Dancing With the Virgins (18 page)

*

'Sorry, time's up for the public. Next item on the agenda
- minutes of the last meeting.
’

The chairman of Cargreave Parish Council wore a
white cardigan and a tweed skirt, and she was so short
sighted that she barely seemed able to recognize her
colleagues at the far end of the table. Councillor Mary
Salt preferred to be known as 'chair', but some members
of the council refused to be forced into ways that
sounded a bit modern. They still called her 'chairman',
ignoring her angry, myopic glare
.

Owen Fox didn't belong to Councillor Salt's party.
He was an Independent, so his voice carried no weight
in the important decisions, like where to spend the
parish's share of the Council Tax. But he and the chair
man had known each other for many years
.

The parish room was cold and echoey, with a creaky
wooden floor and a small stage at one end that had been turned into a Chinese laundry for rehearsals of
the village pantomime. From where he sat, Owen could see Councillor Salt's legs tucked under the table in her
flesh-coloured tights. Her legs looked tight and shiny,
like sausage skins. His fingers itched for a fork to prick
them
.

The council meeting started with fifteen minutes of public questions. Usually, there were only one or two
familiar faces sitting at the back of the room, sometimes
no one at all. But tonight the room was full, and more
chairs had been brought in. These people wanted to ask
what action was being taken to make the area safe. They
wanted a senior police officer to be brought to the next
meeting to answer questions, and the clerk was instructed to write to the Chief Constable. Then the chairman moved the agenda on. The public were allowed only fifteen minutes
.

The real business of the meeting involved correspondence from the National Park Authority about a visitor
questionnaire and a landscape enhancement grant
scheme. The county council had replied to a letter about
street lamps, and there was another discussion about
installing a height barrier at the entrance to the village car park to stop gypsies getting their caravans on. The
success of the Millennium tree-planting scheme was
reported, and next year's well-dressing considered. Mobile library visits were changing to alternate
Thursdays. The bowls club were having a quiz night. Soon, the dangers of walking on Ringham Moor were
long forgotten. The public got only fifteen minutes, after all.

‘
Any other business?' asked the chairman finally
.

Councillor Salt looked round the table. Nobody responded, and Owen checked his watch. Not a bad
time. Some of the other councillors would head for the Dancing Badger for a ritual exchange of gossip, but for
Owen it would be a chance to get back to the house.
Socializing in the village had never held any attractions
for Owen; even less so now.

‘
Meeting closed, then.
’

Owen made a dash for the door, trying to get out
into the street before any members of the public could
corner him and ask about the attacks on Ringham Moor.
He didn't have the answers they wanted, no more than
anyone else did. Nobody knew who it was stalking the
moor. And nobody knew when he would strike again
.

But Owen had his own thoughts. It only needed
someone to ask him the right question, and he would
no longer be able to keep them to himself.

13

The lamp on the desk was tilted at an angle that
directed light into Diane Fry's eyes and made Maggie
Crew's face more difficult to see in the shadows
between the lamp and the window. There was little
light left in the sky over Matlock as the evening drew
in, and Fry felt a creeping sense of unease in the apart
ment. If she had been in Maggie's position herself, she
would have felt no reassurance from the panic buttons
and the extra vigilance the police had promised.

‘
You understand that I need to talk to you, Maggie,'
she said.

‘
You can talk as much as you like. I've got plenty of
time.
’

Fry's reading of Maggie's file and her discussion with
DI Armstrong had convinced her that she had to be per
sistent if she was to get anything out of this woman. Deep
inside, Maggie Crew had valuable memories locked in —memories the police needed, memories that would help them to identify a man who had now become a killer.

‘
I want to talk to you about our new victim,' she said.
Maggie waited, playing with the lamp. No sign of interest. Fry tried again.

‘
The woman found dead on Ringham Moor.'
Maggie shrugged. Fry felt a spasm of irritation, but
controlled it. The file said that Maggie Crew was frus
trated and bitter over the failure of the police to find
her attacker. She mustn't let personal reactions get in
the way of doing the job.

‘
I know nothing about your new victim,' said Maggie.
'Nothing.'

‘
Let me help you, then. Her name is Jenny Weston.
She's thirty years old. I mean she was, when she died.
She won't ever be any older now.

‘
Jenny Weston was five foot six and half, and she
weighed sixty kilos. That's nine and a half stone. She
had been trying to lose weight recently, but wasn't very
successful. She lived in a modernized terrace house in
Totley, on the outskirts of Sheffield, and she worked as
a section supervisor at an insurance call centre. She
might not seem to have had much in common with you,
but maybe you would have got on with her. Jenny liked
cycling and classical music, Haydn and Strauss. I see
you like Strauss, Maggie.
’

She nodded towards the stereo. A CD of
Tales from the Vienna Woods
lay on the top, the one case out of
place from the neat racks. It was a rare splash of colour
in the dark corner
.

The light dipped slightly. Maggie's outline began to
come back into focus as Fry blinked and her eyes readjusted to the darkness.

‘
Somebody loaned it to me,' said Maggie. 'I haven't listened to it.'

‘
Jenny bought her clothes at Marks & Spencer and
Next, where she had store cards. She banked with the
NatWest, but transferred her credit card account to one
that supported Greenpeace. She was a big animal lover.
She was a member of lots of societies, including the
RSPCA, and she helped out as a volunteer for the local
Cats Protection League. She had her own cat called
Nelson. Do you know why she called him that? Because
when she took him in as a stray he had an infection
that made him keep one eye closed. Have you ever had
a cat, Maggie?
’

Maggie maintained the stare. Fry had no idea whether
she was getting through to her.

‘
We know a lot more about Jenny. We know she borrowed show business biographies and Maeve Bin
chy novels from her local library. She drove a blue Fiat
Cinquecento, but she didn't wash it very often. On the
back seat were her spare shoes, an orange and her mobile phone. When we rang the number, it played "The William Tell Overture".
’

Maggie's eyes were expressionless and unblinking,
though her hands fidgeted restlessly and her shoulders
were tense.

‘
No,' she said. 'I don't listen to Rossini, either.
’

Fry had all the details of Jenny's life at her fingertips.
Yet they knew almost nothing about the young woman
who had stayed with her in Totley several weeks ago.
Ros Daniels had disappeared as mysteriously as she
had come, as far as Jenny's neighbours were concerned.
She had been seen walking up The Quadrant one day
with a rucksack on her back, and she had knocked at
Jenny's door. Her hair was described as being 'in
tangles' by an old man who had passed her on his way
to the post office and who had noticed her heavy boots
and the rings in her nose. He was seventy-five years old and not well up on modern fashions, but he was quite an observant old man. He had given it as his opinion that she hadn't been wearing a bra, either
.

But it was only from a colleague at the Global Assur
ance call centre that the police had learned the young
woman's name. The colleague had visited Jenny's
home, and had been introduced. The miracle was that
she had remembered Ros's name at all.

‘
She was a girl, really. I'd say she was no more than twenty
years old. A student type, you know? All dreadlocks and
combat trousers she was, and sitting slumped on the floor
like she'd not even been taught how to use a chair. Never
had a job, you could tell. Never had to work in a call centre selling insurance, that's for sure.'

‘
Did she say much?'

‘
"Hi." That was what she said. And that was said a bit
contemptuous, like. As if she'd weighed me up in a glance
and thought I was too boring and respectable and hardly worth bothering with. It was a cheek, I thought. I mean, if
I'm boring and respectable, then so was Jenny Weston. So
what was she doing at Jenny's house, this Ros?'

‘
Did Jenny never explain who she was?'

‘
Never. I did try to ask her next day. Discreetly, like. I
asked where Ros was from, and Jenny said from Cheshire.
But then she changed the subject straight away, almost as if
she'd said too much, though she hadn't told me anything at all. She didn't want to talk about her, that was plain. Well,
she could be a bit stand-offish when she wanted to, could
Jenny. I can't imagine what she had to do with that girl.
’

Fry watched Maggie's hands moving impatiently.
The cat had brought no response. That was no surprise.
It was obvious there had never been a pet to disturb
the orderly surroundings of Maggie Crew's apartment.

‘
Jenny's next bi
rthday would have been on the 1
1 th of December,' she said. 'She was a Sagittarian. She was
interested in horoscopes, too. She wore a chain with a
silver star-sign symbol — the archer, half horse and half
man. She had made an appointment with her dentist
for next Tuesday, because she was worried about a loose
filling. Jenny Weston was the sort of person who started
buying her Christmas presents early. In fact, she had
already bought a cashmere sweater for her mother, and
a book on Peak District aircraft wrecks for her father,
who used to be in the RAF. She had even bought a toy
mouse with a bell on it, for the cat.
’

Maggie sighed. 'Why are you telling me all this? I don't want to know any of it.'

‘
Jenny had taken a week's holiday from work. It
seems she loved the Peak District. But you do, too. Don't
you, Maggie?'

‘
I used to,' she said. 'Something changed my view.
’

‘
Well, Jenny must have loved it right up to her last
breath. She never learned that disillusionment. She never had the chance.'

‘
So?'

‘
She was a member of the National Trust, too. We found lots of photographs she took at National Trust
properties. That was another hobby of hers — photogra
phy. It seems her favourite place to visit was probably
Hammond Hall. You know Hammond Hall well, don't
you, Maggie?'

‘
It says so in my file, I suppose,' she said.

‘
You're a volunteer guide there, aren't you?
’

‘
I used to be.'

‘
You might have met Jenny Weston, then. You might
have shown her round some time, explained the history
of the Tudor wall-hangings to her, or directed her to the ladies' toilets perhaps.'

‘
I never really notice the visitors, you know. They're just an anonymous mass. I forget them all as soon as they've gone. Unless they ask particularly interesting
questions.'

‘
Jenny might have done that. She was interested in
history.'

‘
Lots of people are.
’

The volunteers co-ordinator at Hammond Hall had
been interviewed after the assault on Maggie Crew. She
had described Maggie as very knowledgeable. A bit
cool and austere, perhaps, but some visitors preferred
her as a guide because of the depth of her knowledge.

‘
Jenny may even have dealt with your car insurance,'
said Fry, 'or the insurance on your house.'

‘
I don't think so.'

‘
How do you know? I haven't said what company she worked for.
’

Maggie regarded Fry steadily from the side of her eye. 'This is getting tiresome. What exactly is it you want from me?'

‘
I want you to help us find the man who killed Jenny
Weston.'

'And why should I do that?
’

She shifted in her seat as she asked the question. Fry
prayed she wouldn't turn towards her completely. She
had got so far that she didn't want her nerve to fail
now. She didn't want her face to show the reaction that
made her stomach clench and her fingers tighten into
tense fists.

‘
Because we think he's the same man who did that
to your face, Maggie,' she said
.

A minimum number of objects were lined up in an
orderly line on the desk; no more than a paperweight,
an ashtray, a telephone — and a wicked-looking letter
opener shaped like a dagger, with a sharp blade and
imitation rubies set into its handle. The letter opener
was the only item of any ostentation in the room, and
it stood out like a beacon, the light from the lamp reflecting in its red stones. In a moment of thought,
Maggie toyed with its handle, turning it so that the tip
pointed towards Fry, then spinning it away again to line up neatly with the paperweight in a satisfying geometric pattern.

‘
So tell me one more thing,' said Maggie. 'How was this woman killed?'

‘
She was stabbed to death.
’

Maggie took her hand away from the letter opener quickly, and picked up her pen instead.

‘
It's a waste of time, you know. I can't remember any
more than I have already.'

‘
I don't believe memories are gone forever, do you?
They'll come back, Maggie. But they'll come back when
you're least expecting them. You'll find they surprise
you in ordinary things. It will be a face you see on TV
that reminds you of someone. An item of clothing that
you wore on the day. A glimpse of your own reflection
in a window at night.
’

Maggie's mouth tightened, and the lines round her
good eye flattened out in anger.

‘
They
will
come back, Maggie,' said Fry. 'Better to let
them come to the surface when you can deal with them
than to allow them to ambush you when you least expect them. Believe me on this.
’

Maggie stared at her. Gradually, her mouth relaxed.
'Are you talking from experience?
’

Fry barely managed a nod. Ridiculously, the simple
question had done exactly what she had been warning Maggie against. The burst of recollection was so strong
and so physical that she was quite unprepared for it.
She had to look away now, and be damned to her deter
mination to look the woman in the eye. She stared at
the drapes over the window, counting the brass rings on
the curtain rail while she breathed slowly and steadily,
counting to three as she inhaled, holding for another
count of three, exhaling and counting; holding again
.