dark smirk and the way he held his body. Yet these things were not what women said they looked for in men. Not the women Ben Cooper talked to, anyway. Gradually, the conversation veered to other topics grumbles about supervisors, night shifts and salaries. Every man there could have run E Division better than the Divisional Commander. Under their guidance, the clear-up rate would double. But then there were the courts to deal with, of course. Not to mention the GPS. The Criminal Preservation Society, they called it - the body of lawyers given the responsibility of prosecuting the alleged offenders the police produced for them. There was a general shaking of heads. ‘And we’re chasing up white vans tomorrow,’ said Weenink. ‘I can’t wait.’ Finally, the other officers drifted away and left Cooper and Weenink alone. ‘Are you all right, Todd?’ ‘Sure. Why?’ ‘I just wondered what all that was about earlier on today. What did you get called back for?’
172
‘Oh, just the usual sort of bollocks,’ said Weenink dismissively. ‘Somebody upstairs with their knickers in a twist.’ On the television screen in the corner of the room, DCI Tailby’s face appeared. It was a clip from the coverage of the press conference. Tailby was trying to look serious and professional, but hopeful. ‘Todd,’ said Cooper, ‘what do you know about Maggie Crew? The victim that Diane Fry is dealing with.’ ‘I know she can’t remember much about the attack, that’s all. But I can’t say I’d want to remember much myself, really. It’s tough on a woman, getting her face messed up like that.’ ‘Do you know if she’s ever been married or anything?’ ‘No. She’s a solicitor, all business suits and fancy briefs. Likes to be called “Ms”, I expect.’ ‘Has she got children?’ ‘Kids? You’re joking. I bet her womb has cobwebs.’ Cooper ran his mind back over the earlier conversation. He felt dissatisfied with the way it had ended. ‘Look, you have to realize she’s a bit of an outsider; he said. ‘Who?’ ‘Diane Fry. Being an outsider can be a difficult thing to deal with. It takes time.’ ‘You don’t have to tell me about that; said Weenink. ‘I’m an outsider, too. And I always will be. Neither one thing nor the other, that’s me.’ ‘You mean because you’re Dutch?’
173
‘Half-Dutch. My dad’s from Rotterdam. He came over to work in the British shipyards back in the seventies. He ended up in Sheffield.’
‘What shipyards?’
‘Exactly. There are none left. That’s why he ended up in Sheffield. He worked in a steel mill, until that closed too.’
‘I bet you got the piss taken out of your name when you were a kid.’
Weenink scowled. ‘Are you kidding? I cursed my dad as a bastard every day, just because he gave me that name. It’s pronounced like “Vaining” but with a “k” on the end, I’d say. I’d tell them and tell them till I was blue in the face, but do you think they took any notice?’ ‘It was a joke,’ said Cooper.
‘What was?’
‘Taking the piss. Like “wee”, you know.’
Weenink flushed. ‘It’s pronounced like “Vaining” .. . ‘… but with a “k” on the end. Right.’
Cooper began to look around the canteen for an excuse to leave.
‘Anyway,’ said Weenink slowly, ‘when I got bigger than the rest of them, they stopped doing it.’ His face solidified into his notorious stare. ‘Once I’d smashed the first one’s teeth in, anyway.’
‘Sorry, time’s up for the public. Next item on the agenda - minutes of the last meeting.’
The chairman of Cargreave Parish Council wore a white cardigan and a tweed skirt, and she was so shortsighted that she barely seemed able to recognize her
174
colleagues at the far end of the table. Councillor Mary Salt preferred to be known as ‘chair’, but some members of the council refused to be forced into ways that sounded a bit modem. They still called her ‘chairman’, ignoring her angry, myopic glare.
Owen Fox didn’t belong to Councillor Salt’s party. He was an Independent, so his voice carried no weight in the important decisions, like where to spend the parish’s share of the Council Tax. But he and the chairman had known each other for many years.
The parish room was cold and echoey, with a creaky wooden floor and a small stage at one end that had been turned into a Chinese laundry for rehearsals of the village pantomime. From where he sat, Owen could see Councillor Salt’s legs tucked under the table in her flesh-coloured tights. Her legs looked tight and shiny, like sausage skins. His fingers itched for a fork to prick them.
The council meeting started with fifteen minutes of public questions. Usually, there were only one or two familiar faces sitting at the back of the room, sometimes no one at all. But tonight the room was full, and more chairs had been brought in. These people wanted to ask what action was being taken to make the area safe. They wanted a senior police officer to be brought to the next meeting to answer questions, and the clerk was instructed to write to the Chief Constable. Then the chairman moved the agenda on. The public were allowed only fifteen minutes.
The real business of the meeting involved correspondence from the National Park Authority about a visitor
175
questionnaire and a landscape enhancement grant scheme. The county council had replied to a letter about street lamps, and there was another discussion about installing a height barrier at the entrance to the village car park to stop gypsies getting their caravans on. The success of the Millennium tree-planting scheme was reported, and next year’s well-dressing considered. Mobile library visits were changing to alternate Thursdays. The bowls club were having a quiz night. Soon, the dangers of walking on Ringham Moor were long forgotten. The public got only fifteen minutes, after all.
‘Any other business?’ asked the chairman finally. Councillor Salt looked round the table. Nobody responded, and Owen checked his watch. Not a bad time. Some of the other councillors would head for the Dancing Badger for a ritual exchange of gossip, but for Owen it would be a chance to get back to the house. Socializing in the village had never held any attractions for Owen; even less so now.
‘Meeting closed, then.’
Owen made a dash for the door, trying to get out into the street before any members of the public could corner him and ask about the attacks on Ringham Moor. He didn’t have the answers they wanted, no more than anyone else did. Nobody knew who it was stalking the moor. And nobody knew when he would strike again.
But Owen had his own thoughts. It only needed someone to ask him the right question, and he would no longer be able to keep them to himself.
176
13
The lamp on the desk was tilted at an angle that directed light into Diane Fry’s eyes and made Maggie Crew’s face more difficult to see in the shadows between the lamp and the window. There was little light left in the sky over Matlock as the evening drew in, and Fry felt a creeping sense of unease in the
