Dancing With the Virgins (36 page)

26

Diane Fry strapped on the scabbard for her extendable baton. Police officers called the baton an ASP, after the
name of the manufacturer, Armament Systems and Pro
cedures of Wisconsin, USA. It extended to sixteen inches
when fully racked, and the handbook claimed it offered
unparalleled psychological deterrence. Even closed, it
consisted of six inches of heavy-duty steel. Most CID
officers simply carried the weapon in their pocket, but
on Fry's build the bulge of the closed ASP was still
noticeable. So she had bought a back pocket scabbard
with a Velcro flap which stopped the baton falling out
when she ran. On the other hip was the holder for her
kwik-cuffs. When she put on her jacket, their outline
was barely visible
.

She considered her protective vest. But it was heavy and uncomfortable to wear for any length of time, and
it gave her pains in the muscles in her back. She put it
back in her locker
.

Ben Cooper had said that they were supposed to protect people like Calvin Lawrence and Simon Bevington.
But it was difficult for Fry to understand why. The two
travellers weren't part of the society that she served;
they paid no taxes to help meet her wages. They were
never likely to become members of the police liaison
committee. Still, there was something about them that
she didn't understand, all the same. Against her own
judgement, she was curious what it was that Cooper
saw in them. His mind was a puzzle and frustration to
her - she never understood what perverse instinct it
was that made him believe so strongly in things that
she couldn't even see. Yet the need to understand him
was like an irritating itch on her skin, a rash that she
had to scratch. In this case, he was way off target. Lawrence and Bevington were on the wrong side of the law.
Well, they
were -
weren't they?

*

When she arrived at the quarry, Fry found a bored constable sitting in his car with half an ear on the
radio, a chocolate bar in his mouth and his eyes on
a fishing magazine. The windows of his car were
streaked with rain on the outside, and steamed up on
the inside.

‘
Anything happening?'

‘
Nope. Quiet as the grave,' he said.

‘
What's your name?'

‘
Taylor.
’

The rain was getting heavier as Fry banged on the
door of the van. The curtain behind the cab was pulled aside and light spilled out on to her face. Then the door
slid open, and Cal stood on the step.

‘
What do you want?'

‘
Just a few words.'

‘
Oh, yeah?'

‘
There's something I want to know. I thought you and your friend might be able to help me.
’

Cal eyed her suspiciously. 'Leave us alone. We'll be
out of here by Monday morning. What's the point of hassling us now?'

‘
No hassle. Just a question.'

‘
One question? OK, go ahead.
’

Fry turned her jacket collar up against the water trick
ling on to her neck. 'It's wet out here,' she said.
'Yeah. It's the rain that does it.'

‘
Can I come in?'

‘
Is that the question? 'Cos the answer's "no".'

‘
I can't hear you, because of the rain in my ears.
’

A voice came from inside the van, lazy and amused.

‘
Hey, let her in, Cal. She sounds fun.
’

Cal hesitated, but pulled open the door. Inside the van, Fry squeezed into a space next to the chest of drawers, sitting on a cushion that smelled of Indian
spices. Stride watched her through the blonde hair that
had fallen over his face. He smiled, like an Arab prince
welcoming her to his tent.

‘
Our last visitor. I hope you bring us luck.'

‘
Yes, they'll have you out of this quarry tomorrow.
’

‘
We know.'

‘
If it were me, I'd be glad to leave. There's nothing here. What sort of life can it be?'

‘
You want to know what we do all day? Is
that
the question?'

‘
Not really.'

‘
We talk. We think about things. You could try it. It
doesn't hurt.'

‘
You're young. You should be out in the world
enjoying life,' said Fry. 'This place is so empty and bleak.
’

‘
No. All you see is a landscape of rocks and heather,'
said Stride. 'But the moor is a living thing. It has moods;
it has desires.' He grinned at Fry, and his voice hushed.
'It has
secrets.'

‘
Stride's right,' said Cal. 'The moor was here long before us. The Fiddler will still be playing long after we've gone.'

‘
The who?'

‘
The Fiddler. Don't you know the story?'

‘
I've no idea what you're talking about.'

‘
Have you seen the stones?' said Stride. 'Don't you
know what they are? Nine virgins, turned to stone for
dancing on a Sunday. Punished for their sin. They des
ecrated the Sabbath with their dancing. But that single stone, outside the circle . . . They say that's the Fiddler,
who played the tune for the dancers. He was turned to
stone, too. But he wasn't dancing. Do you think the Fiddler got justice?'

‘
What nonsense.'

‘
Is it? Don't underestimate the power of nature. The
spirits don't forget.
’

Fry was concentrating on the manner of the two
travellers as much as on their words. She already knew
she was never going to be able to ask the right questions,
no matter how long she stayed here. There was some
thing rehearsed about their performance that only reinforced her scepticism.

‘
But what do you
believe
in?' she said, voicing the real
question that was on her mind.

‘
Stride talks to the Fiddler at nights, sometimes,' said
Cal. 'He tells him about things like that. The Fiddler knows the truth.'

‘
The truth? And what truth is it you're looking for?
’

Stride only smiled. The smile became wider, and turned into a laugh that filled the van. He leaned for
ward, and laid a hand on Fry's knee. She flinched, but
was unable to pull back from his touch in the confined
space. Stride's hand lay still and steady, as if he were
trying to calm her thoughts, to transfer some of his own
contentment by direct contact.

‘
How can you know the truth until you find it?' he said
.

For a moment he stared directly into her eyes, as if
seeking a shred of understanding, willing her to share a
bit of enlightenment. But she kept her face expression
less, resisting. Even Stride finally realized the futility,
repulsed by the rigidity of her muscles beneath his hand
.

Then Cal stepped in. 'Stride believes there may be a
vengeful spirit of the moors, driving intruders away.
’

‘
And what the hell does that mean?' said Fry angrily.
Cal didn't even seem to have heard. He looked at Stride, who was still staring at Fry and seemed to be attempting to drive his thoughts into her head by willpower.

‘
Well, if you find this vengeful spirit has a physical
body and a face, let us know,' she said
.

Stride looked unperturbed. 'It's the Fiddler himself,'
he said. 'It's obvious, isn't it? It's the Fiddler who makes
the women dance.'

*

Ben Cooper turned right at the Fina petrol station and
dropped the Toyota down a gear to go up the steep street. He wasn't familiar with this estate on the
southern edge of Edendale. It was a fairly recent one,
with cheap housing built to provide somewhere that
local people could afford to live without having to move
out of town. The houses were small stone semis, with
narrow alleyways and car ports
.

The homes on Calver Crescent looked like all the
others, and the only thing that distinguished number 17 was a slightly neglected air. The paintwork on the
front door was starting to peel, and part of the car port's
Perspex roof had come loose and split, leaving a gap
plugged by a sheet of polythene that flapped and rattled
in the rain
.

Mark Roper was waiting outside, under the light of
a bare bulb. He ran down the short drive and climbed
into Cooper's car. He was wearing jeans and a denim
jacket, and Cooper hardly recognized him.

‘
Can we go somewhere?' asked Mark.

‘
Sure. Anywhere in particular? A pub?'

‘
No, somewhere quiet, where we can talk. I'll show
you where.'

‘
OK.
’

Mark told him to drive westwards out of Edendale
until they left the street lamps behind and there was
only the reflection of the Toyota's headlights from the
Catseyes in the road and from the rain that drifted
across the bonnet. Two miles out of town they turned
and headed uphill until they were rising through the
dark, dripping fringes of Eden Forest. They saw few
cars on the road and passed even fewer houses — just
the occasional farmstead wrapped in its own little bowl
of protective light.

‘
Where are we going?' asked Cooper.

‘
Not far now.
’

After a few more minutes, Mark directed him off the
road. Cooper found they were in a gravel car park with
litter bins and a map in a glass case pointing out the
major features of the view that must lie somewhere out
there in the darkness. He turned the Toyota round so
that it was pointing back towards the road.

‘
Well?
’

Mark hesitated. Cooper knew better than to try to push him. It was better to let him take his time, now that they had come all this way. Gradually, his eyes started adjusting to the darkness. There were faint
strings of light floating in mid-air in front of him, marking a hamlet or a village on a hillside across the valley.
Then the hills themselves began to come into focus,
black humps against the sky. Directly ahead, he had
the sensation of a steep drop into a vast hole in the darkness
.

Eventually, Mark felt the moment was right.

‘
You know I told you this morning about something
going on at Ringham Edge Farm.'

‘
The big shed,' said Cooper. 'Vehicles arriving at night.'

‘
That's right.'

‘
We haven't had a chance to look into it, Mark. We've
all had a lot of other things on our minds. You'll just have to wait. Give us time.'

‘
I know, I know.'

‘
It will probably turn out to be nothing, anyway.
’

Mark chewed his lip. The rain was beginning to
obscure the Toyota's windscreen. Cooper turned on the
wipers to clear it, so that they could see the car park.
There were no other vehicles, not even passing on the
road. He almost turned the ignition on to drive back to
Edendale, disappointed in what Mark had brought him
out here to say. But something held him back.

‘
There's more to it than that,' said Mark. 'Things I haven't told you.
’

Suddenly, Cooper felt that old surge of excitement
rising through his chest, leaving him short of breath.
'Mark? What are you talking about?'

‘
Dogs,' said Mark.

‘
What?'

‘
I think it might be dog-fighting.'

‘
You're joking. Does that still go on?'

‘
Oh, dog-fights take place every week, somewhere.
And it's on the increase. The RSPCA have made a few
prosecutions, and a few fights are broken up now and
again. The thing that's most difficult for these people to find is a safe venue. There's money in dog-fighting
- a lot of cash changes hands in bets on the dogs. Just
by renting his shed and keeping his mouth shut, Leach
could have been doing quite well out of it, whether he
joined in or not. The winning dogs are worth something,
too. But the losers - sometimes the losers just die from
their injuries.'

‘
How do you know about this sort of thing, Mark?
’

‘
There's a Rangers' liaison group with the RSPCA
.

They showed us a video once that had been seized by their Special Operations Unit. It was sickening. These
people film the fights so that they can show off the
success of their dogs to buyers, you see. This one had
been filmed in the attic of a house somewhere, with
armchairs and an awful blue carpet and a colour TV in
the corner. They normally use pit bull terriers. Those
things are bred for fighting, and nothing else.'

‘
It's illegal to breed pit bulls,' said Cooper. 'Since the Dangerous Dogs Act, they all have to be neutered. The
breed should be dying out by now.'

‘
Oh, sure. And is cancer dying out, too? How much
time have your people got to go round the Devon
shire Estate checking whether anybody's breeding
pit bulls in the kitchen or out the back in the garden
shed?'

‘
Not a lot.'

‘
And the police in Sheffield and Manchester have even less time, I suppose.'

‘
So you think they're using Ringham Edge for dogfights? Are these local people involved?'

‘
They come from all over the place. A lot from the Manchester area, I think. If Warren Leach has a dogfighting pit in there, he'll be mixing with some pretty
unpleasant people. And they won't take kindly to any
one sticking their nose into what's going on.
’

A Peak Park Ranger's Land Rover pulled into the car
park for a few minutes. Mark looked at the driver, but
didn't seem to recognize him. The thin red stripe on
the silver side of the vehicle could have been a streak
of drying blood, caught in Cooper's headlights.

‘
It was the captive bolt pistol that made me think I
was right,' said Mark.

‘
What do you mean?'

‘
The point is, those dogs will fight and fight until
they're half-dead. You can't take them to a vet, because
— like you say — they're illegal. And you don't put an
animal like that out of its misery by wringing its neck.
You need to have somebody there with a gun, or prefer
ably a captive bolt pistol, if you can get hold of one. They're a lot safer than having a free bullet flying
around inside a shed somewhere. Dangerous, that is.'

‘
I can see that.'

‘
Very dangerous,' said Mark. 'That way, somebody could get themselves killed.
’

The Land Rover drove off again. Maybe the Ranger
had just stopped to use his radio or to have a drink of tea
from his flask. Maybe he was checking on the Toyota.
Everybody was suspect these days. Cooper watched the
vehicle's lights heading further west, following the tight
bends until they disappeared into a dark band of conifers. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a sudden
flicker of movement, and saw a stoat run across in front
of his bonnet into a clump of gorse.

‘
I know this spot,' he said. 'It's the place they call Suicide Corner.'

‘
That's right. It's where all the suicides come.' Mark
pointed up the valley towards Castleton and Mam Tor.
'Owen says the view sometimes makes them change their minds.
’

The unstable slopes of Mam Tor looked like a melted
chocolate cake in the darkness. Erosion of the soft shale
underneath its gritstone bands meant that its sides were
in continual movement, long cascades of stone sliding
and slithering into the valley, where the landslips had
closed the A625 many years before. Now cars struggled
over Winnats Pass to where the River Eden and the River Hope sprang up on the bleak moorlands of the Dark Peak. The locals called Mam Tor the 'Shivering Mountain'. Its vast, soft outline dominated the head of the valley. And on the very summit, the defensive
ramparts of a Bronze Age hillfort could clearly be seen
against the sky, even from this distance.

‘
I don't want to see Owen here,' said Mark. 'He might
not change his mind.'

‘
Mark . . . ?'

‘
I think Owen's involved. He must be.'

‘
But why?'

‘
He's worked in that area a long time. He must have
noticed what I noticed. But he's never said anything to
me about it. He always talks about Warren Leach as if
they hate each other, but I'm not sure about that.'

‘
There seemed to be no love lost between them when
I was there,' said Cooper.

‘
I know. But I'm almost certain that Owen goes down
to the farm on his own sometimes, when he should be
somewhere else. I think that might have been where he
was when I found the woman on Ringham Moor. It
was the TIP that made contact with him in the end, you
know. I couldn't get through to him. I think he was away from his radio.'

‘
I can't see it. Not Owen.
’

Mark looked at him. 'I knew you wouldn't believe
me. You want to defend him, like everyone else. You
think Owen's a good bloke. They all say that — Owen
Fox is a good bloke. Well, he is. But I think he's got mixed up in something he shouldn't have done, and now he's frightened and he can't see any way out. I
don't like the way he's been talking these last few days.
He is a good bloke. And he's done a lot for me. I want
to save him.'

‘
And how exactly are you going to do that?' asked Cooper
.

The young Ranger wound the window down a few inches, just enough to let the cool wind in and blow away the fug they had built up in the car.

‘
I want you to arrest him,' said Mark, 'before he ends
up here. I want you to keep Owen away from Suicide
Corner.
’