Blind to the Bones (49 page)

D
erek Alton was sitting in one of the front pews of the church. As Cooper walked up the aisle, he could see only the back of the vicar's bowed head, and he thought he must be praying. Alton looked up when he heard Cooper's footsteps.

‘Has it gone yet?' he said.

‘You mean the remains? No, sir. There are procedures to go through while they're still in situ.'

‘Photographs, I suppose.'

‘That kind of thing, yes.'

‘I don't want to see it again. I don't want to come out until it's gone.'

‘That's not a problem, sir.'

‘I'm a Jonah, aren't I?' said Alton.

‘Jonah? I'm not as familiar with the Old Testament as you are, but wasn't he the one who got involved with the wrong end of a whale?'

Alton smiled. ‘Jonah had bad luck. He became the symbol of somebody who brings disaster down on others. When sailors had bad luck at sea, they believed it was because they had a Jonah on board.'

‘That's sounds rather superstitious of you, sir.'

‘I'm afraid superstition is difficult to avoid in these parts. It seeps into the bones.'

‘And why should you think yourself a Jonah?'

‘Why? Neil Granger dies a horrible death shortly after leaving me. And now I find there's some other poor soul lying dead in my churchyard, and has been there for years. I disturbed their bones with my interfering. I must have walked over them many times. Neil must have almost walked over them when he left here that night. He walked over those bones on his way to his death, and he didn't even see them.'

Alton shivered. Cooper wondered whether he should offer some reassuring words about the body being merely the vessel, and the spirit going on to better things. But he decided it wouldn't be appropriate. A doctor to check the vicar over would be more the thing.

‘I have to ask you this … We've found human remains in your churchyard. Do you have any idea whose they might be?'

‘None at all,' said Alton, raising shocked eyes to Cooper. ‘Surely they must have been in the ground long before I came here?'

‘We don't know that yet. A body can be reduced to a skeleton quite quickly, depending on the conditions.'

‘Oh, I don't think I want to know that,' said Alton. ‘I wish you hadn't told me.'

‘I'm sorry to distress you, sir. But, obviously, if there's anything at all you can think of that would help us identify this person, it would be very helpful.'

‘Of course. But just at the moment, you know …'

‘I understand. We'll need you to come in and make a statement some time. But in the meanwhile, someone has contacted your wife, and she's on her way over.'

‘I'll be all right in a little while. I'm not used to this kind of shock. Even in Withens. You want a statement from me? I don't know what I can tell you, though.'

‘Was there anything that made you choose to clear that particular part of the churchyard today?' said Cooper.

‘What do you mean?'

‘I just wondered … It's one the oldest parts, isn't it? The gravestones there all date from the nineteenth century. There are no recent burials, so it's not as if they're graves that living relatives are likely to want to visit. If there were a priority for these things, I'd have guessed you'd go for the most recent graves first. It must be distressing for relatives to find their loved ones' graves overgrown and untidy. But not in that area.'

‘Yes, you're right,' said Alton. ‘That would make sense. But I wasn't thinking logically. It was those old gravestones that made me curious. The small ones, with only initials and a year. Did you notice those?'

‘Yes, though you can hardly see them.'

‘Exactly,' said Alton. ‘They're already anonymous enough, and so small that I thought it was a shame to see them disappear altogether. I thought they were the ones that needed the light most of all.'

‘You wanted to bring light?'

‘Yes, that's what I wanted.'

‘Whoever buried a body there wouldn't have expected that,' said Cooper. ‘I'm sure they thought that corner was the most neglected and forgotten. They gambled on the body not being found for quite a while, maybe never.'

‘If I'd managed to get help, though,' said Alton, ‘I would have cleared the whole churchyard.'

‘But no one would help you.'

‘No. Well, no one except Neil.'

‘Neil? Neil Granger?'

‘He was going to give me a hand. He was a good lad.'

‘But he never got the chance.'

‘No.'

‘Mr Alton, did anybody know that Neil Granger was going to help you clear the churchyard?'

‘I have no idea,' said Alton. ‘Think about it for a while.'

‘Well, my wife, Caroline. I mentioned it to her, because I was rather pleased that someone had volunteered.'

‘Neil did volunteer? You didn't persuade him to do it? Or offer to pay him?'

‘Oh, no. If I could have afforded to pay someone, I would have done it. But Neil volunteered. He heard me complaining about it one day, and I told him how much I was struggling on my own. I think he took pity on me. But I was very grateful.'

‘Did you tell anyone else but your wife?'

‘I don't think so.'

‘Of course, we don't know who Neil himself might have mentioned it to,' said Cooper.

‘I did tell the churchwardens,' said Alton. ‘I'd been a bit cross with them for not supporting me more than they did, and I thought it might make them feel guilty. It was wrong of me, I suppose, to feel that way.'

‘Your churchwardens are Michael Dearden and Marion Oxley?'

‘Yes.'

‘So all the Oxleys might have known about Neil?'

‘I suppose so,' said Alton. ‘Does that help?'

‘Perhaps,' said Cooper. ‘But, knowing the Oxleys, perhaps not.'

‘Who is it out there?' said Alton. ‘In the churchyard?'

‘We don't know, sir. We might not know for some time.' Cooper stood up. ‘Your wife will be here in a moment.'

‘Yes.'

‘I'm sorry that someone should have chosen the churchyard for this. It's consecrated ground.'

‘Consecrated? Yes, but consecrated only means that something has been set apart for a purpose.'

‘Well, it's sacred, then.'

‘Everywhere is sacred,' said Alton. ‘I don't believe that God is in some places and not in others.'

I
n the churchyard, the scene was chaotic. The crowd of people was getting too big for the uniformed officers to manage, and the perimeter of the churchyard was too large. Some of the children were gradually creeping nearer to see what was going on, dodging behind the graves and hiding in the undergrowth until a PC spotted them and chased them off.

A clergyman had appeared in a black overcoat. He had wispy grey hair, gold-framed glasses and a worried frown.

Diane Fry intercepted him. ‘Who are you, sir?'

‘I'm the Rural Dean. Derek Alton called me to tell me what had happened.'

‘You're Mr Alton's boss?'

‘Well, we're all employed by God. But He permits me a supervisory role.'

Fry blinked, as if to clear away an irritating speck that had drifted across her vision.

‘Can you tell us when Mr Alton arrived at St Asaph's?' she said.

‘About eighteen months ago.'

‘And did he take over directly from his predecessor?'

‘No, there was an inter-regnum.'

‘A what?'

‘A period of time between incumbents. It happens all too often these days, due to a shortage of clergy. It can take some time to find the right person for the parish.'

‘Particularly in Withens and Hey Bridge, perhaps?'

‘There are certain challenging elements to the post.'

‘How long was the parish vacant?'

‘I believe it was twelve months or so. The previous incumbent fell seriously ill and had to retire, poor man.'

‘We're going to have to speak to him.' ‘I'm afraid not.'

‘It's going to be very important to establish when an opportunity might have occurred for a body to be buried in the churchyard. The previous vicar might be able to cast some light on that for us.'

‘Possibly. But I'm afraid poor Reverend Clater retired because he discovered he had advanced prostate cancer. There was nothing they could do for him. He died last year.'

‘Hell.'

‘Let's hope not,' said the Dean with a sad smile. Fry stared at him, puzzled.

‘And no one looked after St Asaph's during this inter-regnum?'

‘There were services here, but they were conducted by visiting clergy from other parishes. Sometimes by a retired priest who lives in Glossop. There was no continuity, I'm afraid.'

‘And the churchwardens don't seem to have put too much effort into caring for the churchyard.'

‘Sadly not. But I'm afraid it's difficult motivating people for that kind of thing.'

‘Mr Alton is in the church. I'm sure he'd be pleased to see you.'

‘Thank you.'

B
en Cooper found his name called as soon as he got outside the church.

‘What's going on?'

‘Oh, Mr Dearden – nothing to concern you, sir.'

‘It is, if it's something to do with the church. I'm a churchwarden. Is Derek all right?'

‘Mr Alton is a bit shaken, but he's all right.'

‘What have they done now?'

‘Who?'

‘The Oxleys. Is it that little beggar, Jake? He's the one who likes setting fires, you know, but nobody has been able touch him because he isn't ten years old yet. So many times I've heard politicians say that no one is beyond the law. It's repeated like a mantra, as if it's supposed to reassure us, just in itself. But it isn't true, is it? A child under ten can't be considered guilty of any criminal offence, no matter what they've done. Children
are
beyond the law.'

Cooper thought about Craig Oxley, who had hanged himself in a cell at Hindley young offenders' institution. Where was the middle ground between those who thought young people should be locked up at whatever age they offended, and others who believed they should never be locked up at all? There were few other options. Youngsters below the age of criminal responsibility could be the subject of care proceedings, which would most likely result in them being taken away from their parents. But once they reached the age of ten, they became criminals. There was no longer even that grey area between ten and fourteen, when it had to be proved beyond reasonable doubt that the child understood what he was doing and knew that it was seriously wrong. The presumption in their favour had been abolished by new legislation nearly five years previously.

Michael Dearden was watching him, and maybe he thought that he read a degree of sympathy in Cooper's expression.

‘I read a while ago,' said Dearden, ‘that the government was planning to lock up people like paedophiles before they did anything wrong, because they could tell from their profiles that they were likely to commit an offence.'

‘Yes, I heard that.'

‘And then I read the statistics that nearly 70 per cent of crimes in this country are committed by juveniles. And straight away I thought: “Well, there's your answer to the rising crime rate.”'

‘What answer is that, Mr Dearden?'

‘It's obvious. You lock up all the kids, before they do anything. That way, you'd reduce the crime rate by two thirds at a single stroke. Well, you would, wouldn't you?'

Cooper tried to marshal a logical argument. Then he decided it wasn't worthwhile.

‘You can't argue with the facts,' said Dearden.

‘Mr Dearden, I don't think it's the Oxleys who have been targeting your property.'

‘Rubbish. Two of the Oxleys were caught and prosecuted. They had broken into one of my outbuildings and stolen gardening tools and weedkiller.'

‘Yes, I know. Ryan and Sean. But that was over a year ago.'

‘I've seen them hanging around here plenty of times.'

‘Since the court case?'

‘Yes. Well, no. Not to actually see them. But I know it's them, still. They're just a bit more careful not to get caught now. They've learned to be cleverer criminals – that's all the court system has done for them, and me. Since they were taken to court, all they want to do is get revenge on me.'

‘We think it's more likely that you've been targeted by a gang of antiques thieves than that you're still being troubled by the Oxleys, Mr Dearden. We think Mr Oxley has stopped all that now.'