Blood on the Tongue (Ben Cooper & Diane Fry) (25 page)

'You mean there's a cat? That's all right, as long as the central heating works and there isn't too much damp. Who's responsible for the maintenance work?'

'I call her Miranda,' said Mrs Shelley. 'She's a stray, but she seems to have moved in for a while. I'm glad you don't mind, because I couldn't throw her out. Not now.'

'Well, I'm sure it won't be a problem. Is the electricity supply on a coin meter? Or would I get a separate bill? I could do with an estimate of the running costs, so I can tell whether I can afford it.'

'Actually, I'm worried about Miranda,' she said.

'Oh?'

'I know she's only a stray moggie, but I took her in because I could see she was pregnant. I couldn't bear the thought of her having her babies out in the cold and the snow.'

Cooper opened a cupboard door, hoping to find the electricity meter. But the cupboard was full of cleaning equipment and empty boxes.

'So I brought her into the conservatory and made her a little bed in there,' said Mrs Shelley.

Cooper sighed. 'And has she had the kittens?'

'No. That's what I'm worried about.'

'You wouldn't mind if I bought a few small pieces of furniture, would you? The odd chair, a writing desk. And I need somewhere to set up a personal computer. Perhaps over here, near the power points. I'd have to move the sideboard a bit.'

'She seems to be getting bigger and bigger, but nothing's happening.'

'The sideboard would go nicely in that corner, Mrs Shelley. If I moved the table over a foot or two …'

She wrung her gloves in her hands. 'In fact, since you're here, would you mind having a look at her? At Miranda, I mean.'

'Mrs Shelley, if there's a problem with your cat, I really think it would be a better idea to let a vet have a look at her.'

'I know, but vets are so expensive, aren't they? Won't you please have a quick look? You said you live on a farm, so you must know about animals. I'm sure you'll be able to tell whether I'm panicking for no reason.'

'I'm not sure I've got time. I only popped in from work. I really should be getting back. If you could just let me know a few things. I was wondering about a parking space for my car.'

'If you tell me the poor thing needs a vet – well, I suppose I'll find the money somehow.'

Cooper sighed again. 'All right. I'll take a quick look.'

Mrs Shelley led the way through the kitchen into the little conservatory. Cooper followed, pausing to examine the electric cooker and the fridge. They looked reasonably new and in good condition, but there were hardly any work surfaces, and the cupboards were old and starting to look chipped around the edges.

'Is there a freezer, or enough space to put one in?' he said.

'She's in here,' said Mrs Shelley, 'the poor love.'

Miranda was jet black, with thick fur that looked as though it had recently been groomed. The cat lay curled in a wicker basket padded with cushions and part of an old blanket. The basket was pulled up close to where the flue from the stove passed through the wall, and it looked the warmest and most comfortable spot in the entire house.

'What do you think, dear?'

'I think a freezer would go better in the kitchen,' said Cooper.

Mrs Shelley looked at him in complete bafflement. 'You haven't even looked at her,' she said.

Obediently, Cooper bent down, and the black cat opened a wary eye at him. It was a sharp, yellow eye set in a broad face that was almost Persian. He could see that the cat's stomach was pretty large. In fact, the animal had to lie sideways in the basket to accommodate its bulk.

Cooper put a hand out cautiously, fighting memories of cats that had taken exception to being touched by a stranger and had left their claw marks on the back of his hand to reinforce the message. But Miranda didn't move as he stroked her side and felt the rounded swelling under the black fur. A faint, rumbling purr started up, like the revving of a tiny motorbike, and Cooper gently eased his hand underneath to where the cat's belly rested on the blanket.

'How long has she been this big?' he asked.

'Well, she was quite large when I took her in,' said Mrs Shelley. 'And she seems to have got bigger and bigger since then. It must be six weeks now.'

'Six weeks? Are you sure?'

'Oh, yes.'

Cooper moved his hand over the cat's belly, feeling carefully for signs of engorged teats, then moved it backwards. Miranda didn't protest as he raised one back leg and took a quick peek at the rear end hidden under the fur. He lowered the leg and looked at the floor to the side of the basket, where there were several saucers, one containing fresh milk and the other three with various tasty-looking delicacies – one seemed to be tuna, and there were some scraps of chicken, too.

'I hope you haven't been spoiling Miranda too much,' he said.

'She has to eat properly,' said Mrs Shelley, following his gaze. 'It's very important in the later stages of pregnancy. I make sure there is always plenty to tempt her appetite. I give her a few little tidbits. Nothing wrong with that, is there?'

'Not within reason.'

Cooper let the cat settle back into its position. It eased itself over to allow space for its rounded belly and looked up at him. The cat's stare was faintly challenging, but full of conspiratorial knowingness. A message seemed to pass between them, an acknowledgement by the cat that it had met someone who understood these things. A warm basket, as much food as you could want, a bit of affection and no demands made on you at all. It sounded idyllic to Cooper, too.

'I don't think Miranda will be having kittens any time soon,' he said.

'Oh dear, what's wrong?'

'There's nothing wrong really. Nothing that a little less rich food and a bit more exercise wouldn't help.'

'Oh, but poor Miranda –'

'And you might think about changing his name as well,' said Cooper.

The cat gave him that look again. It was a steady gaze, resigned but with no hint of shame. 'Man to man,' it said, 'you'd have done exactly the same.'

'Well, if you've
quite
finished,' said Mrs Shelley. 'Are you going to tell me what you think of the flat?'

Cooper hesitated. He looked at the side wall of the house next door, at the cat hairs tangled on the floor of the conservatory, and at a raffia chair with black specks of mould, which sat under the boarded window. He still had no idea as to the whereabouts of the electricity meter, the size of the Council Tax bills, or who paid for the maintenance. In the pause before he answered, Cooper could hear nothing in the house but the purring of the cat and the ticking of the radiators, like a faint background heartbeat, the sound of somebody sleeping.

'It'll do fine,' he said.

*    *    *    *

That night, at home at Bridge End Farm, Cooper discovered that the Canadian woman, Alison Morrissey, had taken her story to the media. In fact, she must have contacted them in advance of her arrival with information on the purpose of her visit. It had been a clever move, and he wondered if someone had been advising her on a public relations strategy.

The regional television stations had picked up her story and there were items about her that night. Morrissey was a gift to the screen – her face played well for the cameras, being striking as well as full of both passion and intelligence. There was a particular scene in a
Calendar
piece on YTV that showed her against the backdrop of a snow-covered Irontongue Hill, where the wreckage of her grandfather's Lancaster bomber still lay. Morrissey's face was flushed with the cold, and her dark hair was in constant movement in the wind as she spoke to the interviewer. Her voice came across calmly and with absolute clarity against the bluster of the wind on the microphone. She was an articulate woman, too. There were no signs of the usual stumblings and 'ers' and 'ums' that were so irritating in people unused to being interviewed.

Cooper watched as the camera finally pulled away and lingered on a shot of Alison Morrissey gazing at the hill, her face in profile, her expression a picture of common sense and determination, but with a hint of strong emotion held in check. It wasn't quite clear how she achieved that effect – it was something about the way she tilted her head, or the angle of her neck. He didn't think it was entirely an act for the camera.

This woman wasn't some nutcase whose life had been taken over by an irrational obsession. Determined and clever Morrissey certainly was, but she seemed to be sincere too. Sincere people could be the most trouble.

The sight of Morrissey on the screen had made him forget for a while all the noise around him. The noises were the sounds of his brother Matt's family going about their usual evening activities, which seemed to consist mostly of shouting and arguing, laughing and singing. But even these seemed to retreat into the background as Cooper watched the piece shot on the hillside. He could see it had been filmed early that afternoon, with clouds already starting to build up in the east, but shafts of sunlight hitting the outcrops of rock on top of Irontongue Hill. The producer must have been delighted with the effect, as well as with the performance in front of the camera by Alison Morrissey herself.

She'd certainly been a contrast to DCI Kessen, who made an appearance in the main news bulletin, appealing to the public for information about the whereabouts of Marie Tennent's baby. 'We're very concerned for the safety of this child,' he said. In fact, he said it three times, and still failed to get any sincerity into his voice.

When the next item came on the TV – a funny piece about a quaint rural tradition in North Yorkshire – Cooper continued staring at the screen for a while without seeing it.

There was so much happening in his life at the moment that it seemed inconceivable he should be developing an interest in something fifty-seven years old. But the signs were there of the beginnings of a fascination. They always included a desire to find out everything there was to know about a subject, and a tendency to be thinking about it even when he was supposed to be on duty.

He was lucky that he'd survived this long in the job when his mind was so prone to flights of imagination. Imagination was a trait that didn't always fit with routine police work. Up to now, his supervisors had given him plenty of leeway on the strength of his reputation. And, of course, because of who he was. He was Sergeant Joe Cooper's son. Who wouldn't find it understandable if he seemed to be a little distracted occasionally? But now, more than ever, Cooper was aware that he ought to watch his step.

He turned off the TV and looked at his watch. The man he most wanted to talk to at this moment was Walter Rowland, the former member of the RAF rescue team who'd been at the scene of the Lancaster crash. Aside from Zygmunt Lukasz, Rowland was the only surviving witness he knew of. But it had been a long day and he was exhausted. Maybe tomorrow he would find a chance to contact Rowland. Probably it would be a waste of time. It all happened a long time ago, after all, and Rowland was an old man by now – no doubt he would have forgotten the whole thing.

Because he'd turned off the TV, Cooper missed the news bulletin later that night, when it was announced that human remains had been found at the site of an old aircraft wreck on Irontongue Hill.

*    *    *    *

Ever since he'd retired, Walter Rowland liked to listen to the radio in his workshop. The sound of the voices soothed him as he worked, helped him to forget the increasing pain that would knot his hands into claws for days. The news readers' talk of events going on in and around Derbyshire was somehow reassuring. It made him feel that he was well off where he was, lucky to be out of the constant mad whirl of car crashes and house fires and endless incomprehensible arguments about subjects he would never have to understand. But tonight, what he heard on the radio made him pause on his lathe. He stared at a curl of wood as it hung from the chair leg, ready to fall. He'd forgotten what he was supposed to be doing.

Rowland had been just eighteen years old when the RAF Lancaster crashed on Irontongue Hill. He'd enlisted twelve months before the war ended, and had never seen any action. Instead, he'd been recruited into the RAF mountain rescue unit based at Harpur Hill. Then he'd seen a bit of action all right, and plenty of dead and injured men, too. But the bodies had all been from his own side – British and American airmen, or Canadians, Australians and Poles. They hadn't been killed by enemy action, but had died on the hills of the Peak District. A lot of them had flown unwarily into the deadly embrace of the Dark Peak, into that old trap that lay between low cloud and high ground.

They didn't say much on the radio news late that evening. But he heard the newsreader mention human remains and an aircraft wreck on Irontongue Hill. The words were enough to take Rowland back over half a century, to a scene of carnage and a burning aircraft on a snow-covered hill. There had been human remains then, all right. There had been pieces everywhere, and men charred like burnt steaks in the wreckage.

He thought about the possibility that there might, after all, have been another body the rescue team hadn't found, a fatally injured crew member who'd been overlooked. But then Rowland remembered how thorough the search of the wreckage had been, not only by the rescue teams and the local police, but also later by the RAF recovery squad. And he recalled how many of the fragments of the aircraft had disappeared over the years, scavenged by souvenir collectors or tugged loose by curious walkers and left to be scattered by the ferocious gales that blasted those moors in winter.