Oxley peered at Cooper a bit more closely. ‘None of my sons are bad lads, you know. There are some kids you see who spend their whole lives indoors with their computer games and the internet. They grow up as fat as slugs and as pale as tripe. But these here are good lads. Despite what folks round here might have told you.’
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Cooper kept silent. Also what the police and court records might tell him, he thought. Not to mention the schools and social services. But no kids were ever bad, as far as their parents were concerned. They were all little misunderstood angels. Their parents shouted their love for them in court, even as they were taken down from the dock on a life sentence for murdering an old lady and cutting out her heart to eat it and drink her blood.
But the Oxleys weren’t exactly vampire killers. They were just kids who didn’t fit in.
Cooper was vaguely aware that a voice on his radio was muttering about a major incident, but it seemed to involve the neighbouring South Yorkshire force, and he filtered it out.
‘Where would you like to do this, Mr Oxley?’ he said.
Oxley thought about it for a few moments. Cooper could see that an inner struggle was taking place. It had cost the man quite an effort to walk over the road and approach Cooper’s car. But this was crossing a boundary. It was a big decision for him to make.
‘I suppose/ he said, ‘you’d better come into the house.’
Ben Cooper had followed Lucas Oxley as far as the entrance to Waterloo Terrace before he began to have doubts. The noise of heavy machinery hadn’t been coming from the farm, but had gradually grown louder as they approached the terraces. Above the rumble of diesel engines, he could hear the whine of chainsaws. But they seemed to be operating in the sycamores and chestnuts nearer the road.
‘What’s going on?’ said Cooper.
Lucas stopped. ‘They came,’ he said. That’s all.’
‘Who?’
Cooper peered downhill through the tree screen. Now he could make out bright yellow machinery - a bulldozer and a JCB excavator with huge steel jaws. There were other vehicles, too, gathering in the field adjacent to Trafalgar Terrace - the same field he and Fry had walked through the previous day.
‘Our landlords are moving in to start demolition,’ said Lucas. ‘Don’t tell me you’re surprised.’
‘Surprised? I can’t believe it.’
Cooper pulled out his mobile phone and dialled the number for Peak Water in Glossop, then remembered it was a Sunday. There was no way J. P. Venables would be working on his day
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off. But he had Mr Venables’ home number, too.
‘Mr Venables, why didn’t you tell me it was today you were moving into Withens to start demolishing the empty houses?’
‘Ah, well, we have to be circumspect about these things,’ said Venables.
‘Damn circumspect/ said Cooper.
‘Really. It wouldn’t have helped the situation if the residents of Waterloo Terrace had been given too much prior warning. We couldn’t predict what attitude they might take.’
‘You could have told me. We might have had time to organize a proper search.’
‘You?’ said Venables, with an audible smirk. ‘The friend of the Oxleys?’
Lucas Oxley had been waiting patiently while Cooper made the call. His expression was sardonic, a tilt of an eyebrow that said a lot.
‘Search?’ he said.
‘Routine,’ said Cooper. ‘But, well … It’s too late now.’
Lucas walked slowly towards the gateway. The houses of Waterloo Terrace looked blacker than ever beyond the trees. For now, the sound of the chainsaws had stopped. He tried to make out the figures that he knew must be somewhere in the undergrowth around the trees. But all he could see was little Jake, lurking behind the wall of one of the outside privies.
For a moment, Cooper considered the possibility that the Oxleys might take the opportunity to hold him hostage. He had no idea what they might be planning, or how they would behave when they were driven into a corner.
‘Are you coming, or not?’ said Lucas.
‘Yes.’
As he came nearer, Cooper could smell the wet leaves of the sycamores and the sharp scent of the sap leaking from their flesh where the chainsaws had ripped into them. Beyond that, from the houses, he could smell cooking. Onions were frying, despite the time of day. But even that was obscured by the stronger, more incongruous aroma of sun-dried tomatoes. Cooper guessed the Oxleys must be burning some of the old car tyres in their yard. Smouldering tyres released similar sulphur-containing chemicals, which produced that distinctive smell.
For many weeks afterwards, whenever he thought of Withens,
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Cooper would still smell the wet sycamores and the sun-dried tomatoes, and still hear the roar of the chainsaws.
He took the last few steps towards the terrace of houses, passing under the trees. Then a petrol motor roared, and a branch cracked. There was a shout from somewhere above him, in the branches. And a fine rain fell on his face, warm as blood.
Gail Dearden stared at her husband, trembling at the sight of the shotgun still in his hands. He was dirty and dishevelled, and had a distracted look in his eyes. Michael was frightened. And she knew frightened men were dangerous.
‘Who did I shoot?’ said Dearden.
‘You don’t know?’
‘One of the Oxleys. Which one was it? They were coming to see what else they could find. Did I injure one of them?’
