‘I heard that you've arrested David Senior,' he said.

‘No. At the moment, he's helping us voluntarily,' said Hitchens.

Granger nodded. ‘Right. But I think there might be something you haven't realized.'

‘What's that, sir?'

‘Neil was gay.'

Hitchens shrugged. ‘So?'

Granger looked surprised at the DI's reaction and didn't seem to know what else to say for a moment. Cooper felt surprised, too, but concentrated on not giving it away in his expression.

‘Neil didn't make any big deal of it,' said Granger. ‘But he did get the piss taken out of him by some of our cousins. That's one reason he was keen to move out of Withens, you see. I thought it might make a difference – Neil being gay, I mean.'

‘It doesn't make any difference to us, sir,' said Hitchens. ‘These days we aim to treat everyone fairly, regardless of ethnic origin, religious belief, gender or sexual orientation.'

‘Oh.'

It might have been the first time that Philip Granger had heard the words, but they were familiar to Cooper. In fact, he was fairly sure they were on a noticeboard somewhere in the station under the heading ‘Statement of Purpose'.

‘I mean, the time has long since passed when the fact that your brother was gay would lead to us making any assumptions about his lifestyle or his associates,' said Hitchens.

‘I see.' Granger looked almost disappointed. ‘I thought I was helping.'

‘Unless you're suggesting this has some direct relevance to the enquiry into your brother's death?'

‘Well, I'm not sure,' said Granger. ‘It's just that David Senior … well, I don't know what connection you think he has to Neil. But they were … they had a relationship.'

‘Do you know anything else about David Senior?'

‘He used to work at the chemicals factory with Neil. That's where they met, but that's all I know about him.'

‘Does he ride a motorbike?'

Granger frowned. ‘Not as far as I know. Why?'

‘We were told that some of your brother's friends were bikers.'

‘If it was Neil's neighbours who told you that, they probably meant me. I ride a motorbike.'

‘Probably,' said Hitchens, as if that had confirmed what he suspected.

Now Granger looked a bit uncomfortable, perhaps feeling that he hadn't helped as much as he hoped he would.

‘There
was
something else.'

‘Yes, sir?'

‘You were asking me about antiques and things …'

‘Have you remembered something?'

‘I'm not sure. But there was a small box on the mantelpiece in Neil's house when I went there on Saturday. I didn't think much of it at the time, but I don't remember ever seeing it there before.'

Cooper searched his memory. He thought he had done pretty well checking the CD player, but he had never noticed the box.

‘What was it made of?' he said.

‘It was metal. Bronze or brass, I couldn't tell. About this big –' Granger held his hands a few inches apart.

Hitchens looked at Cooper, who shook his head. ‘Well, well,' said Hitchens. ‘Let's see if anyone else has noticed it.'

A
s soon as Philip Granger had left, DI Hitchens' manner changed. Cooper had to lengthen his stride to follow the DI back to his office.

‘Is there a rush, sir?' he said.

‘We have to get on to it straight away,' said Hitchens.

‘This bronze or brass box, you mean?'

‘Well, there's that as well.'

‘And …?'

‘I need to get somebody to work turning over the local arse bandits. They'll be shitting themselves knowing one of their bum chums has got himself done in.'

‘But, sir, didn't you just say …?'

‘Of course I did.' Hitchens stopped suddenly. ‘You've got to be sensitive with bereaved relatives, you know, Cooper. Didn't they tell you that in training?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Well, then. Do you want to do bandits or box?'

‘Box,' said Cooper.

D
iane Fry and Gavin Murfin were on the M6 motorway, approaching the junction with the M5 north of Birmingham. They were already well inside the vast urban sprawl at the heart of the Black Country. It couldn't have looked more different from the empty wastes of peat moor around Withens.

‘Is the Black Country the place where black pudding comes from?' said Murfin.

‘Of course it isn't.'

‘Well, I just wondered, like. I know Bakewell pudding comes from Bakewell, so I thought –'

‘No, Gavin, it doesn't.'

‘OK.'

They were passing through the western edge of Smethwick, having taken the wrong exit from the M5 when Murfin got excited about seeing the West Bromwich Albion football ground. Fry was starting to feel edgy as they came closer to her old stamping grounds. The feeling of tension was like steel springs trying to pull her into the air, so that she hardly seemed to be touching her car seat. But she knew she mustn't take out her own edginess on Gavin Murfin.

‘What about blackberry crumble, then?' said Murfin.

‘No, Gavin! Now, will you shut up about it?'

‘All right.'

Fry remembered all too clearly shopping with her friends in Birmingham or at the Merry Hill shopping centre, touring the Birmingham clubs, drinking lager while she listened to the boys talking about West Brom.

They drove through Langley and hit traffic at the junction with the A4123 Wolverhampton Road, where the signs all seemed to point to the Merry Hill shopping centre. It had been Fry's shopping mecca as a teenager, the place where all her friends had gone to meet on a Saturday – not to spend money, because they didn't have any. Well, not unless somebody had nicked a few quid from their mum. They went just to walk around, to be there and be seen there. It made you part of the crowd, part of the Merry Hill lot.

With her friends, she had come to know the place so well that it was like a second home. They had learned all the ways of avoiding the security guards and the CCTV cameras. But there had been others attracted to Merry Hill shopping centre, too – men who had money, and had seemed attractive. And perhaps a little dangerous, too.

‘Black Forest gateau?' said Murfin.

T
hey turned south on Wolverhampton Road and headed towards Warley and Bearwood. And as soon as she saw the big white cross picked out in brickwork on the tower of Warley Baptist Church, she knew she was back home.

There were starlings roosting on the high ledges, their white droppings streaking brickwork that had always seemed a little ornate for a Baptist church. They stopped to fill up with petrol. On the forecourt of the petrol station, Fry saw the familiar blue-and-cream buses passing, and heard the sound of a genuine West Indian accent.

Murfin was intrigued by the Caribbean restaurants and Punjabi food stores they passed along the road.

‘A Somali takeaway!' he said. ‘We don't get those in Edendale.'

‘You're not getting one here, either,' said Fry. ‘Turn left up ahead.'

They turned into a housing estate and drove through the streets to Hilltop. Murfin didn't question her directions, knowing that she was familiar with the area. They passed Warley High School on Pound Road. It was the middle of the morning, lesson time, so there were no kids hanging around outside. Fry heard a bell ring somewhere and was glad they were already past. She didn't want to be in sight of the school when the kids appeared.

Warley Baths were now called a swimming centre. Further up Thimblemill Road was the library, where Fry had spent even more time, sitting among the books, looking for something she could relate to, something that told a story similar to her own. She had never found anything.