‘Just stay out of my way, or I’ll run you over,’ she muttered at a drunk who stumbled off the kerb into the path of her car. What difference would another dead body make?
But a fresh body was a different matter from aged remains. Pity Wood Farm was a classic historical case. Fry knew that most of the evidence in any historical investigation was found in the form of layers. It didn’t matter whether you were researching your family history, or hunting for a serial killer. There would be layers on top of each other — different levels of meaning and significance. Over the years, meanings distorted and accumulated irrelevant associations. An enquiry had to dig down to the lowest level to find the one that was most accurate, the most free of irrelevant material. A good bit of digging, that was what she needed. But psychological digging, not the knee- deep-in-mud type.
She was aware that the lorry driver, Jack Elder, might turn out to be a complete red herring. But it was comforting to have someone in custody. Anyone. At least there would be charges at some point.
But somewhere, waiting to be dug up, were the identities of the two victims at Pity Wood Farm. They couldn’t remain Victim A and Victim B, a couple of reference numbers in the anthropologist’s report, and a Forensic Science Service casework enquiries code. They had been human beings once, and they were owed a proper identity.
The body that Jamie Ward discovered had made the message clear. Fry wouldn’t forget that grey hand, bent in a pathetic summons, coaxing her towards the grave, and ensuring that she could never turn her back on it.
Of course, once an ID was established, that was really only the beginning. These young women had families — partners, parents, perhaps even children — who were wondering where they’d gone, and waiting to hear from them.
There was an astonishing statistic that Fry had once been given. Something like ninety-eight per cent of couples who lost a son or daughter through murder would separate within a couple of years of the crime. It was because the loss of a child was an experience that destroyed your life, and put such a strain on a relationship that the damage might never be repaired.
Ninety-eight per cent. That was a really bad statistic. When a victim had been a teenager or young woman when she went missing, the parents would no longer be together, almost certainly. She would be looking for people whose lives had already been wrecked. She’d be turning up on their doorstep to tell them a body had been discovered, and she thought it was probably their daughter. Could they come along and confirm that? Oh, and Merry Christmas, by the way.
Fry finally pulled up at number twelve and walked up to her flat on the first floor. Angie was out, of course, but her clothes were still here. Outside, the noise of drunken revellers would go on for hours yet, and the rain wouldn’t stop them. It had been dark since before she called at the museum to see the hand of glory. But that was the nature of late December.
Rain and dark nights. Ideal for festive jollity.
Farnham’s clothes were soaking wet now, and his shoes slithered in the mud as he dodged from tree to tree, stumbling over roots. His breath was ragged against the sound of rain and the whip of branches hitting his face. The noise of his breathing went ahead of him through the woods. But it was the sound of a man whose life was already over.
For a second, he stopped and leaned against the trunk of an oak tree. He shook his head, spraying rain, sweat and mud from his face. His jacket was streaked with dirt, and fragments of vegetation clung to his jeans where he had charged through the undergrowth. Ahead of him were more trees, and the bank of a fast-running stream, brown water surging noisily in the night.
His wheezing concealed any noises from behind him, except for one soft footstep. There was a moment of silence. Birds rustled their damp wings in the branches, and a small shower of water fell on his face. As his breath blew out painfully into the air, he knew it might be his last.
‘You don’t want to do this,’ he called. ‘Stop it, now.’
He heard his own voice shaking with fear, and became angry at the humiliation he was being forced to suffer.
‘You’re making a mistake. You know that? A big mistake.’
A bullet whistled over his head and shredded a branch before burying itself in the trunk of a tree. It was no more than a bit of foreplay, though. Farnham heard the cocking of a hammer.
He began to run again, dodging left and right, slithering in the mud between the trees. He was almost back at his house, desperately trying to reach a phone, when the second bullet entered the back of his thigh, just above the knee. It snapped a tendon, punched a hole out of the femur and pierced the full thickness of his thigh muscle. The bullet emerged from a rip in his jeans and buried itself in the earth as he fell forward on to his face.
Farnham tried to get up again, but found his right leg refused to support his weight. He was crying as he flopped helplessly on the ground, terrified of the footsteps moving slowly towards him — a deliberate, skating tread which barely disturbed the wet leaves. He heard a rustling, and then a voice, quiet and low.
‘We all make mistakes,’ it said.
And Farnham never even noticed the third bullet.
When they’d finished what they came to do, the two men dragged Tom Farnham’s body back into the workshop and closed the door. Then they vanished as quickly as they’d come, slipping away into the darkness among the trees.
They left nothing behind them that moved. Nothing, except a thin, red ribbon of blood, meandering slowly across the concrete floor.
22
All Saints parish church in Edendale was unusually full for the Sunday-morning service. There was nothing like a baptism or a wedding to attract the sort of congregation you’d never normally get on a Sunday.
Cooper felt uncomfortable in his suit. He must have put a bit of weight on since he last wore it. Liz looked great, though. She’d broken out a dress from her wardrobe, put on shoes with heels and brushed back her hair. Cooper was unduly proud to be seen with her. She scrubbed up really well, as the saying went around here.
Across the aisle, Liz’s friend and her family were squeezed into the front three pews. Mums and grandmas had come in their best hats, and dads coughed uneasily, glancing at their watches, wondering whether they’d be free before the pubs opened. The baby herself was there somewhere, clutched by her mother in a long, trailing christening gown. She was a remarkably well-behaved baby, who hadn’t cried once yet.
When everyone was settled, the vicar began performing the introduction.
‘
With mounting horror, Cooper realized that he was thinking of the pantomime from a couple of nights before. There was a startling similarity between the priest in his vestments intoning the opening lines of the service and the Pedlar stepping out on to the stage at the Royal Theatre for the first scene of Aladdin.
Liz gave him a warning look. Maybe he’d let a smile show, or twitched in the wrong way. Cooper took a breath and tried to control himself. This was not the way to behave in church.
After a couple of hymns, the vicar lit a candle and called for ‘The Decision’. Raggedly, the congregation answered his questions, reading the replies from their order of service.
‘
Cooper found himself mentally drifting away from the church. His mouth was still moving as if he was giving the replies with everyone else. But his mind was a mile away, in the lounge at The Oaks care home, where the staff would be serving a glass of sherry soon and the residents would be looking forward to their lunch.
‘
