‘It’s fairly nasty,’ said Cooper.
‘The RSPCA have drawn us up a list of names -suspects they think may have been involved in this dogfighting business. There could be some action at last.’
‘Fine. But what about Ros Daniels? Did she come here before she died?’
A few yards away from the shed, police tape had been used to cordon off the burnt-out pick-up. Traces of petrol found on the decomposed hands of the corpse under the Cat Stones suggested one possible connection to the farm, at least. But with the scenes of crime staff already at full stretch, it was anybody’s guess when they would get round to examining the vehicle and making comparisons.
Even the identification of the body was only tentative. The victim was the right age and the right general appearance to be Ros Daniels, though the injuries to the head and the process of decomposition made it difficult to be precise about facial features. She had been dressed all in black - jeans and a sweater, with a nylon cap lying nearby. And she had been wearing a silver disc on a chain round her neck, like a military dog-tag, with a stylized symbol engraved on it of an animal behind prison bars. The body also bore tattoos that would help identification, and the dreadlocked hairstyle was unusual.
There had once been debris under her fingernails, which might have been traces from an attacker. But as
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the skin of her fingers had shrunk away from her nails, the debris had loosened and fallen away. Although it reacted to tests for human blood, the sample was too small to hold any prospect of obtaining a grouping or DNA profile.
To Cooper, it seemed that the investigation constantly took one step forward and another one back. They had already been looking for anything that might connect Warren Leach directly with Jenny Weston, or with Maggie Crew. Now they were faced with the task of establishing what had happened to Daniels, and when. Because there was one thing that was obvious even from a cursory examination of the body that Cooper had found. Ros Daniels had been dead for weeks.
‘What is it with you people in this area?’ said Fry. ‘Don’t you know how to adapt to civilization? I mean, dogfighting, for God’s sake. Hasn’t the world moved on from the Middle Ages? What do people like Warren Leach get out of it?’
‘Maybe we should be asking what drove him to it,’ said Cooper. ‘Maybe it was people like you.’
Diane Fry walked across the yard towards DCI Tailby and DI Hitchens. They were sitting on an upturned piece of agricultural machinery, a red steel object with vast prongs that dug into the ground.
‘Well, it’s very unsatisfactory,’ said Tailby. ‘I mean, Warren Leach being dead. It makes it look as though everything we’ve done has been too slow. Too late.’
‘There was no obvious sequence,’ said Hitchens. ‘The
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pieces didn’t fit. If we just react to pressure, that’s when mistakes are made.’ ‘Leach may still be a mistake,’ said Tailby. ‘Jenny Weston used to go up on the moor regularly,’ pointed out Fry. ‘She must have passed by Ringham Edge Farm many times. And she was a great animal lover.’ ‘So she might actually have faced up to Leach and his friends and told them she was going to report what was going on?’ ‘Some people feel very strongly about these things.’ ‘It would be a really stupid thing for her to have done,’ said Hitchens. ‘But she did tell the RSPCA that she had some incriminating photographs,’ said Fry. ‘So where’s her camera?’ ‘It wasn’t in her house. There were plenty of photographs - scenic views, historic houses, that sort of thing. But no camera. It wasn’t in her car either.’ ‘Her parents say they bought her an expensive autofocus job for her birthday last year to replace her old camera, but there’s no sign of it,’ said Hitchens. ‘We’ve put the details out.’ ‘It would be very useful if it turned up somewhere. Especially with a film still in it, eh?’ ‘I wish,’ said Hitchens. ‘But if Jenny Weston had photos, why on earth didn’t she tell us about them?’ ‘Didn’t trust her friendly neighbourhood bobby, perhaps? Some people don’t.’ ‘There’s the question of Ros Daniels,’ said Tailby. ‘We need to clarify the relationship between them.’
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‘Cheshire Police think they’ve traced Daniels’ home address to Wilmslow. Her parents are away at the moment, but the neighbours confirm the description. They didn’t seem too impressed with her, apparently. But it’s an upmarket area - more tennis club than Tank Girl. We’ll just have to wait for the parents to come back from holiday.’ ‘Could it have been a lesbian relationship that went wrong?’ said Tailby. Fry frowned. ‘We’ve no evidence of that.’ ‘But why was she staying with Weston? Why did she come to this area? And how did she get herself killed? After all, Daniels must have been the first victim, not Weston.’ ‘You’re not suggesting Jenny Weston killed her?’ ‘If Mrs Van Doon confirms that Daniels died about the same time Maggie Crew was assaulted, as seems to be the case, then we do at least have Crew’s fragmentary memories to go on.’ ‘A big man in a blue or black anorak or cagoule,’ said Tailby, quoting from Fry’s report of her interview with Maggie Crew. ‘Well, I suppose Leach fitted the description. We could have put him into a parade.’ ‘But we didn’t get the chance,’ said Fry. Tailby sighed. ‘I suppose all the junior officers are blaming me,’ he said. ‘They don’t understand the position you’re in as senior investigating officer,’ said Hitchens. ‘And you, Paul?’ said Tailby. ‘Do you understand? Or do you blame me as well?’ Fry watched Hitchens stiffen awkwardly, and she
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knew he was seeking a way to avoid the direct answer. ‘I’m sure you’ll find all the team very supportive, sir,’ he said.
Later that morning, in the West Street canteen, Todd Weenink was watching a workman in blue overalls measuring the width of the room and checking for loadbearing walls. Weenink looked cheerful, as if the canteen was being redesigned entirely for his benefit. He had loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar, and his shoulders bulged under his shirt as he leaned forward to bite into a Danish pastry.
‘Well, Tailby really screwed up big this time,’ he said. ‘Another body, and a potential suspect topped himself before we could lay hands on him. Doesn’t look good, does it? They’ll be saying he hesitated too long.’
‘It’s not his fault,’ said Ben Cooper.
‘Let’s face it, Tailby’s lost it. Wasn’t there some talk about him going for an admin job?’
The workman made a few notes on the back of an envelope and then started to put away his tape measure. The woman behind the counter followed every movement he made as if she were prepared to repel him with boiling hot tea if he came any closer.
‘Looks like we could be seeing the last of Teabag Tracy there as well,’ said Weenink.
‘Probably.’ Weenink turned to look at Cooper. ‘What’s up with you, then? I can’t get more than one word out of you. And you’ve got that look on your face again - the one like a constipated camel.’
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‘I’m worried about Wayne Sugden.’
‘Come off it! Sugden? That is definitely a bloke whose parents were wading in the shallow end of the gene
