Dancing With the Virgins (35 page)

*

The two PCs had been deployed on a routine patrol in
the Ringham Moor area. They were cruising as a visible
symbol of positive police action, designed to make the
area safe for law-abiding members of the community.
And they were bored out of their minds
.

On Hanger Hill, though, they found a little bit of excitement. A Renault coming down the hill too fast
had braked on the sharp corner and skidded sideways
in a scum of wet leaves. A stone wall had made a serious
mess of its near-side front wing, and fragments of glass
from a shattered headlamp littered the road. The officers
stopped, and got out to help. The female half of the team went to talk to the driver.

‘
Had a bit of trouble, sir?
’

The driver looked dazed rather than injured. He was
trying to straighten out the wheel arch where it had
crumpled against the wall and been pushed on to his
wheel.

‘
Are you a member of the AA or RAC? If not, we can
organize a garage to send someone out.'

‘
Oh, thanks. It's not too serious, but . .

‘
It needs to be made safe, sir.'

‘
Of course.
’

The second PC had done a spell in Traffic. Since then,
he had automatically looked at things like tyres and
number plates. The thing that drew his attention to the rear plate of the Renault was the fact that it was white.
He knew that front plates were white, but rear plates
were supposed to be yellow. Car owners themselves often failed to notice this
.

He looked a bit closer. He saw that there was a thin
strip of clean paintwork showing around the edge of the number plate. He concluded that it had recently
replaced a previous plate that had been slightly larger.

‘
I think I'll do a check on the number,' he said to his partner. They looked at each other, and the first officer
walked over to engage the motorist in conversation
again. They had worked together before, and they knew
how to communicate
.

Ten minutes later, they had obtained the motorist's
documents and he was in the back of the police car
waiting to accompany them to the station in Edendale,
once some support had arrived to secure the Renault.
The two officers were grinning with suppressed excite
ment. They had just arrested Greater Manchester's wanted man, Darren Howsley
.

25

When Ben Cooper got back to West Street, the change
in the atmosphere was immediately obvious. DCI Tailby
strode by along the corridor and was almost smiling.
DI Hitchens was handing out peppermints.

‘
What's happening?' asked Cooper.

‘
Him,' said Diane Fry, pointing at a file. 'That's what's
happening. He's the happening man, all right.
’

Cooper read the first page. 'Darren Howsley. Aged
thirty-two. That's the bloke Manchester are looking for.'

‘
Two uniforms brought him in last night. He'd run his car into a wall on Hanger Hill. A bit of bad luck,
you might say. Or then, you might not. Depending on
your point of view. Just a patch of wet leaves in the
wrong place, and he was a bit hasty on the brake for
the conditions. It could have happened to anyone.
’

Fry started laughing. Cooper smiled tolerantly. He knew there had to be more.

‘
And the bobbies were efficient for once. Thank God
they weren't on their way for a tea break or going off
shift, or they'd just have banged a sticker on his car and
given him a lift to the bus station.'

‘
Any evidence on him?'

‘
A mask and a carving knife in the glove compart
ment. Will that do? Don't say it too loudly, Ben, but it
looks like we've got him.'

‘
He has family in this area, doesn't he?'

‘
He was staying with his aunt at Chelmorton. It seems
the old dear was terrified of him. She knew what he
was like, but she was scared of telling anybody about
him. Howsley had been at her house for two or three
days when he turned up with the Renault. She knew it
was stolen. I don't think he bothered to hide anything
from her. Also, the carving knife is the one missing
from her kitchen. It's just what we needed - he made
a mistake.
’

*

The next call came through directly to the CID room,
because the caller had asked specifically for Diane Fry.

‘
I thought you might want to talk to me again, Diane.'
Fry stiffened, surprised by the strength of her own reaction to the voice. 'Maggie? Is that you?'

‘
Yes. I hear from the news that there's been another
attack.'

‘
That's right.'

‘
Tell me about it, Diane.
’

Fry noted the 'it'. Maggie didn't really want to know
about the woman who had been attacked; she wasn't interested in who she was. She wanted to know what
had happened, to hear the physical details of the attack.
She wanted to know if it was the same as what had
happened to her. For reassurance? Or simply for the
purpose of inflicting yet more pain on herself?
Fry could have gone through the litany, as she had
done with Jenny Weston. She could have told Maggie
all the details she knew about Karen Tavisker. But she
kept her mouth shut, waiting to hear the voice at the
other end of the line, listening for meaning in it that
she knew was never communicated by phone, but only by the expression in the face and the subtleties of body
language.

‘
Tell me. I want to know,' said Maggie petulantly into
the silence.

‘
It's not something I can discuss with you,' said Fry.
'We've made an arrest.'

‘
An arrest? Who is he? Tell me about him. Does he
have a connection to Jenny Weston — the one with the
mountain bike and an interest in history and astrology?
’

Fry felt her heart lift for a moment. It was five days
since she had told Maggie about Jenny Weston, but
Maggie had remembered Jenny's interest in history and perhaps the idea that she might have visited Hammond
Hall. It meant Jenny had become real to her
.

But Fry thought of Darren Howsley, with the mask
and the knife in his stolen car, and the independent,
credible witness they had to identify him. She thought
of the sweat she had shed over Maggie Crew and the
strain on her own emotions, and of how little she had
achieved. She had not even known that Maggie had a
daughter adopted until her sister had mentioned it. And
Fry worried about the question that Catherine had
asked her — 'how old are you?' What did she mean by
that?
She thought of Maggie's attitude, of how she had
cancelled her appointment, stood her up and humiliated
her in front of the secretary. There was no way she was
going through all that again.

‘
There's no point, Maggie,' she said. 'Because I don't
need you. You're no use to me any more.
’

*

Darren Howsley was an innocuous-looking man. When
processed through the detention suite, he measured in
at five foot nine inches and ten stone eight pounds. His
hair was recorded as 'light brown'. He had a small
moustache, hazel eyes and a discreet tattoo of a tiger
on his left forearm
.

He spoke quietly, sometimes hardly at all, his hands
clasped apologetically together in his lap. But he had
been questioned by Greater Manchester Police on sus
picion of multiple stabbings, in which three middle-aged women had died and a seven-year-old girl had
lost an eye. Howsley was currently on bail for an assault
on a taxi driver who'd had the temerity to demand his
fare
.

He was questioned intensively for several hours, allowing for the statutory rest and meals breaks pre
scribed by the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. The
details of his movements at the times of the attacks on the three local women were gone over again and again,
until all involved became tired of hearing the same
questions and the same answers, or the lack of them
.

Only when the last dregs of hope had been exhausted
and an exercise in futility was staring them in the face
did the interviewers falter. They took a break. They consulted with each other, they took advice from upstairs. Then they went back in again.

‘
Mr Howsley, you've told us that on Sunday 2nd November you were at a pub in Matlock. Which pub was it again?'

‘
The White Bull.'

‘
And what time did you arrive?'

‘
I've told you.'

‘
What time did you leave?'

‘
I've told you.'

‘
How many drinks did you have? Who were you
with? Who did you speak to? Where did you go when
you left?
’

But Howsley's answers didn't vary, no matter
how often they asked him. He had clear memories of
what he was doing on the days that Jenny Weston and
Maggie Crew were attacked, and his statements were consistent. He had been a long way from the area, on
his home patch in Greater Manchester
.

Only when told about sightings of the stolen car did
he seem less confident. He couldn't be sure where he
was when Karen Tavisker was attacked, he said. The
interview team had an advantage on this one. The Renault driven by Darren Howsley had been sighted in the
Ringham area, and they had two reliable witnesses —
the Rangers, Owen Fox and Mark Roper, who had recorded the make, model, colour and false licence plate, as they had been doing with any unfamiliar
vehicle near the moor. It was then Howsley asked for
his solicitor.

‘
I think he wasn't able to resist falling back into old
habits when he read about our two assaults,' said DCI
Tailby afterwards.'A copycat,' said DI Hitchens.

‘
In a way. Tavisker was lucky, anyway.'

‘
Aren't we going to try for an identification?' asked Fry.

‘
I don't think it's worthwhile. Greater Manchester are
keen to get him back. I think we'll let them have him.
’

*

Owen Fox had completed the first course of stones and
had begun sliding the big throughs back into the wall.
The throughs would hold the whole structure firmly
together. With these and the topping stones in place,
the wall would stand for another hundred years or so.

‘
Why would a man do that? Attack all those women?'
asked Mark Roper. 'What would he be thinking of ?'
Owen didn't pause in his work. 'I don't suppose thinking came into it,' he said.

‘
What then?'

‘
I think it would be a physical thing. An instinct that
the mind has no control over.
’

Mark considered this, and nodded. 'I know what you
mean.
’

It seemed to Mark Roper that Owen was like a stone
wall himself, solid and reliable, calm and controlled.
He never raised his voice. But then, Mark's father had
never raised his voice, either. He had never smacked,
or even criticized — not that Mark could remember.
Instead, he had joked all the time, and talked about all
sorts of subjects. His father had loved to make things. He collected useful bits of wood which he would never get round to doing anything with. He used to drive his
mother mad by stopping the car to pick up a broken
piece of pipe or a sheet of corrugated Perspex from the
side of the road, or a wooden crate fallen from a lorry
.

But his temper had changed after Rick had died. And
Mark's parents had drifted apart instead of supporting
each other, until his father had moved out. And then
there had been the new man
.

Mark could see the stones in the completed length of
wall were bonded like brickwork, laid across the joints
in the course below. Every stone touched all its neigh
bours, allowing no room for movement. They were
wedged in tight, each with its own role and no possibil
ity of shifting without a danger of bringing down the
entire structure. In this part of the world, there were
whole villages made like that, thought Mark — not just
the houses, but the people too. You weren't allowed to
wander out of line. There was no room for movement,
no shifting from your allotted role. Wedged in tight
.

Clumsily, Mark tried to express this thought to Owen.
The Area Ranger listened to him for a few moments, then rubbed a hand through his beard.

‘
You haven't come across a suicide yet, have you,
Mark?' he said, as if picking up the thread of an entirely
different conversation.

‘
No.'

‘
You will, in this job. I think suicides are the saddest
deaths of all. It means someone has decided that life
has no part for them to play any more.
’

Mark knew what that meant. There were people who
had tried to shift from their place in the wall, and whose
foundations had collapsed. Mark tilted
his
head to listen
more closely to what Owen was saying. It didn't sound
reassuring. But he always learned things from Owen,
and he had to listen in case he missed something.

‘
There's a spot where a lot of people go to do away
with themselves,' said Owen. 'The car park at the top
of the Eden Valley, where you can see Mam Tor. They
call it Suicide Corner.'

‘
Yes, I know it,' said Mark.

‘
They always seem to go to that one spot. They park
up in their cars to enjoy the view for one last time, then
write their notes and drink their whisky and connect
a hose up to the exhaust. Sometimes they use pills, sometimes a knife or razor blade across the wrists.
Occasionally, they change their minds when they see
what they've done, when the blood begins to flow and
the pain they've only imagined becomes real.
’

Mark nodded. But he wasn't sure if the Ranger was just talking generally, or whether he was communicat
ing some personal message.

‘
There's a story about a student,' said Owen. 'I don't
know if it's true or not. They say he drove from Suicide
Corner to the hospital in Edendale with blood pouring from both his wrists where he had hacked his arteries
open with a pair of dressmaker's scissors. The car was
warm, and the blood flowed pretty well from the cuts
he made before he panicked. It had run down his arms
and on to his trouser legs, soaked into his lap and
pooled on the rubber mat. They say the car looked like
a slaughterhouse. But it's over five miles to drive into
Edendale, and the student said afterwards that he had
stopped at three red lights in the centre of town, waiting
for the traffic to pass. By the time he arrived at Accident
and Emergency, he was almost unconscious. He sat in
the car outside the hospital entrance for ten minutes
before an ambulance crew found him. His hands were
glued to the steering wheel with congealed blood. The
nurses had to prise him free.'

‘
It isn't right,' said Mark. But he didn't think Owen
had heard him. His eyes were on his hands, though
they were hidden by his gloves. He rubbed the palms
together, as if irritated by some persistent itch.

‘
On balance,' said Owen, 'I think carbon monoxide is probably the best. It takes only a few minutes. I've
seen men still sitting in the driving seats of their cars
after the exhaust has done its job. They seem just to
have fallen asleep. A paramedic once told me that your
blood turns cherry-red from the carbon monoxide,
when it works properly,' said Owen. 'Your brain swells,
and so does your liver and kidneys and spleen. Even
the tiny blood vessels in your eyes haemorrhage. But
that's internal damage, the things you can't see. At Sui
cide Corner, you always think they're asleep at first.
Until you notice the smell of the urine soaked into the
cloth of the driving seat.
’

Mark shifted his feet uneasily. Now he wanted Owen
to stop talking.

‘
This paramedic said the carbon monoxide replaces
the oxygen in your blood,' said Owen. 'You die of oxy
gen starvation, a sort of internal suffocation. You can't
smell or taste or see the gas; all that happens is that
you begin to feel drowsy. You get a slight headache
and a shortness of breath. Then your movements slow
down, there's some nausea and chest pain, perhaps a
few hallucinations. We've all had hangovers worse than
that. But this is the sort of hangover you don't wake up from.'

‘
Owen —'

‘
You wouldn't believe the mistakes that some of them
make, though. They don't seem to plan their own deaths
properly. They come with lengths of hosepipe that are
too short to reach through the car window. Or they
arrive with nothing to seal the gap where they have to
lower the window to get the pipe through. At Suicide
Corner, they can sit for a long time with the wind howl
ing through the gap in the window and blowing away
the carbon monoxide as fast as it trickles into the car.
’

Mark thought for a moment of the woman, Jenny
Weston, who had died with her own blood choking her
heart. Her death had been sudden; she had been given no time to consider, no time to reflect on what she had
done with her life, for good or for evil.

‘
None of it is right,' said Mark. At least Owen lifted
his head now and met his eye. Owen's face looked tired
and drawn. The wind up here was making his eyes
water. There was rain coming from the east — fat clouds
were bouncing over the hills, and all the weight seemed
to be in the sky.

‘
Owen . . .'

‘
Yes, they seem just to have fallen asleep,' said Owen.
'But it's not a sleep that has any comfort in it. Only nightmares.
’

Mark peered at his face, seeking to understand more
clearly what he was hearing in the Ranger's words.
'We'll not let that happen, Owen,' he said
.

Owen just stared at him. And then he said something
that made Mark wonder whether he had understood
any of it at all.

‘
Let me tell you, Mark,' he said. 'It's always your body that lets you down, in the end.
’