Dancing with the Virgins bcadf-2 Read online

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  ‘The usual, I suppose. Some pal he’d fallen out with, who decided to get his own back.’

  ‘Why do we trust the information we get from these people?’

  ‘Because they’re often right,’ said Fry. ‘This one was. The search turned up the video recorder. He was guilty, Ben.’

  Cooper put down the file, dispirited by the echo of Todd Weenink’s words.

  ‘I wanted to ask you about Maggie Crew,’ he said. Fry frowned. ‘What about her?’

  ‘How badly damaged is she? Psychologically, I mean.’

  ‘It’s not for me to say. The psychiatric reports say she’s recoverable.’

  ‘But what are the long-term effects of the trauma? Would she be able to make an identification if we produced a suspect?’

  ‘That’s what we’re all hoping, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re getting to know her pretty well, aren’t you?’ Fry pulled on her jacket. ‘Not as well as I thought.’ ‘Why?’ Cooper was surprised. ‘What’s the problem? Are there things she isn’t telling you?’

  ‘Aren’t there always?’

  ‘Something in particular?’ he insisted.

  Fry sighed. ‘Well, I spoke to her sister in Ireland. The sister mentioned that Maggie had a child, when she was a law student. She had it adopted. But Maggie never told me that.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘All that time I spent telling her about Jenny Weston.

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  I tried to make Jenny real to her. And all the rest of it … well, I gave it my best shot. But Maggie was never giving me anything in return. Not really.’

  Fry adjusted the scabbard for her ASP, sliding it further round the back of her belt, patting her jacket to make sure it wasn’t too obtrusive. She never seemed to go anywhere without her baton any more.

  Cooper watched her tighten her belt a notch over her hips to make it more secure. Fry had changed over the last couple of weeks. She had always been a woman with secrets, he knew that. But before, she had been all hard shell on the surface, rejecting any contact. Now, though, there was a faint whisper of a softening in her manner, as though a small breach had been opened up. Cooper didn’t know how or why it had happened, but he prayed he was right, that he could get through to the sharp brain behind her barricades of hostility.

  ‘Are you not coming to the cattle market this morning?’ asked Fry.

  ‘No. I’ve got an interview to do. Some youth called Gary Dawson, who’s suddenly remembered that he was on Ringham Moor the day Jenny Weston was killed. There’s just an off-chance he might have seen something. Then I’ve got a couple of other things to do.’

  Fry was already heading for the doorway when she stopped and turned. ‘OK, Ben - what are you up to?’ ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Do you realize I can see straight through you?’ Cooper shuffled uncomfortably.

  ‘Who are you trying to protect now, Ben? What lost cause have you taken to your bleeding heart?’

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  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ She watched him suspiciously. ‘Let me give you a word of advice. Be careful who you associate with, Ben. It could affect your future in a major way.’ ‘What are you talking about?’ Fry came closer. ‘Your friend, Detective Constable Weenink, that’s what.’ ‘Todd?’ ‘I’ve been picking up a few things, and from what I hear, Weenink could be in big trouble. And if you don’t watch out, Ben, he’s going to take you down with him.’ ‘He’s all right, Todd, really.’ ‘All right? Are you kidding? We all know his brain drops into his testicles every time something female walks past, for a start.’ Cooper laughed. It was the wrong thing to do. Fry took him by the forearm. Her grip was painful, and very quickly his hand began to go numb. ‘Are you involved in something with Weenink, Ben? Tell me.’ ‘Of course not.’ ‘You’re lying. What’s more, you’re a pathetically bad liar. You’re the worst bloody liar in the police service, and that’s saying something. What have you done?’ ‘Nothing.’ ‘I see,’ said Fry. Cooper tried not to give her the satisfaction of showing that she was hurting him. ‘But there’s something going on. I know there is. Maybe you haven’t done anything yourself. But you’re so bloody naive, you’ll get yourself dragged in, and

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  that’ll be the end of you. Have you been covering up for him?’ Cooper said nothing. ‘Oh yes, you’re really one of the lads these days, aren’t you, Ben? The loyal colleague.’ ‘If somebody needs support ‘ Fry snarled at him. ‘Support? You bloody idiot! For a prat like Weenink!’ Cooper’s eyes were watering from the pain in his arm. ‘If you’re up to something, Ben,’ said Fry, ‘I’ll have your balls for clothes pegs and string ‘em up on the same line as your pal Weenink’s. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll bury him. Good and deep.’ ‘OK, OK,’ he said. But Fry kept her grip. ‘But there’s one thing, Diane.’ ‘What now?’ ‘Take a look at the Sugden file again. Do you remember who his defence solicitors were? Quigley, Coleman & Crew.’ Fry’s grip tightened even more. ‘You’re suggesting that Maggie Crew was his solicitor?’ ‘No, it was one of the firm’s juniors who represented him in court. But don’t you think she might have met him? Don’t you think she would be able to identify him? Do you think she might even have known who Jenny Weston was?’ ‘Rubbish.’ Cooper rubbed his arm as Fry stalked off. If he had been hesitating over what to do about Todd Weenink, now he had been pushed into a corner. Cooper could

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  report what Weenink had told him. But now, if he did, it would be just one more victory for Diane Fry.

  The previous night, Cooper’s sleep had been disturbed by a scene that played over and over through his mind like a clip from a horror video shot in poor light. There were figures moving slowly in a circle, leaning towards each other, slipping in and out of the mist that hung over Ringham Moor. The figures were dancing. They danced like the Nine Virgins themselves.

  First, he recognized Jenny Weston. She was naked from the waist down, kicking high with her legs, her skin ghostly white and bloodless, a red streak running down the front of her blue cycling vest. Behind her came Cal and Stride, stumbling blindly as they felt their way among the birches, their faces frightened and confused. Stride’s trousers were round his ankles, and a bloodstained broom handle wagged like a tail as he shuffled after Cal.

  Then there was Warren Leach. Cooper wished he could turn away from the sight of Leach’s head, a red mass that made him almost unrecognizable. He was followed by Yvonne, her wide hips giving her a distinctive waddle, one hand rubbing at her mouth, her other hand trailing the two boys, Will and Dougie. Owen Fox was close behind them, stumbling after the boys with his red jacket flapping open. And then came Ros Daniels, all in black, her dreadlocks flying, a nose ring glittering, the skin of her arms and legs split and bursting, laid open to the air as she brought up the rear of the dance.

  But no - Daniels wasn’t at the rear at all. There was another figure, very dim, still shrouded in the mist so that

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  Cooper couldn’t make it out. There was a ninth victim. One more who had made a mistake.

  And then Cooper had gradually become aware of the faint music they all danced to. And he knew that, somewhere in the thickening mist, was the Fiddler.

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  Despite the appeals in the paper and on TV, the youth, Gary Dawson, had been pushed into coming forward by his mum. Only a second dead body had made a difference to the potential excitement of being a witness. As a result, Gary’s evidence had been almost too late.

  ‘Did you know we were looking into the death of Mr Warren Leach?’ Ben Cooper asked him.

  ‘I heard. Did himself in, didn’t he?’ ‘You worked for him.’

  ‘Used to. I walked out. I told him I wouldn’t stand for it any more. He got to be such a foul-arsed bugger. But I told him. “I don’t need to put up with this hassle and abuse all the time,” I said. “I can soon get a job somewhere else.”’

  Gary was wearing a red woollen cap, even indoors. He had
protruding ears that he had made look even bigger by pulling his cap down over them.

  ‘And have you? Found another job?’ ‘Well, not yet. There’s not much about.’

  Cooper produced the photographs of the three women. ‘Did you ever see any of these three near the farm?’

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  Gary pointed immediately at the picture of Maggie Crew. ‘That’s the one Yvonne Leach found, isn’t it? Warren went on and on about that for days. I saw her picture in the paper.’

  ‘Were you there when Mrs Leach found this woman?’ ‘No.’

  ‘Did you see her around the farm at all?’ ‘Not around the farm, no.’

  ‘All right, Gary. What about the other two?’

  He tipped his head on one side. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘But that one, I think I saw her.’

  ‘Yes?’ ‘She looked different from that picture, but I reckon it could have been her on the moor. Bird on a bike, is that right?’

  ‘Gary,’ said Cooper carefully, ‘what day was this?’ ‘The day I walked out on Warren Leach. I wasn’t hanging around to hear him ranting at me any more, so I walked out. Usually he gave me a lift home when I finished work, but I didn’t wait for that. I walked back over the moor. I live at Pilhough, just the other side.’

  ‘What day, Gary? Please be exact.’

  ‘It was a Sunday,’ said Gary. ‘But not last Sunday.’ ‘The one before?’

  ‘Yes, it must have been.’

  ‘And on your way back over Ringham Moor, you saw this woman?’

  ‘On a bike - it was her, all right. She gave me the evil eye, she did. She didn’t want someone like me hanging around. There was no one else up there that

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  day - no one else at all, except her and the other woman.’

  ‘The other woman?’

  ‘The one that was waiting for her.’ Gary noticed the sudden silence and read the expression on Cooper’s face for the first time. ‘Well, she was going up there to meet someone, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Why do you say that, Gary?’

  ‘She had that look about her. Like she was expecting to see someone, only it wasn’t me. Do you know what I mean? In any case, I saw the other one a bit earlier. Up near the tower, she was.’

  ‘The other one? Gary? Which other one?’

  ‘That one, the one that Yvonne Leach found. I never saw her near the farm, but she was up near the tower that day. And you could see she was waiting. She was smoking cigarettes like there was no tomorrow.’

  A herd of heifers was being sold in the cattle market. The mart men dodged and danced round them as they went through the ring. The heifers were being sent for breeding, to a suckler herd, where they would meet the bull for the first time. And the bull would be some giant Limousin or Charolais, weighing two tons and bulging with double layers of muscle so heavy and deep into his body that he could barely move, except to hoist himself into position for the thrust. It would come as a shock to them, these black and white virgins. Their white eyes showed they were already getting a suspicion of things that lay ahead.

  From where they were parked, Diane Fry could see

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  through the doors to the side of the auction ring, where farmers and buyers milled around, absorbed in their own conversations.

  ‘Keith Teasdale is inside,’ said DI Hitchens. ‘His vehicle has been located in the car park.’

  ‘When do we make a move?’

  ‘We want to do it as discreetly as possible.’ ‘Wait for the auction to finish, then?’

  ‘Yes. We take it easy, keep an eye on them and let the crowd disperse. It’s too full of people in there at the moment.’

  The radio crackled, and Fry answered it. ‘I think we might have a problem, sir,’ she said.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘DC Weenink reports a group of women gathering in the car park. Fifteen or twenty of them, he says.’ ‘What the hell do they want?’

  ‘It looks like some kind of protest.’

  As he entered the hospital ward, Ben Cooper nodded to the nurse at the desk, who smiled at him. She looked a nice girl, but tired and preoccupied, too busy to engage in social intercourse. But for the colour of her uniform, she could have been in the police service.

  There were twelve beds in the ward. Some of the patients were old men, stirring restlessly or sitting up in their striped pyjamas, staring at the unexpected visitor. It was outside normal visiting hours and there was little to occupy them until the next meal arrived.

  At first Cooper thought it might have been a mixed ward, one of those relics of the NHS. But then he

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  remembered who he had come to see. Stride lay on his side, a slight figure too slender and too mannered in his pose to be at home among the old men. He was running his pale hand through his long hair, pushing a strand away from his face.

  As Cooper came nearer, he saw that Stride’s eyes were distant and unfocused, like a man listening to a personal stereo or an audio tape of some absorbing thriller that had taken him away from the real world. But there were no headphones. Stride needed no artificial aids to distance himself from reality. That distancing must be a great talent.

  ‘Visiting time, Simon,’ he said.

  The young man didn’t stir. ‘They call me Stride.’ There was a bottle of mineral water on the bedside cabinet and a glass. Stride seemed to be fascinated by the slow floating of the bubbles towards the surface.

  Stride had told the police nothing so far - nothing useful either about the night he had been attacked, or about anyone he might have seen on Ringham Moor. But Cooper knew Stride spent more time on the moor than anyone else. He was there at night, too - to talk to the Virgins, according to Cal. Like Mark Roper, he probably saw more than was good for him.

  But Stride’s vagueness was more than just an absence of memory which might be brought back by the right triggers, like Maggie Crew. What sort of unimaginable triggers would release Stride’s knowledge?

  ‘I wanted to tell you something,’ said Cooper. ‘There was a youth on the moor that day - the day that Jenny Weston was killed. His name was Gary and he’d been

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  working for Warren Leach at Ringham Edge, but they had a row and he walked off. He saw Jenny reach the top of the path, and he says she went towards the Hammond Tower. It was very helpful that Gary came forward. Eventually.’

  ‘Yes?’ ‘You didn’t come forward, though, Simon. You didn’t tell us anything. All that stuff about the Fiddler. What was the point?’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘This youth, he saw Jenny Weston. Who else do you think he might have seen?’

  ‘I could call for the nurse. You’re not good for my condition.’

  ‘I thought about you first. Were you there, Simon? And was your friend there too?’

  Stride stayed on his side and stared straight ahead. ‘He means a lot to you, doesn’t he?’ said Cooper. ‘Nobody ever accepted me for what I am. But Cal did.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Cooper. ‘But, Simon - did you see Jenny Weston?’

  ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘It was something you said once. You said: “I saw her face.” Simon, I think you saw her after she was dead.’

  ‘Oh.’ Stride shifted uncomfortably in the bed, his face pale.

  ‘Do you need more painkillers?’ ‘No, don’t worry.’

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  ‘It looks uncomfortable.’

  ‘Yeah. Will you tell me something?’ ‘What?’

  ‘Is this what anal sex is like?’

  Cooper blinked. Stride laughed at his expression, and his fingers went to his mouth. Men in the other beds turned to look at them. They were already curious about Stride.

  ‘No, you wouldn’t know, would you? Anyway, it’d have to be a bloke with a cock as big as a broom handle. Not many of those about.’

  ‘I’ll ask around a bit,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ said Stride. ‘For your own safety
.’ ‘Cool.’

  Stride looked around for the mineral water. Cooper poured it for him and passed him the glass, to save the young man having to stretch too far.

  ‘Did you actually see her?’ he said.

  Stride looked dreamy again. But if the painkillers were wearing off, he couldn’t blame the medication for his spiritual absence.

  ‘Did you?’ said Cooper. ‘Did you see her? Jenny Weston?’

  But Stride didn’t answer.

  ‘Or was it the other woman you saw?’ said Cooper. ‘The one with the scars on her face?’

  Finally, Stride stirred. ‘No, the first one. Jenny.’ ‘You won’t be going very far, will you?’ said Cooper. ‘We’ll want a statement from you.’

  ‘I’ve already given one. I never saw them properly -it was too dark.’