The Dead Place. Stephen Booth
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got herself a cup of water from the cooler and waited a few moments before she went back into the DI’s office. She was vaguely aware of Gavin Murfin lurking rather furtively in the CID room, sitting down again when she looked his way. But the rest of the place was already deserted. It smelled stale, and ready for the arrival of the cleaners.
She walked back in and put her water down on Hitchens’ desk.
‘He was on the phone for more than three minutes,’ she said. ‘Why haven’t they traced the call?’
‘They have. He was in a public phone box.’
‘Of course he was. No doubt in some busy shopping centre where no one would notice him. And I suppose he was long gone by the time a patrol arrived?’
Hitchens looked at her with the first signs of impatience, and Fry realized she’d gone a bit too far. She blamed it on the headache, or the fact that she felt so exhausted.
‘Actually, Diane, the phone box was in a village called Wardlow.’
‘Where’s that?’ She screwed up her eyes to see the map on the wall of the DI’s office, making a show of concentrating to distract him from her irritability.
‘On the B6465, about two miles above Monsal Head.’
Fry kept the frown of concentration on her face. She thought she had a vague idea where Monsal Head was. Somewhere to the south, on the way to Bakewell. If she could just find it on the map before the DI had to point it out …
‘Here –’ said Hitchens, swinging round in his chair and smacking a spot on the map with casual accuracy. ‘Fifteen minutes from Edendale, that’s all.’
‘Why there?’
‘We can’t be sure. At first glance, it might seem a risky choice. It’s a quiet little place, and a stranger might be noticed – or at least an unfamiliar car parked by the road. Normally, we’d have hoped that somebody would remember seeing a person in the phone box around that time.’
‘So what wasn’t normal?’
‘When a unit arrived in Wardlow, a funeral cortege was just about to leave the village. There had been a burial in the churchyard. Big funeral, lots of mourners. Apparently, the lady who died came from Wardlow originally but moved to Chesterfield and became a well-known businesswoman and a county councillor. The point is, there were a lot of strangers in the village for that hour and a half. Unfamiliar cars parked everywhere.’
Hitchens drew his finger down the map a short way. ‘As you can see, it’s one of those linear villages, strung out along the road for about three-quarters of a mile. While the funeral was taking place, every bit of available space was occupied, including vehicles parked on the grass verges or on the pavement, where there is one. Some of the villagers were at the funeral themselves, of course. And those that weren’t would hardly have noticed one particular stranger, or one car. On any other day, at any other time. But not just then.’
‘So it was an opportunist call? Do you think our man was simply driving around looking for a situation like that to exploit and took the chance?’
‘Could be.’
Fry shook her head. ‘But he had the speech all prepared, didn’t he? That didn’t sound like an off-the-cuff call. He either had a script right there in front of him in the phone box, or he’d practised it until he was word perfect.’
‘Yes, I think you’re right.’
‘Either way, this man is badly disturbed,’ she said.
‘That doesn’t mean he isn’t serious about what he says, Diane.’
Fry didn’t answer. She was trying to picture the caller cruising the area, passing through the outskirts of Edendale and the villages beyond. Then driving through Wardlow and spotting the funeral. She could almost imagine the smile on his face as he pulled in among the mourners’ cars and the black limousines. No one would think to question who he was or why he was there, as he entered the phone box and made his call. Meanwhile, mourners would have been gathering in the church behind him, and the funeral service would be about to get under way.
‘The recording,’ said Fry. ‘Have Forensics been asked to analyse the background noise?’
‘We’ll make sure they do that,’ said Hitchens. ‘But why do you ask?’
‘I wondered what music was playing. “Abide With Me”, perhaps. Or “The Lord’s My Shepherd”. We might be able to tell what stage the funeral service had reached, whether he was already in the phone box as the mourners were going in, or waited until the service had started to make the call. Maybe there were some late arrivals who noticed him. We’ll have to check all that. If we can narrow it down, we might be able to trace the people who were most likely to have seen him.’
‘That’s good.’
‘And another thing –’
‘Yes?’
‘I wonder if he just drove away again as soon as he’d finished the call.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, that would make him stand out, wouldn’t it? Someone might have wondered why he left without attending the service. If he was really so clever, I’m guessing he’ll have stayed on.’
‘Stayed on?’
‘Joined the congregation. Stood at the back of the church and sung the hymns. He might have hung around the graveside to see the first spadeful of dirt fall on the coffin. He probably smiled at the bereaved family and admired the floral tributes. He’d be one of the crowd then.’
‘Just another anonymous mourner. Yes, I can see that.’
‘One of the crowd,’ repeated Fry, struck by her own idea. ‘And all thinking about the same thing.’
‘What do you mean, Diane?’
‘Well, we know nothing about him yet, but I bet he’s the sort of person who’d love that idea. All those people around him thinking about death while he made his call.’
She paused and looked at Hitchens. He turned on his chair and met her eye, his face clouded by worry. Fry saw that she’d reached him, communicated her own deep uneasiness. The caller’s words in the transcript were bad enough. Now she found herself anticipating the sound of his voice with a mixture of excitement and dread.
‘Except that his death,’ said Hitchens, ‘the one he was talking about in his call, was nothing to do with the deceased councillor who was being buried in Wardlow churchyard. It was a different death altogether.’
‘Of course it was,’ said Fry. ‘But we have no idea whose.’
The DI looked at his watch. It was time to call it a day. Unlike some of his officers, he had good reasons for wanting to get home on time – an attractive nurse he’d been living with for the past two years, and a nice house they’d bought together in Dronfield. But it’d be marriage and kids before long, and then he might not be so keen.
‘It’s the Ellis case in the morning, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘What time are you on, Diane?’
‘Ten thirty.’
‘Is everything put together?’
‘DC Murfin is doing a final checklist for me.’
‘Good. Well, the undertaker who conducted the funeral at Wardlow is based right here in town,’ said Hitchens. ‘You’ll have time to drive round and speak to him in the morning before you’re due in court.’
Fry wasn’t looking forward to her court appearance next morning. But at least she’d done everything she could to make it as straightforward as possible and give the CPS a solid case. With a bit of luck, there’d be another long-term resident occupying a bunk in Derby Prison by the end of the week.
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