wrong, but please take this soul.
When I placed my hands in the damp grass, I could feel the grittiness of the soil under my fingers, the hard, knotty lumps of the roots. I was able to savour the closeness of the earth, and draw in the power I could sense below the ground.
But then I looked at the sky. I was facing north, and I wasn’t sure if that was right. The feet of a body should be pointing to the east, and the head to the west. But which direction should you pray to? Where is God? North, south, east or west? Where does a soul go when it’s released? Does it flicker upwards into the sun, like a swirl of mist vanishing at dawn? Or is it absorbed into the earth’s atmosphere, drawn into the aurora, where it dances for ever in the flames of the north?
I brought my face lower, until I could hold it close to the bones. I sniffed, tilting my head to catch the play of light and shadow. A skeleton is a remarkable thing. Seen up close, it could be a soaring architectural structure - a cityscape or a cathedral. I saw the ribs curving in graceful arches, the skull a mysterious dome with dark recesses where moonlight glittered on something cold and wet.
Slowly, I allowed myself to follow the grain on the outer sheath of the scapula, to enjoy the planes and angles. I smiled
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with pleasure at the pure, white smoothness of a joint where once there had been gristle and black strings of tendon. I was so close to the bones that I could see my breath condense on their surfaces. I inhaled the faintest of scents - the scent of a perfect death, pure and clean, and irresistible.
Then I flicked open the blade. I began to work my way inch by inch, brushing at a bit of dirt with a cloth, teasing loose a spider’s web. With the edge of my scalpel, I scraped at a dark encrustation on the lower pelvic plate, until the paler surface of the bone appeared. It was still slightly stained, but it’ll weather like the rest, given time. I wasn’t wearing gloves tonight, but I held my hands at an angle, tilted at the wrist, so that my fingers were clear of the surfaces. I felt like a musician fingering the keys of a delicate instrument.
The thought makes me smile again. In a way, I’m rather like a musician, because music requires a certain kind of skill that comes from practice and dedication. You have to be single-minded, if you’re seeking perfection.
Tonight I wasn’t disturbed. So this time I wasn’t meant to stop. When I was finished, I put away the scalpel with a feeling of satisfaction. I wanted to do everything possible to reach a point as close to perfection as I could achieve. I might not have the chance to go back again. This was probably my final visit. My last hour in the dead place.
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30
Fry hadn’t really been watching for Ben Cooper to come on duty that morning. A prisoner had come into the cells overnight, and she’d been consulting the custody sergeant about interview arrangements.
As she passed through the security door from the custody suite to go back to the main building, she paused and pulled up her collar against a flurry of rain. Then she glanced across at the staff car park. Her attention had been drawn by a flash of light from a windscreen as a car backed into a parking space. She recognized Cooper’s red Toyota, and she hesitated, intending to wait for him so they could walk up to the CID room together. She saw Cooper get out, but he didn’t look round.
Then the passenger door began to swing open, and Fry realized he’d given someone a lift to work. He was the perfect Good Samaritan. Probably Gavin Murfin’s car had broken down, and Cooper had stepped in to help.
She was about to move away when she caught a glimpse of blonde hair and a navy-blue sweater. Cooper’s early morning passenger was entirely the wrong shape to be Gavin Murfin. Entirely wrong. The image of a broken- down car vanished from her mind, to be replaced by a different scenario altogether.
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Fry found it difficult to concentrate as she made her way back upstairs. She was trying to remember what else she had to attend to that was urgent before she went out. There was definitely something. Probably several things. But one thing she wanted to do was get those skeletons in the Alder Hall crypt checked out. John Casey had said there had been an earlier inventory of the bones, which should help a lot.
‘Alder Hall? Oh, I think I can help you here,’ said Dr Jamieson when Fry rang him. ‘The study you’re referring to was carried out by one of my predecessors. The records will be here in our archives.’
‘That would be wonderful. But are you sure?’
T can soon check. I’ll get back to you ASAP.’
As soon as Cooper entered the room, he sensed something was wrong. There was one of those atmospheres, a vague uneasiness that was difficult to put his finger on. He looked at Fry, and saw her putting the phone down. The tightness of her expression confirmed his suspicion.
‘There was an incident at the funeral director’s during the night,’ she said, without bothering to say ‘good morning’.
Puzzled, Cooper looked at his watch. It wasn’t as if he was late for duty or anything. He was a bit early, in fact. He felt a surge of irritation at her rudeness.
‘An incident? At Hudson and Slack, you mean?’
‘Where else?’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘There are plenty of other funeral directors in this division.’
Fry gave him a cool stare. ‘Yes, at Hudson and Slack. A person or persons unknown set fire to the place in the early hours of the morning. The fire service reports extensive damage. I haven’t been out there yet. I thought you might want to come along - if you’re not busy with something else, that is.’
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‘What would I be busy with?’
‘Well, I don’t know. There are plenty of other ongoing cases in this division.’
Cooper sighed. ‘OK, Diane. Was that what the phone call was about?’
‘No. Believe it or not, that was a helpful anthropologist. With a bit of luck, he might be able to produce records of the bone collection at Alder Hall.’
‘That is a bit of luck.’
‘The first one so far.’
‘I have to say, those bones looked pretty old to me,’ said Cooper. ‘If there was a recent human skull from those remains in Ravensdale, it would stand out, wouldn’t it?’
‘An expert, are you? Learned a bit more than we thought from your friend the professor?’
