LITMIR.BIZ

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estate.’

      ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

      ‘It’s not exactly Chatsworth – though they say it belongs to the Duke again now. The house has been empty for the last two years, anyway. This stream is the estate boundary.’

      ‘But there’s a fence up there above the trees. That looks as though it ought to be the boundary.’

      ‘That fence is new. It marks the end of the access land.’

      ‘Of course.’

      The walkers who found the human remains at Litton Foot had been here only as a result of their new freedom under the Countryside and Rights of Way Act. The so-called ‘right to roam’ legislation had opened up a hundred and fifty square miles of private land in the national park to public access for the first time. Otherwise, the remains might have lain undiscovered for years yet. In a different location, they’d probably have been found months ago, before they deteriorated beyond hope of identification.

      ‘Bad business, it being a woman,’ said Jarvis.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘She doesn’t know. The wife, I mean. She gets upset about stuff like that. Hates these ramblers coming across our land. But I suppose I’d better tell her.’

      ‘It’ll be in the papers anyway,’ said Cooper.

      ‘Aye.’

      Cooper almost slipped on the stones, and put his hand on to the wall to keep himself upright. The moss covering the wall was thick and fibrous to the touch, like a cheap carpet that had been soaked in a flood and never dried out. It held water as effectively as a sponge, and no air could penetrate it. When he raised his hand from the wall, Cooper’s fingers smelled dank and woody.

      ‘Well, thank you for your time, sir,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve got what I need for now.’

      ‘Aye? You don’t need much, then.’

      As they walked back towards the house, Cooper noticed an enclosure next to the paddock. A row of old pigsties stood on a concrete apron surrounded by muddy ground and a stone wall, mortared to give it extra stability.

      ‘Do you raise livestock, Mr Jarvis?’ he said.

      ‘No. These dogs are enough livestock for me.’

      Cooper dug into an inside pocket for one of his cards.

      ‘If you do happen to remember anyone, sir – I mean if the facial reconstruction rings any bells later on – you will let us know, won’t you? The photographs should be in the papers in a day or so, too. You can contact me at the office on this number, or leave a message.’

      Jarvis took the card and glanced at it before tucking it away somewhere in his clothes.

      ‘Cooper. That’s you, is it?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      Cooper braced himself for the inevitable question. Tom Jarvis was local. He would surely know all about Cooper’s father and how he’d met his death. Memories were long in these parts, and he didn’t expect he would ever escape it, no matter how long he lived.

      But Jarvis just gave him a quizzical look, no more than the lifting of an eyebrow and a momentary understanding in his dark eyes. And Cooper suddenly found himself liking the man much more.

      He walked back through the overgrown garden, the only sounds the swish of his own footsteps in the wet grass and the rattling of raindrops on rusted metal. The place had an air of dereliction, a sense of things that had been left to rot in peace.

      Tom Jarvis didn’t come with him to the gate but stood and watched him from the top of the porch steps, with the dogs sprawled at his feet. When Cooper reached his car, he turned to say goodbye.

      ‘Well, Graceless hasn’t bothered me at all while I’ve been here,’ he said.

      ‘No, you’re right,’ said Jarvis. ‘The old bitch must not fancy you, then.’

      Diane Fry watched DI Hitchens tapping a pen against his teeth and swivelling in his chair. Some of his mannerisms were starting to annoy her, but she tried not to show it too much.

      ‘The two calls weren’t linked straight away,’ said Hitchens. ‘I didn’t know about the second one myself until this morning, and there was no chance to tell you about it.’

      Fry hadn’t bothered looking at the transcript yet. She felt too angry. ‘Where was the call made from? Wardlow again?’

      ‘We don’t know, Diane. It was too brief to be traced. But they were only a few minutes apart, so it’s a good bet.’

      She looked up at the map, finding Wardlow easily this time. ‘It’s an entirely different kind of message, isn’t it?’

      ‘Yes. The similarities between them are the voice distortion and the timing, otherwise the connection might not have been made at all.’

      ‘He’s being very specific: “a cemetery six miles wide.” And what does he mean by “the dead place”? Or “a flesh eater”?’

      ‘We’ll analyse it later,’ said Hitchens. ‘Was your funeral director any use?’

      ‘Mr Hudson did manage to remember who a few of the mourners were at Wardlow. There’s the family, of course. And they had some local dignitaries and business types in the congregation, people who’d worked with the deceased councillor, so I’ve got a decent list to be going on with. And when we talk to the family, we can get more names. That would be a good start.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Hitchens, without enthusiasm.

      Fry took off her jacket. ‘I appreciate we’re talking about over two hundred people, sir. But if we put a couple of enquiry teams on to it, we can add more names with each interview until we build up a picture of the whole congregation. We should be able to narrow the possibilities down to a few individuals who nobody knew. And one of those will be our man.’

      ‘That probably won’t be necessary,’ said the DI. ‘But we’ll bear it in mind.’

      Fry looked at him. ‘Why won’t it be necessary?’

      ‘It’s a lot of effort for potentially little result, Diane. There are other major leads we can be following up.’

      ‘Such as?’

      ‘Such as the possibility that our caller has already committed his murder.’

       5

      ‘She never liked using that car park,’ said Geoff Birley. ‘But it was the only place near enough to the office, without her having to walk a long way.’

      He stared down at his large pale hands where they lay helplessly on his knees. He’d given his age as forty-one, three years older than his wife. He was a foreman on the despatch floor at one of the big distribution centres just outside town. Hard physical work, no doubt, but never any sign of sun.

      ‘That’s the trouble with this town, you know. Not nearly enough parking spaces.’

      He looked at DI Hitchens for understanding. Always a mistake, in Diane Fry’s view. But Birley’s face was pale and set in an expression of shock, so maybe he knew no better at the moment. A family liaison officer had been appointed, a female officer who might make a better job of sympathizing with Birley and getting him to talk once the detectives had gone.

      ‘They keep opening more shops, and encouraging more and more tourists to come in, but they don’t give people anywhere to park.’

      Hitchens didn’t answer. He left it to Birley’s sister, Trish Neville, a large woman wearing an apron, who had insisted on making tea that neither of the detectives had touched.

      ‘Geoff, I’m sure the

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