Blind to the Bones Page 49

  ‘We did see people moving around earlier on,’ said Udall. ‘One of them was carrying something. No – two of them were. Long, heavy objects. But we couldn’t quite see –’

  ‘Were they armed? We know they have air rifles, at least.’

  ‘I’m not sure. Not air rifles anyway. Maybe just chainsaws.’

  Fry tried Cooper’s number again, but there was no answer.

  ‘Tracy, ask the contractors if I can borrow a hard hat and one of those yellow jackets.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve got to go in. I’ll use the access they’ve made through the fence here, and see if I can work my way through the yard before the flames get to those pallets.’

  ‘Diane, you can’t.’

  Fry pushed her phone back into her pocket. ‘Ben Cooper’s in there somewhere,’ she said.

  Udall nodded. ‘I’ll come with you, then.’

  The moment he heard what Marion Oxley was shouting, Ben Cooper ran back down the stairs and through the house to the kitchen. Marion was gazing in horror at the smoke, which was starting to drift across the yard, obscuring the top of the highest piles of pallets and seeping through the mesh of the chain-link fence.

  ‘I don’t know where Jake is,’ she said.

  ‘When did you see him last?’ said Cooper.

  ‘About half an hour ago, when you came in with Lucas. He should be here, but he went off somewhere.’

  ‘He’ll come home when he sees the fire, won’t he?’

  Marion stared at him. ‘You don’t understand. Jake likes starting fires. When he gets upset, that’s what he does. Normally, one of the other boys keeps an eye on him, but nobody is with him.’ She pointed out of the window. ‘That’s where he’ll be.’

  Cooper found Lucas Oxley already in the brick passage, trying to calm the barking dog.

  ‘It’s all right, you’re safe,’ he said.

  ‘We’ve got to find Jake. The wind is blowing in this direction, so we might only have one chance before the fire spreads.’

  As soon as he was outside, Cooper could feel the heat from the blaze. Every breath he took drew in the acrid stink of the black smoke. There seemed to be a lot more smoke than ought to be possible for the amount of visible flame. But he remembered how damp it had been inside 8 Trafalgar Terrace, and the rain that had fallen since. If all the houses in the row were the same, the flames might not get hold so quickly.

  The yard was a maze, and Cooper despaired of finding a quick way through the stacks of tyres and scaffolding. Somewhere near here was the spot he had met some of the Border Rats in the dark the other night. In a few minutes, it would be as dark as it had been that night, because the smoke was sinking into the yard, as if borne down by its own weight.

  Then Lucas tapped him on the shoulder and jerked a hand. ‘This way. There’s a gate at the back of the garage.’

  ‘I’ll follow you.’

  They skirted the corner of some pallets and reached the doors of the garage. They stood open, revealing the bonnet of the pick-up. Alongside stood the flat-bed lorry.

  ‘Somebody should move these out of the way,’ said Cooper. ‘They’re potential bombs.’

  ‘Scott could do it, but I don’t know where the bugger is.’

  Lucas began coughing as the smoke reached his lungs. He reached into the back of the flat-bed and found a cloth rag, which he tore in half. He pushed one half at Cooper and wrapped the other over his mouth and nose.

  ‘Jake’ll be in either number 1 or 2,’ said Lucas, almost having to shout now through the rag and above the noise of cracking roof tiles and burning timbers. ‘They’re both easy to get into. It’s where the lads go sometimes. I think that’s where he’ll have gone. It’s where – Well, you try number 1, and I’ll try 2.’

  Cooper paused a moment, trying to listen for the sirens of approaching fire appliances, but they were still too far away.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘But let’s do it now.’

  And together, Ben Cooper and Lucas Oxley ran towards the houses of Trafalgar Terrace, vanishing into the smoke like the doomed wood pigeons that had no more sense than to return to their burning roosts.

  Diane Fry could hear the dog, but she couldn’t see it. Her view was blocked by the contents of the yard and the smoke that was beginning to drift in little swirls between the stacks, touching the pallets and roof tiles as if testing them for their potential to burn.

  ‘I think it’s usually chained up,’ said Tracy Udall close to her ear. ‘And from what Ben said, if you can hear it barking, you’re safe.’

  But it wasn’t the dog that had made Fry pause. It was the sight of the flames licking from the windows of the houses, just visible through the haze. It was the sound of the slates cracking and the growing roar of the flames consuming the houses room by room, damp floorboards followed by abandoned furniture, window frames catching light from doors. It was the smell of the burning wallpaper, the scorched and blistering paint, the black bricks baking so hot that they were oozing moisture that bubbled and steamed.

  She could have stood nailed to the spot for ever, matching the tongues of flame to the picture in her mind, watching for the burning figures leaping and dancing in the light of the blaze. But it was Tracy Udall who broke the spell, running forward to catch hold of a figure she had spotted through the smoke. It was Marion Oxley, standing at the side of the fence, still calling desperately towards the blazing houses. She was calling for Lucas. But also for Jake.

  Udall spoke to her, then urged her away through the passage to the front of Waterloo Terrace, where support should be arriving now. At long last, Fry could hear the sirens coming over the hill. She looked at the flames leaping from windows to roof, and prayed that assistance wouldn’t be too late.

  Ben Cooper crouched opposite Lucas Oxley in the cellar of 1 Trafalgar Terrace. The body of Jake Oxley lay on its back on the stone floor between them. The cellar smelled of death – that ripe, sweet, intimate smell.

  Cooper filled his lungs with air, bent forward over Jake and breathed into his mouth, watched the boy’s chest rise with the breath, then sat back on his heels. He looked at Lucas, but could barely see more than his eyes, white above the rag that covered his face.

  ‘What the hell has been happening in here?’ he said. ‘It stinks.’

  And it wasn’t just the smell of death. There was a strong smell of petrol here, too, and singed cloth and paper. It seemed as though Jake had come down the steps to set another fire, but there hadn’t been enough oxygen in the tiny cellar.

  Lucas didn’t reply to the question. ‘Is he going to be all right?’ he said.

  ‘We need to get him into the air. Help me carry him up the steps.’

  Cooper was glad he couldn’t see the cellar clearly. He was sure there would be old bloodstains and worse on the walls and floor. They might have been there weeks or months, but the distinctive smell of them hadn’t faded in the enclosed, airless space. It was a perfect environment for a forensic team to salvage evidence from, but it wasn’t going to last long enough for them to reach it.

  He took Jake’s shoulders, and Lucas took his feet. They had left the door open at the top of the steps for air, but they could hear the flames coming steadily closer. When Cooper reached the top of the cellar steps, he could see that the floorboards of the hallway and the treads of the stairway were smouldering. But the route to the broken front door was still reasonably clear.

  When they got out of the house, they made progress, staggering away from Trafalgar Terrace towards the rutted track and damp trees near the Oxleys’ homes.

  ‘OK, stop,’ said Cooper breathlessly.

  Finally, he could see up towards the road. And he realized Scott Oxley had organized the other boys to clear the trees they had felled only a short time before, and were waving wildly at a fire appliance approaching the entrance. Cooper stooped to look at Jake. He was breathing, though raggedly.

  Now the air was full of the sound of sirens. Cooper imagined the convoy
coming up the road – fire appliances, police vehicles, ambulances, a whole parade, like the arrival of a besieging army. Maybe they didn’t quite have catapults and ballistas, but the firemen would have axes and heavy cutting gear, and he was willing to bet there would be a police van with a battering ram or two. Maybe it was time for him to choose sides.

  Together, Ben Cooper and Lucas Oxley waited, listening to the sound of the sirens dipping and soaring as the emergency vehicles crested one hill after another on the road into Withens.

  Diane Fry waited for the ambulance to move off. She had been standing watching Ben Cooper for several minutes while Jake Oxley was lifted on to a stretcher and loaded into the ambulance by the paramedics, accompanied by his father.

  Finally, Cooper looked up and saw her. Fry saw the expression of surprise on his face, and remembered that she was still wearing the hard hat she’d borrowed from one of the contractors. She must look almost as bad as he did, with his face and hands blackened by smoke, like one of the Border Rats made up for a performance.

  ‘Ben,’ she said, ‘how often have I told you – no heroics.’

  Half an hour later, DC Gavin Murfin arrived in Withens with the latest contingent of emergency services. Ben Cooper had been sent off to hospital with orders to get himself checked over. And after Murfin enquired about casualties, he had some news for Diane Fry.

  ‘That missing teddy bear turned up,’ he said.

  ‘Emma Renshaw’s golden plush?’

  ‘Yep. Guess where?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, Gavin. Did Alex Dearden have it? Have we traced where the antiques are stored?’

  ‘No such luck. It was in the car.’

  ‘Which car?’

  ‘Her car – Emma’s. It was in the boot.’

  ‘So the Renshaws had it all the time, and didn’t know.’

  ‘Looks like it. Bit odd, that.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, and the hospital say the verdict is hopeful on the vicar. He was lucky – the wall of the building he was standing next to took some of the blast, and most of the shotgun pellets that hit him went into his arm and leg down the right side. Good job someone got to him quick, though – the doctors say he might have bled to death otherwise.’

  ‘Is he feeling well enough to talk yet?’

  ‘Nope. He’s had most of the pellets dug out of him, but he’s still in dreamland from the painkillers.’

  ‘Pity.’

  Murfin looked at her.

  ‘You’re sure everybody’s all right, Diane?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fry. ‘Everybody’s fine.’

  Murfin turned towards where some uniformed officers were trying to restore order among the residents of Withens. ‘I’ll see what’s going on over there, then,’ he said.

  ‘Gavin …’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Weren’t you supposed to be checking on what calls Neil Granger had been making on his mobile the night he was killed?’

  ‘I did. I told you.’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ said Fry.

  ‘Well, I tried to anyway. But you were talking to Ben at the time. You were having some kind of heart to heart, like.’

  ‘Tell me again, Gavin.’

  ‘Neil Granger made several calls to a number in Glossop. The number was in his phone’s memory, so it was easy to find out who it was.’

  Fry stared at him. ‘You should have told me this, Gavin. If I was busy, you should have told me later. This is important.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Murfin defensively. ‘It was only who you might have expected him to be phoning.’

  ‘Hey!’

  Diane Fry turned at the shout. A man in a yellow fluorescent jacket and a hard hat was standing behind her, holding a roll of blue plastic sheeting.

  ‘What do you want? Are you one of the contractors? I’m afraid you’ll have to wait. There’ll be no work on this site today.’

  ‘No, I work for the National Grid. Tunnel maintenance.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but whatever it is you want, you’re in the wrong place. You’ll have to move away.’

  ‘Well, I’m only doing what I was told. And it was one of your blokes that told me to do it.’

  The man seemed to be about to offer Fry the roll of plastic he was carrying. She backed away.

  ‘Sorry? What are you talking about? Who did you say you are?’

  ‘My name’s Norton. Sandy Norton.’ He clutched the plastic sheeting to his chest again and inclined his head sideways. ‘He knows me. That one over there.’

  Fry followed his gesture. ‘Gavin! There’s a gentleman here says he knows you. Deal with him, will you?’

  ‘Hey up, mate,’ said Murfin, walking back across the road. ‘How’s it going down in Tunnel Town? What have you got there?’

  ‘It’s what I found.’

  ‘Found?’

  ‘In the middle tunnel. Under the air shaft. We had a look, like your mate told us we should. This is what we found. I thought you’d want to see it. But say so if you’re not bothered, and I’ll burn it.’

  ‘Let’s see.’

  Norton began to unwrap the plastic. There were several layers, and Fry was beginning to think there was nothing inside it at all, when the contents finally appeared.

  ‘A stick,’ she said. ‘Gavin, it looks like one of those sticks the Border Rats use.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  Norton pointed with a grubby finger. ‘And look, at this end –’

  ‘Don’t touch it!’ said Fry. ‘Have you touched it?’

  ‘I was wearing gloves in the tunnel,’ said Norton defensively. ‘And as soon as I saw this, I wrapped it up. Was that the right thing to do?’

  ‘It’ll do fine, thank you.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad about that. It’s blood, isn’t it?’

  ‘It looks like it.’

  ‘It was the other bloke that told me to look, you know. But I couldn’t find him to give it to him. Was he right, then?’

  Fry looked over her shoulder at the black terrace and the smouldering buildings behind it. The grey shapes of a few wood pigeons still flapped in and out of the clouds of smoke. They would have to look for a new home soon.

  ‘Yes, he was right,’ she said.

  41

  Monday

  By the bank holiday Monday, Withens didn’t feel quite so isolated. In fact, the entire world was rushing by only yards away, and it seemed to be coming nearer.

  There were visitors in the village to see the well dressing, and the Quiet Shepherd was doing good trade. But Ben Cooper felt the world was intruding in other ways, too, perhaps more subtly. Walkers following Euroroute E8 all the way from Turkey were ending up in Longdendale. Lorries on trans-Pennine journeys often turned off the A628 to park overnight by the side of the road above Withens, gradually creating their own lay-by by churning up the grass and compacting the ground. Those lorries were from all over the world. Even the acid rain destroying the peat moors might be from anywhere, too – not just Manchester.

  Sitting in his car with his mobile phone pressed to his ear, Cooper reflected that if he drew everything on to a map, it would show the village surrounded, though still isolated. It was cut off by the traffic roaring by to the south, and by the power cables of the National Grid and the proposed new trans-Pennine expresses in the tunnels to the west. Together, they formed a net that Withens would never escape. Perhaps the water company would want to clear the whole valley to preserve the purity of its water. The land might be needed for a lorry park or maintenance sheds for the new rail link. And when that happened what would become of people like the Oxleys?

  ‘I don’t believe it was Craig Oxley alone who killed Barry Cully,’ said Cooper into his phone. ‘Do you? It’s too convenient.’

  Diane Fry’s voice sounded distant. Not only was she miles away in Edendale, but her mind would be on other things, preparing for an important interview. She was always meticulous about planning interviews, making notes on the areas she wanted to make
sure she covered with her questions. Nothing was to be missed out.

  ‘There’s no evidence otherwise, Ben,’ she said. ‘The rest of the Oxleys are saying nothing at all.’

  ‘And they won’t, no matter how often they’re interviewed. I think Ryan only spoke up because he’s been terrified by the Anti-Social Behaviour Order. He knew that if anyone else got into trouble, the whole family would be out of Waterloo Terrace. So he decided it was safer to break ranks and blame Craig, who is safely dead and out of the way already. But I’m convinced the Oxleys do things together, not alone.’

  ‘And that’s your theory, Ben?’

  ‘And the story is right here, in the collective memory of the Oxleys, and it always will be. We just have no way of getting access to it. Not in a way that we could present to a judge and jury.’

  Cooper watched a group of people passing along the road in their black rag coats and their hats and sunglasses. They were some of the dancers and musicians arriving from Hey Bridge for the May Day performance of the Border Rats.

  ‘You mean all that Border Rats nonsense?’ said Fry. ‘The Crown Prosecution Service would love us if we presented them with that lot as key witnesses.’

  Because of the crowds and the displays in the village, Cooper had been obliged to park his car on the roadside below the village, on the other side of the church. Somebody driving too fast into Withens had hit a carrion crow that had been feeding on the squashed remains of a rabbit. Its tattered black shape lay half in a pothole on the verge.

  Cooper stared at the remains of the crow, its pinions fluttering in the slipstream of a passing car.

  ‘Nature turned out not to be on their side, didn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Oxleys.’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish, Ben,’ said Fry.

  Cooper didn’t bother to defend himself. He was watching the movement of the loose scree on the opposite slope as it slid a little bit nearer to Withens. It might take time, but nature never did give up the war.

  ‘I was thinking about Craig Oxley on the way here,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure what the point is of sending young people into custody. Not in the present system. They just come out worse at the end of it.’