The Dead Place (42 page)

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grunt of effort. Then the company's new security system activated, and the burglar alarm began to scream. But no one was interested in committing burglary.

No one spoke as they entered a store room. Two of them kicked open inner doors, while the third swilled petrol from a plastic container on to the floor and furniture, drenching a stack of chairs and a spare desk, spraying fuel into the adjoining rooms as far as he could reach. Then he lit a petrol soaked rag and tossed it through the doorway as his companions ran out.

With a dull roar, a blaze flared instantly. Flames engulfed the store room and burst from the open door to lick at the stones of the outside wall. Windows cracked as air was sucked in and drew the blaze deeper into the building. Paintwork scorched as the building filled with billowing black clouds. A smoke alarm burst into life and added its noise to the security system. The three men moved with sudden urgency as they raced back across the compound towards the wall.

But one of the figures paused as he passed between the rows of black vehicles. The other two turned, gesturing to him impatiently. With a ferocious swing of his arm, the biggest man brought down the blades of his bolt cutters and smashed the windscreen of a hearse. The toughened glass crazed, and he jabbed at it until it fell in fragments. Then he tossed the plastic container and the remaining petrol on to the driver's seat and dropped in a lighted match. He laughed at the heat and shock of the explosion as he ran to join the others at the gap in the fence. They clambered over the wall and sprinted back the way they'd come along the railway cutting. A car was waiting for them in a back street near Chesterfield Road.

By the time the first fire appliance turned off Fargate, the three men were long gone. In the street, people who'd come out of their houses to watch the flames had to cover their mouths as the wind changed direction, blowing acrid smoke

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and flakes of ash into their faces. Something was burning well at Hudson and Slack.

Despite his best efforts, it was inevitable they would end up talking shop. The current point of contact between them was the mystery caller.

'Diane Fry is taking these calls very seriously,' said Cooper. 'Very seriously.'

The lamb curry he'd chosen was good, not too hot. With a few side dishes, the meal was living up to expectations.

'The tapes have really upset her, you know,' said Petty.

'They're pretty awful. Nobody likes listening to them.'

'It's more than that with Diane.' _

'Is it? Why?'

Petty hesitated. 'I can't say. She told me in confidence.'

'Oh?'

Cooper was surprised by a surge of jealousy. There had been occasions when Fry had confided in him. But very few occasions. It was some time ago now that she'd told him about her childhood in foster homes in the Black Country, about her older sister who'd been a heroin addict by the time she ran away from home and disappeared from Diane's life. She'd talked to him about Angie again recently, too, but only because she had to. Cooper had somehow got himself involved in events that were nothing to do with him.

But that was really all he knew about Fry's life. Most of the time, she seemed to be trapped inside a bubble of her own, a little capsule of isolation that no one could penetrate. Had Liz Petty managed to penetrate that bubble?

Cooper looked across the table at Liz as she scooped up her curry with a poppadom.

'Do you get on well with Diane?' he said. 'How long have you been friendly with her?'

'Ben '

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'I didn't think she had any friends at West Street. What does she talk to you about?'

Petty put down her fork and gave him a quizzical smile.

'Ben, could we talk about something other than Diane Fry?'

Cooper felt his face start to grow warm. Perhaps the curry was too hot for him, after all.

MY JOURNAL OF THE DEAD, PHASE FIVE

Tonight I went back for the last time. Moonlight filtered through the trees, glinting on steel as I crouched in the grass and took the scalpel from my pocket. I lowered my head to pray. God, give me what I need. I know it's wrong, but please take this soul.

When I placed my hands in the damp grass, I could feel the grittiness of the soil under my fingers, the hard, knotty lumps of the roots. I was able to savour the closeness of the earth, and draw in the power I could sense below the ground.

But then I looked at the sky. I was facing north, and I wasn't sure if that was right. The feet of a body should be pointing to the east, and the head to the west. But which direction should you pray to? Where is God? North, south, east or west? Where does a soul go when it's released? Does it flicker upwards into the sun, like a swirl of mist vanishing at dawn? Or is it absorbed into the earth's atmosphere, drawn into the aurora, where it dances for ever in the flames of the north?

I brought my face lower, until I could hold it close to the bones. I sniffed, tilting my head to catch the play of light and shadow. A skeleton is a remarkable thing. Seen up close, it could be a soaring architectural structure - a cityscape or a cathedral. I saw the ribs curving in graceful arches, the skull a mysterious dome with dark recesses where moonlight glittered on something cold and wet.

Slowly, I allowed myself to follow the grain on the outer sheath of the scapula, to enjoy the planes and angles. I smiled

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with pleasure at the pure, white smoothness of a joint where once there had been gristle and black strings of tendon. I was so close to the bones that I could see my breath condense on their surfaces. I inhaled the faintest of scents - the scent of a perfect death, pure and clean, and irresistible.

Then I flicked open the blade. I began to work my way inch by inch, brushing at a bit of dirt with a cloth, teasing loose a spider's web. With the edge of my scalpel, I scraped at a dark encrustation on the lower pelvic plate, until the paler surface of the bone appeared. It was still slightly stained, but it'll weather like the rest, given time. I wasn't wearing gloves tonight, but I held my hands at an angle, tilted at the wrist, so that my fingers were clear of the surfaces. I felt like a musician fingering the keys of a delicate instrument.

The thought makes me smile again. In a way, I'm rather like a musician, because music requires a certain kind of skill that comes from practice and dedication. You have to be single-minded, if you're seeking perfection.

Tonight I wasn't disturbed. So this time I wasn't meant to stop. When I was finished, I put away the scalpel with a feeling of satisfaction. I wanted to do everything possible to reach a point as close to perfection as I could achieve. I might not have the chance to go back again. This was probably my final visit. My last hour in the dead place.

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30

Fry hadn't really been watching for Ben Cooper to come on duty that morning. A prisoner had come into the cells overnight, and she'd been consulting the custody sergeant about interview arrangements.

As she passed through the security door from the custody suite to go back to the main building, she paused and pulled up her collar against a flurry of rain. Then she glanced across at the staff car park. Her attention had been drawn by a flash of light from a windscreen as a car backed into a parking space. She recognized Cooper's red Toyota, and she hesitated, intending to wait for him so they could walk up to the CID room together. She saw Cooper get out, but he didn't look round.

Then the passenger door began to swing open, and Fry realized he'd given someone a lift to work. He was the perfect Good Samaritan. Probably Gavin Murfin's car had broken down, and Cooper had stepped in to help.

She was about to move away when she caught a glimpse of blonde hair and a navy-blue sweater. Cooper's early morning passenger was entirely the wrong shape to be Gavin Murfin. Entirely wrong. The image of a broken-down car vanished from her mind, to be replaced by a different scenario altogether.

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Fry found it difficult to concentrate as she made her way back upstairs. She was trying to remember what else she had to attend to that was urgent before she went out. There was definitely something. Probably several things. But one thing she wanted to do was get those skeletons in the Alder Hall crypt checked out. John Casey had said there had been an earlier inventory of the bones, which should help a lot.

'Alder Hall? Oh, I think I can help you here,' said Dr Jamieson when Fry rang him. 'The study you're referring to was carried out by one of my predecessors. The records will be here in our archives.'

'That would be wonderful. But are you sure?'

T can soon check. I'll get back to you ASAP.'

As soon as Cooper entered the room, he sensed something was wrong. There was one of those atmospheres, a vague uneasiness that was difficult to put his finger on. He looked at Fry, and saw her putting the phone down. The tightness of her expression confirmed his suspicion.

'There was an incident at the funeral director's during the night,' she said, without bothering to say 'good morning'.

Puzzled, Cooper looked at his watch. It wasn't as if he was late for duty or anything. He was a bit early, in fact. He felt a surge of irritation at her rudeness.

'An incident? At Hudson and Slack, you mean?'

'Where else?'

'Well, I don't know,' he said. 'There are plenty of other funeral directors in this division.'

Fry gave him a cool stare. 'Yes, at Hudson and Slack. A person or persons unknown set fire to the place in the early hours of the morning. The fire service reports extensive damage. I haven't been out there yet. I thought you might want to come along - if you're not busy with something else, that is.'

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'What would I be busy with?'

'Well, I don't know. There are plenty of other ongoing cases in this division.'

Cooper sighed. 'OK, Diane. Was that what the phone call was about?'

'No. Believe it or not, that was a helpful anthropologist. With a bit of luck, he might be able to produce records of the bone collection at Alder Hall.'

'That is a bit of luck.'

'The first one so far.'

'I have to say, those bones looked pretty old to me,' said Cooper. 'If there was a recent human skull from those remains in Ravensdale, it would stand out, wouldn't it?'

'An expert, are you? Learned a bit more than we thought from your friend the professor?'

Cooper shook his head, trying to shake off the irritation. 'It might mean we don't have to bring Dr Jamieson's team in to look at the bones, if the records tally. So we'd save on the budget, too.'

'And, hey presto, everyone's happy,' said Fry.

But Cooper looked at her thoughtfully. Happy was far from how she looked.

'According to John Casey, those bones were found somewhere in the grounds of the hall,' she said. 'Do you think Mrs Chadwick would know where exactly?'

'She might do.'

'Ask her, then.'

'Sure.'

He looked down at his desk. Work was waiting for him. If anything was really urgent - well, it was hard luck, unless he could snatch a few minutes. But Fry hadn't finished yet.

'Ben, you don't believe the Alder Hall crypt is what he means by "the dead place", do you?' she said.

'It's just a feeling. You might not understand.'

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'Try me.'

'I felt. . . Well, when I was down there, it felt as though the place had been dead for too long. Does that make sense?'

Fry stared at him, as though she might actually be trying to understand him. 'It's no more than that?'

'Sorry.'

Cooper put his jacket back on, and they headed out. He didn't like to admit to Fry what he was actually thinking. It was something Freddy Robertson had said to him, when he'd been explaining the purpose of a sarcophagus and the charnel house, and the rituals that went with them.

The memory had come back to him as he stood in the crypt at Alder Hall. For a moment, Cooper had felt a hint of what his ancient ancestors had instinctively believed. The bones piled in that crypt had been perfectly clean and dry, free of the last shreds of flesh that had once clung to them. If it was the fragments of a physical structure that held a soul to its body, then the spirits that hovered around those bones had long since departed.

'By the way,' said Fry in the car, 'I've started making enquiries into John Casey's background.'

'The property agent? Why?'

'Well, those two sets of remains were found on Alder Hall estate land. Admittedly, they were much nearer to Mr Jarvis's property than to the hall, but that's only because of the size of the estate. Casey is the man immediately responsible for the site, and he has the opportunity for unrestricted access, too. Once you're inside those gates, anything you do is entirely out of public view. That doesn't apply to anyone approaching from the Ravensdale side, where there are residents in the cottages, and walkers on the footpath.'

'Not to mention the Jarvises and their dogs.'

'Exactly.'

'Well, John Casey may not-be the most efficient property

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agent in the world. But he struck me as vaguely incompetent, rather than criminal.'

'Didn't you think he was a bit quick to draw our attention to Maurice Goodwin and his role at Alder Hall? That was too convenient, I thought.'

'Did you?'

'Look, Goodwin left the company three months ago. And Casey just happens not to have made arrangements for somebody else to check the hall regularly since then? And he just happens not to have found a replacement for Goodwin. Why not? What's so special about the job that he wasn't satisfied with any of the applicants?'

'I don't know. Diane, what are you suggesting?'

'I'm wondering if Casey had Maurice Goodwin lined up as a scapegoat to take the blame if things went wrong. In any case, I'd like to know why Goodwin left the job in the first place.'

'A personality clash, Mr Casey said.'

'That usually means a blazing row with the boss. What if John Casey deliberately manoeuvred Goodwin into a position where he'd decide that he'd had enough and walk out?'