‘What does that mean?’
‘You’re not making this easy, are you?’ Brook took another sip of tea. ‘It means that I’m so clueless about all that stuff people do to maintain relationships that it’s simpler just to opt out.’
‘What stuff?’
‘Small talk. Conversations about nothing, feigning an interest where there is none.’
‘It’s what normal people do to get by, sir.’ Noble searched for the right words. ‘Is this something to do with your. . thing?’
‘Mental breakdown, John. Never be afraid to use the correct vocabulary.’
‘Is it?’
‘It was a long time ago.’ Brook stood and walked across the room to look out of the window. ‘But, yes. Indirectly.’
‘How?’
Brook turned to face Noble. ‘Keeping control over the things that might threaten my state of mind means excluding distractions.’
‘Like remembering people’s names.’
‘It’s not deliberate, Jim.’ Brook apologised with a raised hand. ‘Not funny. Sorry. But — it’s hard to explain. Some days it’s like walking along a tiny ledge on a high cliff or across a tightrope strung between tall buildings. You need to concentrate. Always.’
‘On what?’
Brook uttered a half-laugh. ‘On not concentrating. On weeding out everything I don’t need to know.’
Noble nodded thoughtfully. ‘So you think if you have a conversation about the weather you might miss your next step on the ledge.’
Brook shrugged. ‘Something like that.’
‘Then why don’t you explain that to-’ Noble’s mobile phone broke the mood.
‘Saved by the Crazy Frog,’ said Brook under his breath.
Noble listened intently. ‘Where?’ He rang off to fix his eyes on Brook. ‘Shardlow Gravel Pit. We’ve got another body.’
‘I assume these are manmade,’ said Brook, gesturing at the flooded gravel pit.
‘So Keith Pullin says.’
‘How many are there?’
‘A lot,’ answered Noble. ‘There’s a labyrinth of other small roads criss-crossing the site under the A50. They dig out a pit, abandon it and then it floods.’
‘CCTV?’
‘Only at the main gate. Other access roads like the one behind us might have a barrier which is usually closed at night but they don’t lose sleep over gravel thieves. Even locals can get lost in here.’
‘Get what CCTV they have and a list of employees just the same. A body dump requires a vehicle.’
Noble nodded then pulled out his cigarettes and put one in his mouth. He held the packet out to Brook, who looked longingly at the contents.
‘I’ve given up, John,’ he said unconvincingly.
Noble held the pack steady. ‘Help you concentrate. It’s a long way down.’
‘That it is,’ Brook agreed. He took a cigarette and accepted the light from Noble’s cupped hand. He coughed up the first life-affirming lungful of smoke with a roll of his eyes to the heavens, oblivious to the late afternoon traffic screaming past on the sunbaked A50 a dozen yards away, hurtling towards Stoke in the west or the M1 and East Midlands Airport to the east.
Brook was broken from his tobacco reverie by the noise of a diver splashing to the surface of the flooded pit some sixty yards away. The diver thrust up a thumb at his partner in the dinghy who turned to start the small winch at the rear of the boat. The thin steel line tightened under its load but gradually began to wind up while the diver in the water put his head under to check progress.
At the water’s edge, Keith Pullin kept his eye on proceedings and Brook heard the indecipherable crackle of the radio attached to the breast pocket of his field vest. Pullin leaned into his shoulder to listen.
‘Copy that,’ said Pullin. For good measure, he raised an arm to his colleague in the boat before turning away from the opaque water to organise a body bag and PVC sheeting from the Support van. He squelched towards Brook and Noble, both standing on higher ground to keep their feet dry.
‘Any idea if it’s the same MO?’ asked Brook, as Pullin passed. ‘Keith.’
Pullin looked at Brook with restrained amusement. ‘Hard to tell, Inspector. Bob reckons this one’s been in a lot longer.’
‘Then why isn’t the body floating?’ asked Noble.
‘Maybe it’s weighed down.’
‘Or maybe it has no organs and intestines,’ offered Brook.
‘That would nullify a lot of the body gases, aye.’ Pullin was impressed, in spite of himself. ‘No flies on you, Inspector.’
‘There might be when we get the remains ashore,’ said Brook, taking another loving puff on his cigarette.
To Brook’s surprise, Pullin laughed briefly. ‘Good one.’ He regained his taciturn expression a second later. ‘Either way, we’re going to need a butter dish so you’d better suit and boot if you want a peek.’
Brook nodded and took a last pull on his cigarette, ambling back to his car to discard the butt in the ashtray. No sense throwing his DNA to the floor of a potential crime scene.
Noble walked with him. ‘This should be fun.’ A butter dish was Scene of Crime speak for the heavy-duty body bag, meaning the flesh of the deceased would be yellow and putrid, the fats in the flesh turning to pulp, like rancid butter. In that condition, the skin would peel off easily and any hair could be pulled out with little effort. If the recovery team weren’t very careful, vital pieces of evidence from the body could be lost.
Having donned protective coveralls and grim demeanours, Brook and Noble returned to the water’s edge. The police diver was back in the boat and his colleague was manoeuvring the large body rescue bag underneath the pale mass held tight against the boat by the winch. They wouldn’t risk manhandling the remains aboard if the body’s integrity was suspect, especially as shore was only yards away.
‘Who found him?’ asked Noble.
Pullin jerked a thumb at a car on the access road. In the back seat sat a man, ashen-faced with eyes like dinner plates. ‘Angler over there — Peter Fenton, lives in Ambaston. Says he hooked on to something big and when he pulled it up it was a body.’
‘He must’ve thought he’d landed Jaws,’ quipped Noble.
‘Male or female?’
‘He couldn’t tell. Says the body was naked except for some kind of loincloth.’
‘Loincloth?’ said Brook.
‘Like what Sumo wrestlers wear to cover their todgers.’
‘I know what a loincloth is,’ replied Brook, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.
‘Well, that’s what the hook caught on,’ explained Pullin.
‘So that stray piece of material from the Derwent actually could be part of our first MO,’ mused Brook.
‘Sounds reasonable,’ said Noble. ‘Where’s Fenton’s rod and tackle?’
‘He dropped it,’ answered Pullin. ‘Shock, I suppose. If it’s not still attached to the cloth it’ll be at the bottom of the pit.’
‘And there are fish in there?’ said Noble.
Pullin shrugged. ‘I guess. Doesn’t matter to fishermen. They’re all nuts.’
The boat’s engine noise deepened as the dinghy set off at a leisurely speed towards the bank. The sun was starting its descent towards the horizon and Brook looked at his watch and then at Noble. ‘Better get a statement from Mr Fenton.’
Noble turned to Brook with a quizzical glance. ‘Will you be okay?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Brook with a tight smile. One of the Scene of Crime Officers tapped Brook on the arm and handed him a small tub of Mentholatum ointment. Brook stared at the jar then dipped a finger and smeared some
