BLOOD ON THE TONGUE by Stephen Booth
It wasn’t the easiest way to commit suicide. Marie Tenncnt seemed to have just curled up in the snow on Irontongue Hill and stayed there as her body slowly and agonizingly froze. And hers wasn’t the only corpse lying hidden beneath the Peak District snow that January.
With the body count mounting and her team depleted by winter ailments, DS Diane Fry is short of clues and the resources to pursue a murder inquiry. It’s no time to become obsessed with a 57-year-old mystery, but that’s precisely what DC Ben Cooper does when the attractive granddaughter of an RAF bomber pilot arrives in Edendale. Her grandfather was last seen in the winter of 1945, walking away from the crash that had claimed the lives of all but one of his crew. Now she wants to clear his name, but is met with a wall of silence from surviving witnesses.
To DS Fry, Ben’s interest in the case seems a waste of police time — until a vicious attack in the dark Edendale backstreets suggests that the past could provide a motive for the present violence.
By the same author
BLACK DOG DANCING WITH THE VIRGINS
Blood on the Tongue
stephen booth
HarperCollinsPublishers
Collins Crime
First published in Great Britain
in 2002 by Collins Crime
Copyright Stephen Booth 2002
ISBN 0 00 713628 5
For Eric Jefferson
Lines from ‘Won’t you let me take you on a sea cruise?’, a rock’n’roll classic recorded by Frankie Ford, reproduced by permission of Sea Cruise Productions, Inc.
For their help in the writing of this novel, I am grateful to: Mr F. G. Cejer, Secretary of the Derbyshire branch of the Federation of Poles in Great Britain, for information on Polish language and customs; and the Lincolnshire Aviation Heritage
o & ‘ o
Centre, for a ride on a Lancaster bomber. Any errors are my own.
1
It was an hour before dawn when Detective Constable Ben Cooper first began to get the news. An hour before dawn should be the dead hour. But in the bedrooms of third-floor flats on the council estates, or in stone- built semis in the hillside crescents, there were people blinking in bewilderment at an alien world of deadened sounds and inverted patterns of dark and light. Cooper knew all about the hour before dawn, and it was no time of day to be on the streets. But this was January, and dawn came late in Edendale. And snow had turned the morning into shuddering chaos.
Cooper pulled up the collar of his waxed coat to meet the rim of his cap and brushed away the flecks of snow that had caught in the stubble on his jawline where he had rushed shaving that morning. He had walked down one of the alleyways from the market square, crunching through fresh snow, slithering on the frozen cobbles, passing from light to dark as he moved out of the range of the street lamps. But he had stepped out of the alley into a noisy snarl of traffic that had choked the heart of Edendale and brought its snowcovered streets to a halt.
On Hollowgate, lines of frustrated motorists sat in their cars, boot to bonnet in clouds of exhaust fumes. Many of them had
been driving almost blind, their windscreens covered in halfscraped snow or streaks of brown grit that their frozen wipers couldn’t clear. The throbbing of engines filled the street, echoing from shop facades and the upper storeys of nineteenth-century buildings. Headlights pinned drivers and their passengers in cruel shadows, like silhouettes on a shooting range.
‘We have a serious double assault, believed to be racially motivated. Approximately zero two hundred hours. Underbank area.’
The voice from his radio sounded alien and remote. It was the crackly voice of a tired operator in a control room with no windows, where they would never know if it was still snowing or the sun had risen. Not unless somebody called in and gave them a weather report. We have sporadic outbreaks of violence. Occasional blood on the streets. It’s an hour to go before dawn.
Cooper stepped off the edge of the pavement and straight into six inches of wet slush. It went over the top of his shoe and turned his foot into a frozen sponge. Since it was only seven o’clock and still completely dark, it was going to be a long, uncomfortable shift unless he got to his locker at E Division headquarters in West Street pretty soon for a change of socks.
‘Two male victims received multiple injuries and are described as being in a serious condition.’
Cooper worked his way between the gridlocked cars to reach the far side of Hollowgate. Around him, fumes rose from the shadows and hung under the lamps, trapped in the street by the freezing temperature and the stillness of the air. They created a grey blanket that absorbed the light and swirled slowly in front of black Georgian windows sparkling with frost.
‘Four suspects are currently being sought. All are white males, aged between twenty-five and forty-five. Local accents. One suspect has been identified as Edward Kemp, 6 Beeley Street, Edendale. Thirty-five years of age. Hair short and dark brown, approximately six feet tall.’
The weather changed so quickly in the Peak District that snowfall always seemed to take motorists in the town by surprise. Yet within a few miles of Edendale all the minor roads and passes would still be closed and outlying villages would be cut off until the snowploughs reached them. They might be isolated until tomorrow, or the next day.
Cooper had set off early because of the weather. On his way in from Bridge End Farm, as he steered his Toyota into the tracks left by the first snowplough, the hills around him had been glittering and pristine, like huge wedding cakes covered in sugar icing, lurking in the darkness. But it meant he had missed his breakfast. Now what he needed was a couple of cheese toasties and a black coffee. He was tempted by the lights of the Starlight Cafe, reflecting off the banks of untouched snow.
‘Edward Kemp is described as powerfully built, with a distinctive body odour. Last seen wearing a dark overcoat and a hat. No further description available at this time.’
Cooper peered into the cafe. Behind the condensation on the plate-glass window there were figures wrapped in coats and anoraks, scarves and gloves, and a variety of hats made of fur, leather and wool. They looked like models posing for an Arctic explorers’ clothing catalogue.
‘All suspects could be in possession of baseball bats or similar weapons. Approach with caution.’
Now he could almost taste the coffee; he could feel the crunch of the toasted teacake and the clinging softness of the melted cheese. Saliva began to seep on to his tongue. Cooper pulled back his glove to look at his watch.
