Unholy Rites (4 page)

“Let's have a look.” Danutia pulled out a volume and flipped through the pages and then gazed up at him, her green eyes bright as spring. She was so close he could smell the crisp citrus of her shampoo. “Look at this. Your mum's put in newspaper clippings and letters from people and programs from events and her comments, like a diary. All we have to do is find the most recent one.” She glanced at her watch. “Damn, it's 4:20. I've got to go. It's up to you,” she said, turning towards the stairs.

Arthur felt a yawning pit open up inside. She couldn't leave him now. “Wait, what am I supposed to do?”

Standing in the doorway, she ticked off his instructions on her fingers. “Find the most recent scrapbook. Read it to see whether it mentions any problems your mother was having. Call and let me know what you find out. I'll give you my number in Buxton.”

Arthur handed her a pad and pencil from the bedside table. She scribbled and thrust the pad back at him.

“No personal calls at work. That's the number at my bed and breakfast, the Temple. Leave a message with Mr. Blackstone if I'm not in and I'll call you back.” She sped down the stairs, Arthur shambling behind. By the time he reached the cottage doorway, she was sprinting across the main road to where the bus stood waiting. Then she was gone.

Arthur turned away. Before him lay the empty cottage, dreary in the fading light. He couldn't face going back upstairs alone. Not yet. He needed a glass of wine and his pipe.

The next morning Danutia
tiptoed down two flights of creaking stairs and into the Temple's guest dining room, where supplies were laid out for her Do-It-Yourself breakfast. She put the limp white bread in the toaster and held her hands over it to warm them. The central heating system was limited to a few hours morning and evening; it had been on a while, and so the dining room was slightly warmer than her freezing bedroom, but only just. She buttered her toast and sliced a spotted banana into a bowl of corn flakes, but didn't bother boiling the kettle. With only tea and instant on offer, she'd wait. She and her mentor, Sgt. Kevin Oakes, had agreed to discuss this morning's case conference over a decent coffee before the meeting.

Danutia quickly finished her meal, slipped on her jacket and boots, and stepped outside, locking the door behind her. The early morning air was cold and damp. On a high ridge in the distance stood the round tower of Solomon's Temple, the Victorian folly for which the
B&B
was named.

This morning she looked at Solomon's Temple with different eyes. She'd read in one of Mrs. Fairweather's books that the tower was built over an ancient burial mound containing skeletons from the Bronze Age, some three to four thousand years ago. That's what struck her most about England, the sheer
oldness
of things, if there was such a word. Magnificent churches built before the first European settlements in North America. Modern highways built over Roman roads. And predating the Romans, buried remnants of ancient peoples, ancient cultures.

She wondered again about Mrs. Fairweather's interest in Celtic and pagan Britain. It didn't seem to fit with Arthur's image of her as an ordinary, rather unimaginative working class woman. Judging from the women Danutia had encountered at the funeral reception, Ethel Fairweather had a wide and diverse circle of friends. Why would she seek help from a strange Canadian woman half her age?

Because I'm a stranger, Danutia thought as she picked her way down the
B&B
's icy front steps. From a farming community herself, she could imagine how quickly gossip would spread in Mill-on-Wye if Mrs. Fairweather's concerns touched on a neighbor's behavior or reputation. At the back of her mind was a more disturbing thought: I'm not just any stranger. I'm a
policewoman
.

A car honked, a bicycle bell tinkled, a dog stopped to raise its leg into snow hidden under hedges. Imposing three-storey stone houses lined the street, many of them apparently divided into apartments, or “flats to let,” according to a sign outside the corner mansion. A brisk walk to the left would take her to the market place in Higher Buxton with its shops, pubs, and bus stops. She turned right and in a few minutes arrived at a curved stone building that looked more like a small Roman amphitheater than a police station. Buxton Constabulary, her work place for the next four months.

“Morning, Gloria,” she said to the receptionist, a wisecracking single mom with prematurely gray hair she claimed to owe to her kids.

“Mr. Blackstone cook you a Full English this morning?” Gloria asked.

“Not a chance.”

“You'll have to go up to him like that kid in
Oliver
.” Gloria mimicked holding out a bowl. “‘Please sir, I want more.'”

“Or get a requisition from Headquarters. They're the ones paying the bill,” said Kevin, pulling on a brown leather jacket. He was a big man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a few extra pounds around the middle, a ready smile, and a wart beside his nose that he rubbed when thinking.

“Fat chance. I can't even get a new notepad.” The phone rang, and Gloria answered it.

“We'll be off, then, luv,” Kevin said, ushering Danutia out the back, to the secured car park. When they were belted into his unmarked Ford Escort, he asked, “Coffee Cup?”

“Yes please.” Morning coffee for her, lunchtime beer for Kevin, sitting outside unless it was pouring. That's the deal they'd struck after a blue haze of cigarette smoke had left Danutia gasping for breath on their first day working together. She hadn't realized how much she took Victoria's smoking ban for granted until she came to England.

Kevin squeezed the Ford into a parking place near the Probation Office and they walked downhill to the Coffee Cup, their boots loud in the winter stillness. Kevin proudly pointed out the restored Opera House and the work underway on the Pavilion Gardens.

“Boom and bust. That's the story of Buxton,” he said. “Bustling spa town to sleepy backwater, another boom when the railway came in 1863 and a bust during the Depression, and now it's booming again.” He gestured towards the pedestrian shopping mall across the busy main road. “Just look at Spring Gardens. Built on the site of the old Midland Railway Station that closed thirty years ago.”

Was that progress? Danutia thought of Arthur's father in his uniform and splendid mustache, shuttling back and forth on the branch line between Buxton and the main cross-country line at Mill-on-Wye, a once prosperous village now struggling to survive.

At the Coffee Cup they ordered—a triple shot Americano for Danutia, milky tea for Kevin. Danutia handed over the coins she'd carefully counted out so that she wouldn't have to break another five-pound note. The sleepy-eyed barista shoved their drinks across without a word. Danutia wondered how often they'd have to come here before a glimmer of recognition crossed her face, never mind a greeting.

When they were settled outside, Danutia said, “I've read the reports on Eric Ellison. Strangely enough, I met his mother at the funeral yesterday. No wonder she was looking haggard.”

Kevin poured his tea and added milk. “As you know, I'm the one who collared him. Eric hangs around with lads from Tideswell, just up the road. Happens that's where I live. On the Saturday after the New Year I was walking home after a quick one at the George when I heard glass breaking down at the Co-op. As I nipped across the road, two blokes legged it. Eric just stood in the doorway, holding this bag of groceries like he was waiting for his ma. Claimed the stuff was for a homeless man he'd met. Said the man was special, like a hermit or something. You can imagine how that went down at the station, what with the mickey of vodka. Setting themselves up for a party, more like. He wouldn't identify his mates, but we've a good idea who they were. No priors, so he was a good candidate for diversion. A year older and he'd have been in adult court.”

“Give him a few months in prison and he'll learn how not to get caught.”

“A shame that would be,” Kevin said. “My boys tell me Eric was a bit rowdy at school, and then he dropped out and got in with a rough crowd. Too much time on his hands, if you ask me. Not enough structure. His dad travels, his mum's a hairdresser and fills in at the Anglers Reward when they need her. She does her best, but she's short of time and some youngsters need a lot of attention.”

Danutia cradled the hot mug in her cold hands. “Speaking of his mates. The Community Service Order forbids him to have contact with a long list of people. Think that's enforceable?”

Kevin laughed. “That's Hugh Clough's worry. Stacey worked out the provisions with him, since he volunteered to take custody. I'd say the
CSO
is tough but fair.”

“Two hundred hours of unpaid work for the community; two hundred hours of paid on-the-job training; compulsory school attendance; close supervision for six months. I'd say that's tough all right. Whether it's fair remains to be seen.” She sipped her coffee. Beneath their table, a sparrow hunted for crumbs. “I met a Justine Clough yesterday,” she said. “Late forties, pixie haircut. Chair of the well dressing committee. Any relation to Hugh?”

“They're married, no kids. Live on a sheep farm up Wormhill way, beyond the old Mill-on-Wye station. He used to teach inner city kids in Manchester, came back to the farm when his dad died. As soon as we asked members of the community to get involved in the crime reduction initiative, Hugh jumped on board. Besides the sheep farm, he runs Corn Mill Crafts. That's where Eric will get his jobs training.”

“I remember seeing the sign from the road,” Danutia said. “Near the bridge. It looks like a big operation. Is it a working mill?”

“Hugh's no miller. He's interested in teaching young lads the traditional crafts that are dying out in the villages, like furniture making and dry stone walling. Bit idealistic, if you ask me. Kids these days, all they care about is computer games and such like.”

“Like your two, you mean?” Danutia grinned. When she'd had dinner with Kevin and Paula on the weekend, their teenage sons had to be dragged away from their X-Box.

Kevin looked sheepish. “Always easier to pass judgment on other people's kids. Ready?”

From the station on the hill above them came the clatter and chuff of the first Manchester train of the day, the only passenger service remaining. Danutia drained her mug and stood up. “Ready.”

They were silent on the walk uphill, Kevin conserving his breath, Danutia thinking about what had brought her to England. It wasn't just her failure to nail the killer of two Aboriginal women, though that had played a part. She was still disturbed by the other killer she had caught. Catch and punish no longer seemed a sufficient basis for police work. Like catching and releasing fish, punishing young offenders merely left scars and made them wilier. This project in Derbyshire seemed to offer a more positive emphasis. Would it work for Eric Ellison? That remained to be seen.

Turning onto a quiet side street, they entered a three-storey stone building with a discreet government sign beside the door. A receptionist showed them into a conference room, saying Ms. Upton would be with them shortly. Danutia was examining the pictures of historic Buxton on the wall when the probation officer entered, a file folder in her hand. She was fortyish, Danutia guessed, plumpish, conservatively dressed in charcoal gray skirt and jacket. Her manner was brisk but friendly.

“How very exciting to have the famous Royal Canadian Mounties interested in our little program,” she said as they shook hands. The words were flattering, the blue eyes shrewd. Danutia felt herself being sized up and wondered what conditions Ms. Upton would set for her, given the chance. Compulsory attendance at a social dance class? Exclusion from her workplace on weekends?

“Do be seated.” Ms. Upton gestured towards a round oak table with six unmatched chairs. When they had settled, she passed them each a stapled set of papers. “Kevin, it was kind of you to offer to deliver Eric. I'm sure Hugh appreciates not having to drive into town.”

“Kindness wasn't my intention. Gives me the chance to put the fear of God into the little blighter,” Kevin responded with mock severity. He turned to smile at Danutia. “Not to mention giving our Mountie a peek at the countryside.”

Ms. Upton frowned at Kevin's frivolity, then turned her attention to Danutia. “I'll go over Eric's conditions when he arrives. First I'd like to explain the general principles of Community Service Orders to you, Constable Dranchuk. I don't know if you have a similar system in Canada.” She didn't pause for Danutia's response. “In Britain, community sentences were introduced into law in 1907, and they have been an option for judges ever since. However, successive governments have adopted ever more stringent ‘law and order' measures, so
CSO
s have been less widely used than they might have been and less wisely, I might add. If the sentence is too lenient, the offender has no respect for the law and no incentive to change. This is especially true for youth offenders, who need firm treatment if they are not to become career criminals.”

Put off by the woman's air of moral superiority, Danutia said, “They also need to find something worthwhile to do with their lives.”

Ms. Upton went on as if she hadn't heard. “Under this pilot project, community sentences are designed to Punish, Change, Control, and Help. The sheets I gave you outline the plan Hugh and I agreed upon for young Eric, and show how his plan meets these objectives.”

As Danutia looked at the top sheet, an agreement form ready for Eric's signature, there was a knock and the door opened.

“Eric Ellison,” the receptionist announced, and withdrew.

The boy who edged forward, small duffel bag in hand, could have been twelve rather than almost fifteen. He hadn't hit his growth spurt yet and wasn't much over five feet, maybe a hundred pounds. Black T-shirt with what was probably a band logo, jeans with a knee out, dirty Nikes. Dark eyes fixed on the floor in front of him, unruly dark hair falling across a sullen face.