Cooper and Fry Crime Fiction Series Books 1-3: Black Dog, Dancing With the Virgins, Blood on the Tongue. Stephen Booth
let me come between him and his pals.’
For a moment, Gwen’s voice hardened again, her eyes focused on Cooper as if he had reminded her of the present.
‘They worked together, you know, in the mines,’ she said. ‘And they joined up together. They were young men then. Served in the same regiment and came back from the war closer than ever. Then they went back to the mines – but the war had killed the lead mining like it killed all those men. It was the other things that they mined by then, not the lead.’
‘Fluorspar and limestone.’
Lead had been mined in the area since Roman times. Cooper knew that it was still produced in the last remaining local mines, but only as a by-product to the other minerals that were demanded by modern industries. Limestone aggregate dug out of the mines and quarries in the area found its way into everything from aspirin to tile adhesive, from washing powder to concrete. And there were other things too – barytes, zinc blende and calcite; and the unique ornamental fluorspar they called Blue John Stone. The supply of minerals beneath the Peak District seemed endless. But nobody wanted the lead any more.
‘They must have been retired a few years now.’
‘Oh yes. But it hasn’t stopped them spending all their time together. Sam Beeley’s wife only died a couple of years back, but Wilford Cutts now – his Doris has been gone a long time.’
‘Mrs Cutts is dead?’
‘Pneumonia it was, poor soul. Since Mrs Beeley died, they’ve been worse than ever, the three of them. Up at the smallholding all day, and in the Drover all night. It’s obvious that I don’t count at all.’
‘Men like a chance to be with other men, to talk about the things that don’t interest women much.’
Gwen looked sharply at him, and he felt as though she was seeing straight through him.
‘Oh? And do you do much of that yourself, then, lad?’
‘Er …’
She waved a hand, sparing him a reply. ‘Never mind. I can see what sort of lad you are.’
‘Mrs Dickinson, I do think your husband may know something he’s not telling us.’
Gwen laughed suddenly. Her hands danced on the front of her green cardigan, blue veins shimmying beneath the skin like worms exposed to the light.
‘If he didn’t, it’d be the first time in his life!’ she said. ‘I told you – he’s the closest old bugger you ever met. And nobody knows better than me.’
‘Has he really never confided in you, Mrs Dickinson?’
‘Dafthead. That’s what I’m telling you, isn’t it? If you want to know who he tells things to, try them other two. They’re the ones he spends all his time with. No use asking me what he knows, I’m the last one he’d tell.’
Cooper emptied his cup and dusted the crumbs off his fingers.
‘Thank you for the tea, Mrs Dickinson.’
‘You won’t mind the things I say, will you? I’m just a silly old woman sometimes.’
‘You’ve been very helpful.’
‘You’re a nice lad. Will you come back again tomorrow? Come a bit earlier, when Helen’s here. She’s been talking about you, you know.’
Cooper hesitated. The invitation was tempting. There was a part of him that felt there was a chance here to introduce something pleasant into his life for a change. And he knew that chances, if not taken, had a habit of never coming round again. Then he thought of all the responsibilities that weighed on him. He was in the middle of a murder enquiry, for heaven’s sake. Not to mention the crisis at home, and, above all, his mother in need of all the love and support he could give.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t promise that. There’s such a lot to do at the moment.’
‘I suppose so. But she’ll be sorry not to see you.’
‘You think I might find your husband at Thorpe Farm?’
‘Sure to. Him and Jess went out hours ago.’
‘I’ll pop up and see if I can find him, then. And don’t worry – it’s only routine.’
Gwen escorted him to the door of the cottage. Then she put her hand on his sleeve.
‘You can’t make me give evidence against him, can you?’ she asked.
‘Why would we want to do that, Mrs Dickinson?’
She shook her head wearily. ‘Oh, I know. It’s only routine. I know.’
And Ben Cooper didn’t know the answer to his question either.
The smell of the smoke was acrid and strong, like burning rubber. But it was nowhere near as strong as the other smell, which lay like an evil fog on the ramshackle buildings and overgrown paddocks of rough grass. It was the sweet, sickly stink of advanced decomposition, the odour of organic matter rotted to the point of putrefaction and the escape of fermenting gases.
Cooper had found the three old men by using his nose. They were building a vast compost heap, well out of sight of the track to the house at Thorpe Farm. From a seat on a bale of straw, Sam Beeley was supervising the operation, while Harry Dickinson and Wilford Cutts had their jackets off and their sleeves rolled up on their white arms as they wielded two forks. Two young men were mucking out a nearby breezeblock building, producing a constant trail of wheelbarrow loads of dark, wet, strawy manure. It arrived in the barrows steaming and black, like enormous Christmas puddings. A few yards away, a pile of dry bedding was smouldering viciously, creating a blanket of thick grey smoke that drifted away from the buildings and dispersed in the bracken on the hillside. Its smell couldn’t mask the stench of the fresh manure piling up in heaps on the ground. The smell was overpowering.
Wilford saw Cooper approaching and pointed at him with his fork, stabbing the air.
‘Look what’s coming! Here’s trouble, you lot.’
‘Nay, he’s a hero, that lad,’ said Sam. ‘He’s just come from arresting the number one suspect. Solved the case, he has.’
‘On his own?’
‘With one hand behind his back, probably.’
‘Happen he’s come to volunteer,’ said Harry, leaning on his fork. His shirt was open at the collar, and there was a distinct line where the tan of his neck met the bleached white skin of a throat and chest that hadn’t seen the sun for years. He looked like parts of two totally different men stuck together. Cooper thought stupidly of Frankenstein’s monster, the creature with a head sewn crudely on to someone else’s body.
‘Ah, grab a spare wheelbarrow then,’ said Sam. ‘Unless you know anything about making compost.’
‘All you do is pile it up and it rots down again,’ said Cooper, determined to stay on friendly terms. ‘Is that right?’
‘Oh no, not at all.’
‘Not at all,’ echoed Wilford. ‘There’s an art to compost. It needs nurturing, like a child.’
One of the young men came past with another load of manure. Cooper stepped back as a lump of evil-smelling muck slipped off the barrow. He could see it consisted of wet, soiled straw and partly decomposed animal droppings in indistinguishable clumps. As soon as the manure had landed, small brown flies appeared from nowhere and settled on it, probing into the mess with their noses.
‘This is good stuff,’ said Wilford. ‘Take a whiff of that lot.’
‘You use it on your vegetable patch, I suppose.’