Blind to the Bones (45 page)

‘OK, OK. I hear what you're saying. I suppose it's as likely as anything.'

‘Yes, it is. A bit immature, perhaps. But that's the impression I have of Emma – too immature to be safe when she was away from home for the first time. She was brought up in Withens. Living in the Black Country must have come as a shock.'

‘OK, so what did she mean by it?'

‘Something didn't happen that she wanted to. A man, I'd guess.'

‘It usually is,' said Murfin. ‘One of the boys? Neil Granger? Not Alex Dearden?'

‘Somebody she got a bit obsessed with, but who wasn't interested in her. It could have been one of her lecturers at the art school.'

‘You could be on to something there, Diane. They're a funny lot, artists.'

‘Emma might have found one of them rather more interesting than the people she knew back in Withens anyway.'

‘I'll grant you that.'

‘Job for you tomorrow morning then, Gavin. Phone the art school again and get a list of all the staff who would have had contact with Emma. Some of them were spoken to at the time, but we'll need a complete list. Their ages would be useful, too. Then you can contact Debbie Stark again and go through the list with her. She was on the same course.'

‘Waste of time, she is,' said Murfin.

‘See if you can't jog her memory a bit.'

‘I just hope there aren't too many. It could take weeks.'

‘That's the way it goes, Gavin. But a couple of weeks won't make any difference now.'

‘It will to my ulcers.'

‘I didn't know you had ulcers, Gavin.'

‘I haven't. But I'm expecting them any day, like.'

They were on the A6, and only a few minutes from Edendale now. Fry gazed at the White Peak scenery going past the windows with mixed feelings. She didn't know where home was any more. But maybe she never had.

She turned the pages of Emma's diary again.

‘She ought to have used his initials,' she said. ‘If she liked initials, she should have referred to him that way. Or at least the initial of his first name. That's what I would have done.'

‘I never kept a diary,' said Murfin. ‘It seems a bit sad to me.'

‘It would have helped a lot,' said Fry. ‘But I can't see anywhere she's done that.'

‘Maybe she didn't feel she had to. She knew who she was talking about, so why should she bother with initials?'

‘But when she first met him –'

Murfin made the final turn into the Eden Valley and began the long descent towards Edendale.

‘That diary,' he said. ‘When does it start?'

‘January, of course.'

‘I just wondered. My lad has a diary for school, but it starts in September. They call it an academic year diary.'

Fry stared at him. ‘Gavin – you're a genius.'

‘Yeah, I know.'

‘If this is a member of staff we're looking for, Emma would have met him in her first term at the art school – the previous October. Even if it was a student, the same applies.' She slapped the diary. ‘We've only got the last four months here. We need the diary before this one.'

‘If she had one.'

‘Oh, she'll have had one all right.'

LDBAT. Life Didn't Begin Again Today. The more she looked at it, the more Fry was sure. Emma Renshaw had written it day after day, a sure sign of an obsession.

But on a Thursday two years ago, Emma's diary entries had stopped completely. Life didn't begin again that day, either. But had life ended, instead?

‘That's another thing you can do, Gavin. Get on to the Renshaws and ask for a previous diary.'

‘Great. The rewards of genius, eh?'

Fry opened her file and looked at the photographs of Emma Renshaw for a long time. In particular, she studied the ones in which Emma was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt or shorts, displaying bare limbs and healthy skin. In one picture, she was posing in a bikini top against a background of sand and sunlit water, with her arms and shoulders an uncomfortable shade of pink. In every photograph, Emma was smiling and happy, a healthy teenager with the rest of her life before her.

Fry found a sentence running through her head. It was something really stupid that she'd heard on a BBC Radio 4 programme a few months ago. It might even have been
You and Yours
. The discussion had been about direct marketing, the posh expression for junk mail, and how it could be stopped – or ‘suppressed', as one of the studio guests had insisted on putting it. The presenter had expressed astonishment that every year hundreds of thousands of people who'd died were still being targeted by firms sending them junk mail. The guest had made a statement that had given Fry a little shudder of apprehension. She had said ominously: ‘There are ways of suppressing people who've died.'

Fry wondered whether there was a direct-marketing technique she could use in the case of the Renshaws. Was there really a way of suppressing someone who'd died? Was there a way of putting away the ghost of Emma Renshaw?

Now, when she looked at the photographs, Fry began to see something different. Something that the photographer hadn't captured on film. She had seen the blood in the poppies and the mould in the grass. Now she saw the bones under the skin of the girl.

T
he figures were moving. They swayed a little, and nodded their dark heads. They did it in unison and in unnatural silence. Ben Cooper wasn't sure whether they had seen him. If he stood quite still, they might not notice him.

He tried to remember what was behind him, whether his outline would be visible. Of course, he was standing against the black bricks of Waterloo Terrace. But then he remembered the uncurtained windows and the light spilling out of two of the kitchens. And he knew that he might as well have advertised his presence.

The four figures suddenly jerked and leaped into the air. When they landed, they hit the ground with a thud of boots and clash of bells. Then they disappeared from Cooper's view below the level of the pallets, and there was a tremendous clattering noise, wood pounding on wood, rhythmic blows coming steadily closer towards him.

Cooper began to back away, trying to make out what was in front of him while feeling for the opening in the fence behind him. The noise was deafening, surely enough to disturb the residents of Waterloo Terrace. The pounding came slowly nearer, mingled with bells and heavy breathing. But the figures were squatting now, and were no longer recognizable as human. They might just as easily be some kind of shaggy apes, all legs and arms, scuttling towards his feet. Cooper could smell the sweet scent of fresh wood as the edges of the pallets were splintered and bruised by whatever was hitting them.

Suddenly, Cooper came up hard against something metal. Had he misjudged the gap in the fence? Was it a foot or two to the left? But with his hand behind him, he could feel the hard, unforgiving edges of steel scaffolding pipes. A solid barrier, and the pipes were far too big for him to use to defend himself.

The noise changed and the earth vibrated as the weapons began to strike the ground near to his feet. Cooper caught the occasional glimpse of a reflection from a pair of mirrored sunglasses, or a dark, ragged silhouette as the figures came closer, still moving in rhythm, as if to some music only they could hear.

Then the screaming began. It was one voice, but unnaturally high-pitched for a human voice, more like the sound of a pig being slaughtered. Cooper froze at the noise, feeling for the first time that he was seriously in danger. He felt something heavy whistle past his left leg and hit the ground, then the same on the right. A double thud like a jackhammer sent a quiver through his legs. Two more blows followed quickly, an inch or two nearer to his boots.

Cooper moved his feet, realizing he was going to have to fight back. This was the moment when he regretted not attending training sessions at his martial arts dojo, even though it was so conveniently close to his flat. The sessions had started to seem like a meaningless ritual. But now he felt clumsy and unfit, and wished he could summon some of the energy and suppleness that might get him out of trouble.

Because of the screaming, he felt, rather than heard, the next blow land almost on his toes. Desperately, knowing he was close to getting hurt, he kicked out at where he thought an arm might be and was rewarded with an impact and a startled grunt. Feeling the rhythm and knowing that two more blows would quickly follow, he swivelled sideways, waited for the thud on the ground and kicked out again. This time, his boot landed on something hard that jarred the sole of his foot.

There was a brief pause, and the screaming stopped abruptly. Cooper decided to take the chance to dodge to the side, but was too slow. A blow swished past his face and landed with a terrific clang on the scaffolding pipes.

Then, all at once, there was light. Two arc lights popped and burst into life, illuminating the yard as if it were daylight. Lucas Oxley stood in the gateway, frowning angrily at the four figures that crouching sweating and gasping around Cooper.

‘That's enough,' said Lucas. ‘If anybody takes one more step, I'll break his stick over his stupid head.'

‘W
ell, I'm sorry I wasn't here when you arrived,' said Fran Oxley. ‘But we were a bit busy at the café tonight, and I missed the bloody bus.'

‘That's OK.'

‘But I see you met some of the lads. They've been having a practice tonight.'

With the lights on in Fran Oxley's house, Ben Cooper found the four young men looked no less bizarre, and only slightly less threatening. They were all dressed entirely in black, with heavy work boots and coats that seemed to be made out of rags dyed jet black. One of them had a thick cartridge belt around his waist, and another wore black leather wristlets covered in iron studs. They had taken off their black top hats and rested their sticks against the wall. When they removed their mirrored sunglasses, their eyes stared out at him from white patches of skin. The rest of their faces were covered in some kind of black paint that had streaked with their sweat.

‘Does the paint come off?' said Cooper, knowing he sounded stupid.

‘It's a water-based theatrical make-up,' said Scott Oxley. ‘It washes off easy.'

‘It doesn't half give you blackheads, though,' said Ryan.

Ryan Oxley was the only one that Cooper recognized. He was one of the teenagers he had seen on the road near the bus shelter, but it was only his hair really that made him recognizable. His older brother, Scott, was a tall young man in his twenties with broad shoulders and fair hair cut very short. Nobody introduced the other two, but Cooper heard one of them addressed as Glen.

Somehow, all the young men looked bigger and bulkier in their strange outfits than they would have been if he had found them dressed in T-shirts and jeans.

‘They used burnt cork, traditionally,' said Fran. ‘But apparently it causes cancer. This stuff you just put on with a brush or a sponge. It's a bit like wearing a face mask. It feels sort of dry and powdery, not greasy at all, like you might imagine.'

‘You do this, too?' said Cooper.

‘I play the concertina.'

‘Right. And this is the Border Rats?'

‘These
are
the Border Rats. It's a group, not a thing.'

‘We're only some of them,' said Scott. ‘Everybody's in the side. There are a few blokes come over from Hey Bridge, too.'

Cooper noticed that their sweat had brought out their individual smells – leather and rags, feathers and flowers, beer and cigarettes.

‘Can I have a look at the sticks?' he said.

‘These are blackthorn,' said Ryan. ‘That or hazel is best, because it doesn't split as much, you know.'

‘I think I saw your little brother Jake with some sticks earlier on.'

‘He's the Stick Rat. It's his job.'

‘What does your father do?'

‘Dad is the Squire – that's the leader. But he's the Beast as well. Granddad used to be the Beast, until he got too old. You have to be a bit nimble on your feet.'

‘Beast?'

‘Some sides have a hobbyhorse, or something like that. We have a rat. Obvious, really.'

‘What we're doing is re-enacting the killing of the rats that lived in the tunnels when they were being built. It's symbolic.'

‘But if you want to know any more, maybe you'd better talk to the vicar,' said Scott.

‘Mr Alton? What has he got to do with it?'

‘He's the bloke who knows about the history – the symbolism and stuff.'

‘He knows about the history of the dance? Does he approve of it?'

‘Approve? You're kidding. He's been dying to join the Border Rats ever since he came to Withens. He used to be one of those hanky-waving types – Cotswold morris dancers. This is the proper thing.'

‘More
real
?' said Cooper, thinking of the Renshaws.