Soon there will be a killing … All you have to do is find the dead place.
‘This second call was received by the control room at Ripley shortly after three thirty yesterday afternoon,’ she said.
‘What of it, DS Fry?’
‘He appears to be warning us of his intentions. “Soon there will be a killing.” That’s what he says.’
‘Yes.’
Fry dropped the sheets. ‘If Sandra Birley was the victim he was talking about in his phone calls, it means he had four hours to drive into the town centre and either set up an abduction he’d already planned in advance - or choose a victim.’
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‘Still, it’s possible.’
‘What we don’t want to face is the possibility that Sandra Birley isn’t the victim he was warning us about. That his killing is yet to take place.’
‘We’ll probably get another call from him, Diane. He’s obviously an attention seeker, so he’ll want us to know this is him. No doubt he’ll think he’s being very clever.’
‘What did the psychologist say?’ asked Kessen.
‘She told us to listen to the phone calls,’ said Fry.
Hitchens scowled. ‘Actually, that wasn’t quite all Dr Kane said. She gave us some useful ideas about what the caller is trying to tell us.’
‘Are we expecting miracles from her?’ asked Fry.
Kessen looked at her for the first time that day. And Fry knew that he’d seen everything, heard everything, and taken it all in. She found herself fooled by his manner every time.
‘We can always hope, DS Fry,’ he said.
Then the DCI turned back to Hitchens.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘let me make one thing clear. Nothing goes from us to the media about these phone calls. Not a word. Otherwise we’ll have every lunatic in the country calling in. And one lunatic at a time is quite enough.’
A few minutes later, Cooper knocked on the door of the DI’s office to explain his problem. With the briefing over, Hitchens was already getting ready to go home. Cooper caught the chink of bottles, and saw that the DI was checking the contents of a carrier bag. From the frown on his face, he was wondering whether he’d bought the right wine for dinner tonight.
‘I could use some advice on the Ravensdale human remains case, sir,’ said Cooper. ‘If I might be allowed to consult ‘
The DI held up a hand. ‘If you’re going to mention anybody who charges for their services, Ben, the answer is “no”. We’ve already met the cost of a facial reconstruction on your case. Forensic artists don’t come cheap, you know. Unless you can
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come up with enough evidence to turn the case into a murder enquiry, you’re on your own.’
‘But, sir, there could be unusual areas of significance subjects I don’t know anything about.’
‘I’m sure everyone understands that, Ben. But you’ll have to cope for a while. We have other priorities at the moment.’
‘Well, mightn’t there be …?’
But the DI shook his head. He tucked the bag under his arm and rattled his car keys impatiently.
Cooper went back to his desk. He separated one of the photographs of the facial reconstruction from its stack and clipped it on to the copy holder attached to his PC screen. The room was emptying, and no one paid any attention to him, or noticed that Ben Cooper was talking to himself again. It was just one sentence anyway, spoken resignedly to the photograph next to his screen.
‘It’s just you and me then, Jane,’ he said.
The face of Jane Raven Lee gazed back at him silently the muddy brown flesh, the random streaks against her skull, the blank eyes awaiting an identity.
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8
When Cooper got back to his flat that night, the light on the answering machine was flashing and the cats were demanding to be fed. One was always more urgent than the other, so it was a few minutes before he pressed the button to play back his messages. There were three of them.
‘Ben, it’s Matt. Give me a call.’
The first one was a very short message, but it made Cooper frown. His brother didn’t usually call him unless it was really necessary. In fact, Matt was always scrupulous about not phoning his mobile because he knew he used it for work. He supposed he’d have to call back and see what was wrong. But there were two more messages to listen to yet.
‘Ben. Matt. Give me a call as soon as you can. It’s important.’ Now Cooper began to feel uneasy. He pressed the button for the third message.
‘Ben, please give me a call. It’s very important.’ Then a pause. ‘It’s about Mum.’
Turning her Peugeot from Castleton Road into Grosvenor Avenue, Diane Fry finally pulled up at the kerb outside number 12. The house had once been solid and prosperous, just one
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detached Victorian villa in a tree-lined street. Its front door nestled in mock porticos, and the bedsits on the top floor were reached only by hidden servants’ staircases. But now most of the occupants were students at the High Peak College campus on the west side of town.
Fry often found her flat depressing, especially when it was empty. But she’d found Wardlow depressing, too. The very ordinariness of the place had made the calls from the phone box near the church seem even more disturbing.
Though Wardlow had been bad enough, at least it wasn’t the real back of beyond, the area they called the Dark Peak. Up there was only desolation - bleak, empty moorlands with nothing to redeem them. She recalled the road sign she’d seen last time she was there: sheep for 7 miles. Seven miles. That was the distance all the way across
