Part 31 (1/2)

Murfin himself looked surprisingly chipper this morning. His desk in the CID room was cleared of forms and was now uncharacteristically tidy.

'Diane Fry won't be here much longer, I suppose,' he said. 'She'll have her inquiry tied up in no time, and she'll be off back to EMSOU a MC.'

'Yes, I wouldn't be surprised,' said Cooper. 'Why, were you thinking of inviting her to your retirement party?'

'Maybe. It's been interesting.'

'Interesting? In the Chinese sense?'

Murfin gazed out of the window with a smile. 'Well, we might all have learned something from the visit,' he said.

Cooper followed his gaze. He could see Diane Fry's black Audi in the car park at the back of the building. She'd reversed it into a spot near the extension where the scenes-of-crime department was now located.

'What's that on her rear b.u.mper?' said Cooper, his face crumpling into a puzzled frown.

'I can't imagine,' said Murfin.

'But it looks like ...'

'Oh,' said Murfin overtheatrically. 'So it does.'

'Gavin?'

'Yes, Ben?'

'I suppose I shouldn't ask.'

'No, that's probably for the best.'

'It's going to be another mystery, then,' said Cooper.

'You mean, how ...?'

'Yes. How Detective Sergeant Diane Fry, of the East Midlands Special Operations Unit a Major Crime, came to have an inflatable sheep tied to her rear b.u.mper when she left West Street. And it seems to be wearing lipstick and eye make-up, too.'

'I suppose it's just a memento,' said Murfin. 'One last sheep to remember us by.'

Early that morning, a retired firefighter from Glossop called Roger Kitson arrived at Brecks Farm, near Peak Forest, along with hundreds of other people. He followed the directions of a steward as he drove his car through a gateway and into a field where vehicles were already lined up, many of them muddy Land Rovers and other four-wheel drives.

Roger was there for one of the biggest events of the year in the stretch of country around Oxlow Moor a the annual sheepdog trials. Every year, the trials were held in fields behind Brecks Farm, going on all day from seven thirty in the morning to around six in the evening. As well as the feats of the sheepdogs themselves, there was a children's play area, side stalls, and plenty of food and drink to make the day.

But one of the real highlights of the event was a four-and-a-half-mile fell race, and that was why Roger Kitson was at Brecks Farm.

Roger was sixty-two years old, but he was a runner a a member of a club based near Stockport. Fell running was a gruelling sport, but it was more about stamina than strength. Last year, a couple of members from Dark Peak Fell Runners had finished the Oxlow Moor course in less than thirty minutes, with the advantage of good conditions. They would face compet.i.tion this year, though, as Roger saw there were teams entered from the Goyt Valley Striders, the Hallams.h.i.+re Harriers and even the Hathersage Fat Boys.

Before the start of the race, he strolled round the field to see what was going on. He could tell that the trials had already begun, from the distinctive whistles and shouts of the shepherd piercing the morning air. A collie would be hard at work already, chivvying a reluctant bunch of sheep into a pen.

On a table near the secretary's tent stood the gleaming NatWest Trophy, ready to be presented to the owner of the winning sheepdog, along with smaller trophies for Best Driving Dog and Best Young Handler. One local farmer was raising money for the Border Collie Trust by growing half a beard, and he was attracting a lot of interest from photographers.

Roger joined a ma.s.s of runners in shorts and colourful vests waiting to set off on the opening climb, all with their identifying bib numbers tied to their singlets. He recognised the DPFR in their brown vests with yellow and purple hoops, and knew he would probably be a long way behind them. As a spectator, he'd seen the leading runners coming in one by one, each checking a watch as they approached the finis.h.i.+ng line. He didn't mind what time he clocked up, as long as he completed the course. There was a trophy for the first veteran to finish, but he didn't expect to come close to that.

Today, the runners seemed to be all ages, shapes and sizes, but Roger kept reminding himself that stamina was the key to fell running. He overheard runners discussing the relative merits of their Walshes, the performance of a pair of Racers against Elite Extremes. He was wearing Walsh running shoes himself a they were hard-wearing enough to cope with both rocks and the wet peat they would be running over when they were up on the moor.

And then the race got under way. Within minutes of the start, the back markers were already struggling on the steep, rocky ascent, and Roger was among them. He made slow progress in the first few hundred yards, manoeuvring for the best route over the uneven rocky ground, sometimes being obliged to use his hands to keep his balance.

Slowly he approached the top of the ascent. Up ahead, something seemed to be happening. The leading runners were on the moor and pounding over the heather. But just before the first descent, there was chaos, with runners milling around aimlessly as if they'd lost sight of the route.

'What's going on?' Roger asked the runner in front of him.

'I don't know,' he gasped.

They kept going, losing sight of the lead runners. As they crested the hill, Roger could see smoke in the distance, drifting towards the runners, a clump of dry heather bursting into flame.

'Oh G.o.d. It's another fire,' he said.

'No, they've found something.'

He heard exclamations, someone calling for a phone, another voice insisting they should call the emergency services.

'Is somebody hurt?' he said.

As a firefighter, Roger had first-aid training. He pushed his way through the cl.u.s.ter of runners to see what the problem was. When he got near, people automatically stood back to let him through, as if happy to let someone else take over.

Roger found himself teetering on the edge of a hole exposed in the earth. Breathing hard, he looked down, expecting to see someone lying injured. But at first he couldn't figure out what he was looking at. He wiped the sweat from his forehead as his eyes started to adjust to the darkness in the hole.

'Oh, s.h.i.+t.'

He took a step backwards and b.u.mped into the runners crowding behind him. He panicked, terrified of losing his footing and stumbling into the hole to join whatever lay down there.

Because Roger had just seen ... but what exactly had he seen?

Gingerly, he crouched and took a closer look. Yes, he'd been right the first time. It was a decomposed human hand, yellow and shrivelled, protruding from a bundle of black plastic, like a pale ghost rising out of Oxlow Moor.

25.

Diane Fry knew that Henry Pearson was staying at a hotel in Edendale. Even if he hadn't left his contact details, she had seen him on the TV news a a shot of him getting into his BMW with an armful of files, looking serious and dignified, like a lawyer going into court to fight an important case.

Pearson had also done a few sound bites directly to camera, speaking about how determined he was to discover what had happened to his son and daughter-in-law. That clip would be used over and over in the news bulletins.

Fry could see clearly that the sequence had been filmed in the car park of the Holiday Inn on Meadow Road, with the spire of All Saints Church visible in the background at the bottom of Clappergate.

When she rang the hotel that morning, she was put straight through to Mr Pearson's room.

'Yes?' he said eagerly, when Fry announced who she was. 'Is there any news?'

'Not at the moment. But we'd like you to come into the station for a chat. If you could, sir.'