‘Yes. That hasn’t changed much.’
‘Well, one of the worst sub-contractors was a man called Nathan Pidcock. He was a local man, who ran a haulier’s business from Tintwistle. He jumped at the chance of getting involved in the tunnel project, because there were big profits to be made. By all accounts, he made a lucrative business for himself by supplying rotting food, dirty water, and substandard materials at inflated prices. The navvies hated him, of course, but they were living in their shanty town in the middle of nowhere, and they relied on people like Pidcock for supplies. Anyway, finally he must have gone too far. The outbreak of cholera was blamed on water polluted by human waste. Dozens of men died over a period of days. And one morning, Nathan Pidcock was found dead in a ditch on the edge of the camp. He had been beaten to death.’
‘And were there no suspects?’
‘Suspects?’ Udall laughed. ‘That’s the question of a twenty-first century policeman. Yes, there were fifteen hundred of them. The theory was that a group of workmen decided to exact their own brand of justice on Pidcock for the deaths of their mates. The rest
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of the men in the camp must have known what happened, but nobody said a word. So the authorities were helpless.’
‘A conspiracy of silence?’
‘I expect these days we could have done a mass DNA test or something.’
‘Only if there was some blood, or traces of other bodily fluids from the perpetrators at the scene, or Pidcock’s blood on their clothing. But basically, you’re right - there would certainly have been some forensic evidence to follow up.’
‘There was one witness, though/ said Udall. ‘Nathan Pidcock had a young assistant, a lad called John Cobb. He helped with deliveries to the camp. But he was only about fourteen, and the attackers left him alone.’
‘Wasn’t Cobb able to identify anyone?’
‘No. He saw the whole thing, but couldn’t point out any one of his employer’s attackers. His story was that they had disguised themselves. He said they all had their faces blacked up/
Cooper wasn’t surprised. The continuity seemed to be there even now, a tradition passed down through the generations. Maybe the Oxleys were direct descendants of those railway navvies who had died building the tunnels. Maybe their ancestors had lived in the shanty town, which seemed to be treated as the village’s dirty little secret.
He recalled the superstition that Sandy Norton had mentioned about the tunnels. Those workmen were right that an evil had been brought down on them by the tunnelling project. But it hadn’t been caused by some primeval force that had slept for eons under the hill and had been disturbed by their blasting. It had been a much more human evil. Its cause was greed.
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30
The second time Ben Cooper met his new neighbour, it was on neutral territory again. He had arrived home and was fiddling around in his pockets for his door key. It had been a hard day, and his mind was full of fragments of conversation, and pictures of young Oxleys he couldn’t put the right name to.
As he managed to get the key into his hand, the door to the other flat opened. Briefly, he wondered whether Peggy Check had been listening for him coming in. If Dorothy Shelley was the only person she knew in Edendale, she might be getting desperate for a bit of normal human contact. Cooper immediately felt guilty that he hadn’t made an effort to be more sociable.
‘Hello, how’s it going?’ he said.
‘Great, thanks. And you?’
Cooper knew he was probably a bit dishevelled at the end of his shift, rather unshaven and maybe a bit grubby.
Tine. I’m sorry, I’m just home from work.’
He opened his door, still feeling a little embarrassed. He thought perhaps he didn’t smell too good either.
‘You must come in for a coffee some time.’
‘Sure. That would be great.’
‘Good.’
He nodded and smiled, thinking there was probably a next step, but not quite able to bring it to mind.
‘When?’ said Check.
‘Oh, er … tonight, if you like. Eight? Eight-thirty?’
Tine. See you later then, Ben.’
Cooper fed the cats, showered, changed and thought about having something to eat. His stomach told him he was starving. But he
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couldn’t face rummaging through the freezer compartment. Not another frozen Chinese meal for one. But he had time to nip down to the Hanging Gate for a bar meal before Peggy Check called.
During the first week or so after he had moved into his new flat in Welbeck Street he had checked out all the pubs within walking distance. There were several of them, some of which he had visited before, but one or two were new to him. He wasn’t a heavy drinker, not like some of his colleagues, who took to it to help them deal with the pressure and some of the depressing realities of the job. A drink or two did help him relax. But most of all, a decent pub provided company.
That was why he needed the right sort of place - not one that attracted only tourists, so that the same faces were never in the bar two nights running. And definitely not an Irish bar with singing waiters and ceilidh nights.
At night, some town-centre streets became drinking strips. An area around the front door of each pub became a bubble of noise and smells, loud music and scores of young people yelling to make themselves heard above it. Inside, it was like walking into a tropical micro-climate. Hot, sweating faces above yards of bare flesh moved around in the heat and humidity of an Amazon rainforest, exhuding a miasma of anti-perspirant and alcohol fumes.
Occasionally there were fights at closing time. And of course, there were the drugs. On Friday and Saturday nights, there was a permanent police presence - a personnel carrier with caged accommodation in the back and a
