Blind to the Bones
To get to the houses that he could see, he had to pass the entrance to one of the farms. He paused at the farm gate and looked down through a jumble of buildings. Near the gate was an ancient stone barn with narrow, unglazed windows like arrow slits. Further from the road, the buildings were more recent, and a tractor was parked in the space between them. Cooper found he was looking downhill through a tunnel of buildings to a spectacular view of heather-covered slopes in the distance. The dark mass of Bleaklow lay directly across the valley.
He moved on a few yards, sticking to the grass verge because there were no pavements and the edges of the road were starting to crumble. There were streams of small stones at the roadside that had been swept down by the water running off the hills. Here and there, scraps of black plastic from torn silage bags lay like tattered oil slicks on the verges.
In Withens, water seemed to run wherever it chose. At this moment, it was running directly into the entrance to Waterloo Terrace. Because the terrace was on the downhill side of the road, the water was draining towards it in large quantities. And it had been doing so for some time, judging by the holes scoured in the surface of the track leading down to the terrace. Cooper had to step over vast, muddy puddles to reach the safety of drier ground.
In the wide entrance, there were gate posts, but no gate hung between them. Ceramic drainage pipes had been stacked in neat, geometric shapes nearby, so perhaps someone was thinking of putting proper drainage in one day. Horseshoes had been turned upside down and nailed to the gate posts – they were ready to catch luck or trap the Devil, whichever folklore you chose to believe.
There was nothing about Waterloo Terrace that resembled the romantic idea of a holiday cottage in the Peak District. There were no mullioned windows, no rose-filled front gardens, no honeysuckle growing on the walls. The eight houses were built of black brick that had weathered badly. It had become discoloured and was beginning to crumble at the exposed edges. Between each pair of houses, Cooper could see the arched mouth of a narrow passageway that ran towards the back of the terrace. The passages were completely enclosed and must run underneath the front bedrooms.
He stood where he could see into one of the passageways, and he could make out no light at the end of the brick tunnel. The passage seemed to turn a sharp corner at the far end, maybe providing access to a back yard, and all he could see was a blank wall. The builders hadn’t thought to install lights in these passages, either.
There was a sudden crack like a gunshot in the air above the rooftops. But it was only a couple of wood pigeons taking off, their wings clapping loudly as they accelerated and performed a circuit of the houses.
Waterloo Terrace puzzled Cooper. It stuck out like a sore thumb in this area, where all the buildings were built in the traditional style, from local stone. Gritstone was so plentiful on the hills all around here that it was difficult to imagine why anyone should have decided to use brick. And black brick at that.
In front of the row of houses there was a long stretch of garden that had been converted to growing vegetables at some time. But the effort had been abandoned, and weeds had been allowed to take over where the earth had been disturbed. There were a few sickly cabbages gradually being smothered by thistles and couch grass. Cooper wasn’t surprised by that. Withens was surely one of those places where the wind was strong enough to blow cabbages clean out of the ground – and not just during the winter, either.
Only in one part of the garden had the weeds been held at bay – and that was because black plastic sheeting had been laid over the earth. It was held down by stones and a variety of rusted metal objects that looked as though they had been lying around somewhere waiting for a useful purpose to be found for them. The plastic had torn in a few places, and strips of it flapped lazily in the breeze. The soil under there would be warm and weed-free, and full of worms and insects. But would anything actually be growing?
Across the track from the terrace stood a row of brick privies, with bright blue doors and sloping roofs of stone tiles overgrown with grass and moss. The iron hinges of the doors had been replaced several times, leaving their marks in the paintwork. And now the old privies were padlocked and unused.
Cooper walked on a bit further. The track felt gritty underfoot. The water running down it towards the road had washed away whatever surface had been there originally, leaving a wide channel between banks of grass splashed with dirty water. The wheel ruts of some heavy vehicle had worn through the remaining layer of grit in places to expose the hardcore underneath. Some of it was broken black bricks – presumably what was left over after Waterloo Terrace had been built, or perhaps the remains of some other buildings that had been demolished.
The rookery he had heard was in the chestnuts beyond the track. The birds were setting up a noisy accompaniment to his progress along the front gates of the terrace gardens. The overgrown gardens looked damper than they should have been, even after the morning’s showers. In fact, they looked impossibly wet – the peaty soil was waterlogged and washed away in places. No wonder the cabbages weren’t flourishing. Rice might have been a better crop to plant here. Presumably the water cascading off the hillsides ran straight through the gardens, too.
Cooper must have been tired, or lulled into inattention by the silence. He had lost awareness of his surroundings, and was taken completely by surprise when he heard the voice.
‘Don’t come any further, or you’ll regret it.’
7
Diane Fry and Gavin Murfin had arrived outside a modern office building made of steel, concrete blocks and aluminium cladding. It stood in the middle of a business park on the southern outskirts of Edendale, constructed on what had once been the flood plain of the River Eden.
‘This is it,’ said Murfin. ‘Eden Valley Software Solutions. Have you seen all that smoked glass and fancy furniture? It looks like a brothel.’
‘You must know some high-class brothels in Edendale,’ said Fry.
‘OK. A hairdresser’s, then.’
As Murfin got out of the car, Fry glanced suspiciously at a paper bag he had left on the ledge over the fascia.
‘What’s in the bag, Gavin?’ she said.
‘Don’t worry. It’s for later,’ he said.
‘Much later, I hope.’
Fry had taken her Peugeot to be valeted only two days before, and it was largely because she could no longer stand the debris left by Gavin Murfin when he had been a passenger. There had been crumbs and sticky traces of all kinds ground into her carpet and upholstery. In fact, the man at the valeting company had asked her how many children she had. He had imagined her to be a mum who got lumbered with a car full of whining toddlers on the nursery school run every day. It had been embarrassing, and it was Murfin’s fault.
As soon as they announced themselves at Eden Valley Software Solutions, Alex Dearden emerged from a corridor to meet them in the reception area. He was wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt with a designer logo on it that was so small Fry would have had to rest her nose on his left nipple to read it. Dearden’s face was slim and fine-boned, but his looks were spoiled by two little pouches at the sides of his mouth, which made him look a bit like an angry hamster. His beard might have disguised the effect, except that current fashion dictated he could only have a goatee.
‘You have to sign in and get ID badges,’ said Dearden. ‘Sorry about that. Security, you know.’
‘That’s quite all right, sir,’ said Fry. ‘We’re lucky that you’re open at all on a Saturday.’
‘Oh, it’s seven days a week for some of us here at the moment.’
When they had signed in, Dearden went to a solid-looking door and stood with his back carefully turned towards them as he keyed numbers into a keypad. The door clicked, and he pulled it open. A burst of noise came down the corridor – voices talking and laughing, someone shouting, a printer humming.
‘It’s just like going into our custody suite back at the station,’ said Murfin. ‘I guess they don’t want your inmates escaping and running amok on the streets either?’
Dearden laughed politely. ‘Actually, we’re thinking of switching over to fingerprint-recognition technology,’ he said. ‘Much more secure. Code numbers are too easy to get hold of.’
‘Absolutely. We can’t fault you for your security measures.’
‘You have to be careful,’ said Dearden. ‘There’s a lot of crime about.’
‘Have you ever had any problem with break-ins here?’
‘Actually, no. We had a bit of vandalism a while ago. Somebody broke the window in the front of reception. We’ve had reinforced glass put in since then. They scrawled graffiti on the outside wall, too. Something about Manchester United FC, all spelled wrong.’
‘That doesn’t sound like Edendale’s gang of notorious computer software thieves, anyway.’
Dearden stopped. ‘My God, who are they?’
‘Just joking,’ said Fry. But she saw that Dearden wasn’t amused.
‘There’s an awful lot of money tied up in what we’re developing here,’ he said. ‘Unbelievable amounts of money. There’s no way of calculating how much.’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘You don’t appreciate what we’re developing here. It’s really ground-breaking stuff. If we roll some of these programs out for all platforms –’
‘There’s no need to explain,’ said Fry. ‘That wasn’t what we came about.’
But Dearden wanted to explain. Or at least, he wanted to talk about a subject that had nothing to do with a visit by the police.
‘We’ve actually used top consultant psychologists in the development of this concept,’ said Dearden. ‘That’s how serious we are about it.’
‘Mmm.’
Dearden had led them down the corridor and into a small conference room, where there was a long table, a flipchart on a stand, and a projection screen against the end wall. It looked like a million other meeting rooms that Fry had been in for briefings and training sessions. She looked around for an overhead projector to go with the screen. But of course presentations here would be done in PowerPoint from someone’s laptop.
To her surprise, Alex Dearden sat at the head of the table as if he were about to chair a meeting. Fry had expected to be facing him across the table. This way suited her, though. It meant she and Murfin could be on either side of him. Dearden couldn’t concentrate on both of them at once.
‘It’s about Emma Renshaw,’ said Fry, taking a chair.
‘Emma? But that’s a long time ago,’ said Dearden. ‘It was all dealt with a long time ago.’
‘It wasn’t exactly dealt with, sir. Emma has never been found.’
‘Of course, I know that. And it’s been very distressing for all of us who knew her.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But, I mean, I told the police everything I knew at the time, which wasn’t very much. It was all gone through over and over, though it didn’t do any good. Tragic though it is for her family, I think there comes a point when we have to put these things behind us and move on, don’t you?’
Fry stared at him. She had to remind herself how old Alex Dearden was. Twenty-two, according to his file. But he sounded like someone thirty years older. He sounded like a respectable middle-aged citizen irritated at being pestered over something that had happened long ago in his past, when he had been a different person entirely.
‘You knew Emma from a very young age, I believe,’ said Fry.
‘For ever. We lived in the same village. In Withens. Do you know it at all?’
‘I haven’t been there yet.’
‘Well, when you see it, you’ll understand. There’s nothing to the place. Children of around the same age couldn’t help but know each other. We went to the same junior school, in Tintwistle. And later on, to the same secondary school, too. But our parents were on friendly terms anyway, so we were thrown together a lot.’
‘And after school, you even ended up going to the same university.’
‘No,’ said Dearden. ‘You have that wrong. I went to Birmingham University. Emma was at UCE, where she attended the art school. That’s the University of Central England. It’s a former polytechnic.’
‘Right.’ Fry looked at Alex Dearden and saw the little superior smile. He thought he had the better of her now, and was feeling more relaxed.
‘But our universities were close enough that we thought it might be a good idea to pitch in together and rent a house,’ he said. ‘It beats being thrown in with a load of strangers. You don’t know who you’re going to have to live with for three or four years when you do that. It’s madness. At least I knew Emma wouldn’t be too much trouble. And our parents thought it was a good idea, too. They put the money up front for the deposit, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Fry. She had never been to university herself, and had never had any parents either willing or able to put the money up to rent a house for her. But she nodded and smiled to encourage him.
‘And your other housemates – one was Neil Granger.’
‘Ah, well, he’s a bit of an odd character, is Neil.’
‘Odd?’
‘Well, don’t get me wrong. He’s OK really. But he didn’t mix with us so much back in Withens, you know, because he was one of the Oxleys.’
‘I’m sorry? Could you explain?’
Dearden shifted on his seat and his smile faded. He glanced at Gavin Murfin, unnerved by the silent one, as they always were.
‘You’ll have to find out about the Oxleys,’ said Dearden. ‘They’re a bit of a rough lot, always in trouble. We never normally had anything to do with them. Actually, I thought you would know of them already – they’ve all got criminal records, of course.’
He looked at Murfin again, who stared back at him blankly, in the way that only Murfin could. Holding his gaze, Murfin began to work his jaws a bit, as if he were chewing gum. But Fry knew that he hated gum. He said it was like going out with a prick-teaser – it promised to be food, but never was.
She looked down at the notes she’d brought. ‘I think I have heard the name Oxley, now you mention it,’ she said.
Dearden looked relieved. He was on safe ground again, talking to people who were on the same wavelength. He was uncomfortable about his attitude to the Oxleys, and he didn’t like having to justify himself. Fry filed away that piece of information for future reference.
‘Neil Granger is some kind of cousin of the Oxleys,’ said Dearden. ‘There’s Neil and his brother Philip, and they were brought up with the Oxleys. But he’s a decent enough bloke, Neil. When you’re talking to him, you can forget he’s an Oxley.’
‘He was at the same school with you and Emma? In the same class?’
‘Yes.’
‘And which university did he go to? Birmingham or Central England?’ She shuffled her papers. ‘I’m afraid I don’t seem to have that information, either.’
Fry looked at Alex Dearden with a hopeful expression, and was pleased to see the complacent smile was back.
‘Neither,’ he said. ‘Neil wasn’t at uni.’
‘But he shared this house with you in, where was it, Bearwood? Why did he go all that way to share a house? I don’t understand.’
‘It was a bit of a coincidence, really. At first, when we went down there, it was just the three of us – me, Emma and her friend Debbie, who was on the same course. The two girls were big pals, you know, and they went everywhere together. But there was a fourth bedroom in the house, and after a while we started to think we’d have to try to find someone else to share. To be honest, the rent was a bit of a struggle for the three of us. You don’t appreciate what expenses you’re going to have, you know – books and all that. Emma and Debbie had a lot of equipment to buy for their course work.’
‘And there would be socializing, I suppose?’ said Fry.
Dearden looked at her suspiciously. ‘Why do you suppose that?’
‘Well – student life. There’s a lot of socializing, isn’t there? Or so I’m told.’
‘A bit. But if you have any sense, you don’t go mad. Not if you want to get through your course with good grades, which we all did.’
‘I see. But life was proving a bit expensive, all the same?’
‘Yes. Things we hadn’t budgeted for – Council Tax, electricity, the phone bill. You know.’
‘Yes, I do know.’
‘Anyway, it was around then that Neil got in touch. He said he had a job to go to in Birmingham. It was a two-year contract on a development project on the inner ring road, as I remember. Neil wanted to know if we’d let him rent the other room in the house. Our parents weren’t too happy, but we talked about it between us, and we decided to go for it.’
‘Because he was somebody you knew, rather than a stranger?’
Dearden hesitated. ‘Well, the thing that really swung it was the salary he was earning. He was getting good money on this contract, and the rest of us were just students living on loans. So we thought he’d be useful.’
Fry wanted to do something to remove that smile now, but she needed to keep Alex Dearden on her side. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Murfin chewing more quickly, as if he had found something with an unpleasant taste in his mouth that he wanted to spit out.
‘Mr Dearden,’ said Fry, ‘did it ever occur to you that Neil Granger might have a particular reason for wanting to rent the room in your house?’
‘It was just convenience, I think. It can be quite hard to find reasonable rented accommodation, especially in a city with so many students.’
‘No, what I meant was – do you think he might have had an additional reason? A personal reason.’
Dearden still looked puzzled.
‘An interest in Emma Renshaw, perhaps?’
He raised his eyebrows then. ‘Good heavens. Neil? No, I think you’re wrong.’
He didn’t quite say ‘again’, but he might as well have done.
‘Thank you, sir. In that case, can you tell me about any boyfriends that Emma had during the time she was in the West Midlands? I’m sure she must have had some, despite what you said about the lack of socializing.’
Dearden shook his head. ‘There were a few boys Emma and Debbie talked about sometimes. I didn’t take any notice, really. When the two girls went out, they always seemed to go together. So I’m afraid I don’t know if there were any particular boys involved in their lives. Well, all right, I expect there were. But I’m sure Neil wasn’t one of them, Sergeant.’
‘Did Neil have his own friends while he was working in Birmingham?’
‘Yes, I expect so. Some of his workmates from the development project, I imagine.’
‘You don’t seem too sure.’
‘I didn’t ask him. I was busy. I was working hard for my degree. It wasn’t my concern where Neil Granger went in the evenings.’
‘Or Emma either?’
‘Well, no.’
‘Despite the fact that she’d been a friend of yours since you were very young?’
‘I don’t see what that has to do with it.’
‘I just thought you might have shown a bit more interest in what she was doing. A bit more concern for who she might have been getting involved with.’
‘Emma was OK,’ said Dearden confidently. ‘She was sensible enough.’
‘OK? A large city can be a dangerous place for a young woman away from home for the first time. There are all kinds of people she might have come into contact with.’
‘In Bearwood? The place was just boring, if you ask me. Not dangerous at all.’
‘But Mr Dearden,’ said Fry, ‘your friend Emma Renshaw never came home from Bearwood.’
Dearden stopped smiling and started to fidget in his chair. ‘I went through all this before, two years ago,’ he said. ‘I had the police on to me, and I had her parents after me about it constantly. I don’t know why Emma didn’t come home. I don’t know where she went.’
‘Are Emma’s parents still in touch with you?’
He laughed. ‘Every bloody week. One day, I’m going to take out an injunction against them for harassment. I mean it. I know they’re upset about Emma disappearing, and all that. But if you ask me, it’s turned their minds completely. They’re absolutely unreasonable.’
‘In what way, sir?’
‘Well, Mrs Renshaw phones me every single week to ask if I’ve seen Emma. And every time I talk to her, it’s as if she can’t remember having phoned me last week with the same question. And the week before, and the week before that. Every call she makes, it’s as if she thinks she’s asking me for the first time.’
Dearden leaned forward towards Fry. She could almost make out the designer logo on his T-shirt, but not quite.
‘And I know she’s going to keep phoning and phoning me,’ he said, ‘until I give her the answer she wants, which I can’t do. There isn’t even any point in changing my number at home, because she would only start phoning me here. And that would be a nightmare.’
‘It must be very difficult for her,’ said Fry.
‘What about me? It’s difficult for me, too. Isn’t there anything you could do about it? Couldn’t you have a word with her? It’s getting to be a real nuisance.’
‘OK, I’ll mention it, sir.’
Dearden sighed. ‘Yeah. A fat lot of good it will do.’
‘And Neil Granger?’
‘Neil again? What about him?’
‘Are you still in contact with him?’
‘Not really.’
‘When did you speak to him last?’
Dearden shrugged. ‘It’d be a few months ago. I was visiting my parents, and I called in the Quiet Shepherd in Withens for a quick drink on the way back. Neil was in there, with some of his relations. The Oxleys, you know. So we didn’t say much to each other. It was just “hi”. There was no conversation.’
‘And neither of you mentioned Emma, I suppose?’
‘No,’ said Dearden. ‘Neither of us mentioned Emma.’
‘This software you’re developing …’ said Fry.
‘It’s highly confidential at the moment.’
‘Can you give me a clue?’
‘Well, imagine this. The human brain can run routines and recurrent actions, just like a computer does. But occasionally, you get minor damage to the frontal lobes of the brain, which is the system governing attention. Then actions can still be triggered automatically, but out of sequence, or can’t be stopped. The psychologists say it’s the penalty we pay for being able to automatize our actions.’
Fry looked at Murfin, warning him not to laugh. She hoped that Alex Dearden wasn’t actually a robot but could be stopped at the appropriate moment.
‘It’s a bit like having a dodgy auto-pilot,’ he said. ‘For the psychologists, it helps them to understand human fallibility. From our point of view, it helps us to design the technology to allow for human error. It’s why computer programs won’t let you close a document without deciding whether you want to save it or not,’ he said. ‘But we’re going to take that concept a whole lot further. A whole lot further. I really can’t tell you any more than that.’
‘Or you’d have to kill me?’ said Fry.
‘Sorry?’
‘Never mind.’
When they got out of Eden Valley Software Solutions, Gavin Murfin stopped in the car park and pretended to spit out the imaginary gum he’d been chewing. He trod it into the tarmac and ground the toe of his shoe on it until he was satisfied.
‘Feel better now?’ said Fry.
‘Not until I get a piece of that pie inside me.’
‘Not in my car, you don’t, Gavin.’
‘I’ll be careful of the crumbs, honest.’
‘Do you know how much it cost me to get this car valeted?’
‘Look, I’ll not even take it out of the bag.’
‘No.’
Murfin’s face crumpled, and he sighed deeply. ‘Where to next, then?’
‘We need to speak to Neil Granger, but I tried to phone him, and he’s not at home.’
‘Does that mean we call it a day then?’
‘Yes. Until tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow? It’s Sunday tomorrow, Diane.’