Blind to the Bones (61 page)

‘Fight,' said Scott, with a note of admiration in his voice. He never knew that hanky dancers were fighters.

‘They're getting a pasting, aren't they?'

And in fact, it was clear through the slight haze of alcohol that two white-outfitted Cotswold morris men were being given a kicking by a group of football supporters. No doubt the row had started with some sarcastic comment. But it didn't usually descend to this level of violence.

Then one of the group looked up and nudged the youth next to him.

‘Hey, look,' he said. ‘What the hell's that?'

The youths turned towards the steps and looked at the Border Rats. They saw figures dressed all in black, with blackened faces and mirrored sunglasses, and heavy sticks in their hands.

‘Hey, mate, you need a wash!' shouted one youth. ‘Have you been up a chimney?'

‘Well, there's no need to give me a black look. Ha!'

Scott and Melvyn could hear the other Rats breathing excitedly behind them, and were conscious of their strength as a group. They looked at each other briefly, though they couldn't see each other's eyes because of the mirrored sunglasses. They took a firmer grip on their sticks and leaned forward, balancing their weight on their toes. Renewed energy flowed through their limbs. At a silent count of three, they leaped into the alley. Their screams reverberated off the stone walls as their sticks swung through the air. And then they attacked.

A
lex Dearden was going to upset Gavin Murfin again. His silence was wasting tape. And not just one tape, but triplicate tapes, all turning slowly in the West Street interview room. With a solicitor sitting alongside him, Dearden was saying nothing.

‘Would you care to tell us why you needed to borrow the Audi car from the Renshaws?' said Diane Fry. ‘You have a car of your own, don't you? A Mercedes, I understand.'

‘My client accepts that he asked Mr and Mrs Renshaw for the loan of a vehicle when his own had mechanical problems,' said the solicitor. ‘He also agrees that he has a vehicle of his own, which is a Mercedes. Beyond that, he declines to answer any questions.'

‘The car in question is an Audi, which was seen in the Southwoods area, near Southwoods Grange. Would you tell us why you were near Southwoods Grange on the night you borrowed this car?'

Dearden was wearing black jeans again, but a different T-shirt. His goatee beard was neatly trimmed, and almost as dark as the T-shirt.

‘We've made enquiries at Eden Valley Software Solutions, Mr Dearden, and it seems you've bought yourself a partnership in the subsidiary company that will develop uses of the software you were telling us about the other day. That must have been the chance of a lifetime, from what you were saying. It could bring you a fortune. At such a young age, too.'

Alex Dearden smiled a little. His solicitor began to smile too, but resumed his professional seriousness when he found Gavin Murfin glowering at him.

‘You must have needed a large amount of money quickly, so as not to miss that opportunity. How much do you earn, Mr Dearden?'

The solicitor leaned over and whispered.

‘My client is prepared to produce his salary details. He's quite well paid, and has very few commitments.'

‘Really? But stolen antiques are much more lucrative, I imagine. Large quantities shipped to the right buyers. But I can't see you as a burglar, so what was your role? Are you the man with the right contacts?'

Dearden could have been quite good-looking. He had good bone structure, and he was well groomed. If he made an effort to be pleasant and courteous, it would be no surprise that Sarah Renshaw had a soft spot for him. Besides, he was a link to Emma.

‘DC Murfin here has been talking to some of your contacts,' said Fry.

He frowned for the first time then. His hands, which had been quite still, moved a little on the table.

Murfin looked at his notebook. ‘You've been to the USA quite a bit in the last couple of years,' he said. ‘I've never had the chance to go myself. But they tell me they're very hospitable, the Americans. And very keen on British heritage, stuff like that. Not having much history themselves, like.'

Fry watched Dearden carefully. If anything could break his complacency, Gavin Murfin could. He certainly did it to her every time.

‘Some of the blokes on the list were very interesting to talk to,' said Murfin. ‘This one here, in California – he said he thought my accent was “awesome”. He says I can take my family over and stay at his beach house in Malibu any time I like. That's brilliant.'

‘Er, Detective Sergeant …' said the solicitor.

‘And he was happy to talk about you, Mr Dearden. He knows you very well. What's this Silicon Valley place? Is it where they make breast implants?'

‘Get on with it,' said Alex Dearden impatiently.

‘I told your friend about this bronze bust we found. Lucius Verrus, it is. And do you know, he has something very similar. We had quite a long chat. Next time he comes over, I'm going to show him round Chatsworth House. I just hope he realized I was joking when I said I was the Duke of Devonshire's nephew.'

‘Do we have to put up with this?' Dearden said to his solicitor. ‘I've had enough.'

Murfin turned over a page. ‘And you've been to Japan, too!' he said. ‘I bet your address book is interesting.'

The two pouches at the sides of Dearden's mouth were quivering a little. The angry hamster could be about to make an appearance.

‘Do you have any more sensible questions, Sergeant?' asked the solicitor.

‘Yes. I'd like to invite your client to tell us who his associates are in the stolen antiques business.'

‘You know we aren't going to answer questions like that.'

‘And where are the antiques kept prior to shipping? They don't seem to be at your house, Mr Dearden. Where are they?'

‘That's a no comment,' said the solicitor. ‘Really –'

‘And why did you fall out with Neil Granger, Mr Dearden? Did he want a bigger cut? It's usually money that's the problem, isn't it?'

Dearden began to shake his head vigorously, until the solicitor put a hand on his arm to steady him. Fry remembered the project Dearden was working on at the software company. Technology designed to prevent human error. But Alex Dearden wasn't a computer; he was as human as anyone else. And sooner or later, he would make an error.

I
t had been a bad day for Chief Superintendent Colin Jepson, commander of Derbyshire Constabulary E Division. Edendale had attracted all kinds of people this weekend, and his officers were stretched to the limit dealing with all the crime and disorder that followed crowds of people around like horseflies.

DI Hitchens and the CID team were almost the only people Jepson could find in the station at West Street. They were still laboriously following up on calls from the public about missing persons who might possibly have turned up in a shallow grave in Withens churchyard, no matter how far from their homes it was, or how recently they had gone missing. Officers were explaining patiently to distraught mothers that it was impossible for somebody who had been missing for only twenty-four hours to have been reduced to a skeleton in that time, no matter how badly they'd been eating recently.

‘And then,' said Chief Superintendent Jepson wearily. ‘And then, after everything else that's happened to me today, I come back to my own police station, expecting to finally get a bit of peace and quiet in a civilized environment. And I find the reception area full of black and white minstrels.'

He looked around the room full of officers. Some were smirking, as usual. Others looked blank, having never heard of the Black and White Minstrels because they were born in the age of political correctness.

‘Who was responsible for that little idea, I wonder?' said Jepson. ‘What genius turned the front desk into an audition room for
The Al Jolson Story
?'

‘They're morris dancers, Chief,' said DI Hitchens. ‘The town's full of them.'

‘I don't need telling,' said the Chief Superintendent, ‘that the town is full of them. The reason I don't need telling is that my car was stuck in a traffic jam for over an hour on the corner of Clappergate, while eighteen thousand of them paraded past me waving their bells and handkerchiefs. I know there were eighteen thousand, because I counted them. I had plenty of time.'

Jepson glared from one officer to another, daring somebody to contradict him.

‘What I
do
need telling, though, is why someone took a fancy to bringing a few of them back to the station. Surely the whole point of morris dancers having bells on their trousers is so that we can hear them coming and avoid them?'

‘The ones sitting in reception are waiting for their friends,' said Hitchens.

‘Oh, of course. We've invited some in to give them a guided tour of the station. How silly of me not to have thought of that. Does this mean I'm going to find them jingling around in the comms room and combing their beards in the gents? I know we're trying to increase our representation of ethnic minorities in E Division. But I have to tell you, ladies and gentlemen, that I absolutely draw the line at recruiting morris dancers. Those blacked-up faces aren't going to fool the Commission for Racial Equality, you know.'

‘Actually, they're waiting for the ones we have in the cells,' said Hitchens.

‘Ah. And they're occupying our custody suite for what purpose exactly, Inspector?'

‘Identification and interview, following arrest on suspicion of affray.'

‘Affray? You do realize that when they beat each other with sticks, they're doing it for fun. It turns some people on, or so I'm told.'

‘Yes, Chief.'

‘Anyway, don't we have football supporters for that sort of thing? If we need to get the performance results up for violent crime, couldn't we have pulled in a few more Stoke City fans? They might not be pretty, but at least they don't jingle.'

At the lack of response, the Chief Superintendent started to go a bit red in the face, and his voice rose in volume.

‘And tell the rat to take his mask off. I won't have giant rats sitting around in my police station.'

‘He says he gets out of character if he takes his head off,' said Hitchens.

Jepson stared at Hitchens. The DI stared back unflinchingly, but it was impossible to tell whether he was serious, or whether he was taking the mickey.

‘If he gets an identity crisis, we'll arrange for him to see a counsellor,' said Jepson.

D
iane Fry looked at Howard Renshaw with barely restrained annoyance. Exactly what it would take to puncture the bubble of fantasy the Renshaws lived in, she didn't know.

‘I wanted to tell you I'm sorry,' he was saying. ‘I realize that I misled you by my behaviour in the churchyard, and I apologize for that. It must have put you and your colleagues to a lot of trouble. But it was a very emotional moment, you see. I'm sure you understand. Particularly for my wife –'

‘But you already knew the remains weren't those of your daughter, didn't you, sir? You knew that it couldn't be Emma.'

‘Well, looking back now, I suppose it should have been obvious to us that it couldn't have been Emma. I mean, how would she have ended up in Withens, let alone in the churchyard? It wasn't logical. But that's hindsight speaking. We weren't thinking logically at the time. We were both upset.'

‘But maybe you didn't actually need hindsight.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘You didn't really believe the remains were those of your daughter.'

Howard hesitated slightly.

‘I didn't,' said Sarah. ‘I knew it couldn't be Emma. She's still alive, isn't she?'

‘We don't know that, Mrs Renshaw.'

‘All this time, Howard hasn't been believing, he's just been pretending. Emma hasn't had his belief, only mine. If she dies now, it will be my fault. I'm all she has left.'

Howard shifted uneasily in his chair, but Sarah didn't look at him. There was no exchange of meaningful glances today.

‘For two years, I've thought it was something I did that made Emma go away,' said Sarah. ‘I thought that if I weren't here she would come back. Then Emma would be able to get on with her life. Looking back now, it seems very silly.'

‘No, I wouldn't call it that.'

‘I never even liked her playing outside when she was a child. I always imagined the worst – that she would be abducted and murdered. You hear of it happening such a lot. I worried all the time when Emma was out of my sight, so I kept her where I could keep an eye on her. But at the same time, I felt guilty at not giving her any freedom. It was dangerous enough for children then. But it's worse now, isn't it?'

‘Statistically, no,' said Fry. ‘There are no more children being abducted or killed by strangers than there were in the 1980s.'