Blind to the Bones

23

Wednesday

Randy had spilled soil out of a plant pot in the conservatory. Ben Cooper brushed it up, rearranged the pots more neatly on their shelves, pushed the cat’s basket back into its corner and straightened the plaid blanket it was using as a bed.

He looked for other things to tidy, decided that the back door needed painting some time soon, brushed some cobwebs off a pane of glass. He stared through the glass, where he could make out the shapes of the trees against the lights of the houses in Meadow Road. The branches were just starting to come into leaf, and their outlines against the light were fuzzier and less stark than they had been all winter. Growth was progressing here, too.

He went back into the kitchen and shut out the sight of the garden. In the porch, there were some letters behind the front door. One advantage of living in town was that his mail came early in the morning, before he left for work if he was on a day shift. At Bridge End Farm, out there beyond even the smell of the town, the mail was delivered about lunchtime.

‘What have we got today then, Randy? Would you like a new credit card? A loan to help you pay for a foreign holiday, perhaps? Want to join a book club?’

Randy looked at him contemptuously and licked his lips.

‘Yes, I know what you want. I was only kidding. Hello, what’s this? A postcard.’

The postcard had a picture of Chatsworth House on it. He always liked to try to figure out who a postcard was from before he turned it over to look at the message, but he couldn’t think who would bother to send him a card from Chatsworth, when it was only a few miles away.

When he finally looked and saw who the card was from, his first uncharitable thought was that she must have stolen it from the souvenir shop. But that didn’t make sense, really. She would have had to pay to get into Chatsworth House in the first place.

The message said: ‘Sorry about the other day. You were great, so thanks. I know you’ll make the right decision.’ It was signed: ‘Love, A’.

‘It’s from Angie,’ said Cooper.

Randy made a noise like a bird chirruping, then began to cough, as though trying to clear a hair ball from his throat.

‘Give over,’ said Cooper. ‘You’re not dying of starvation just yet.’

The cat got up and stalked off towards the kitchen with its tail twitching.

‘Angie,’ said Cooper, reading the postcard again. ‘What does she mean by “I know you’ll make the right decision?” What right decision?’

This time, the cat didn’t answer. It was in the kitchen and pretending it couldn’t hear him. Cooper turned the postcard back over and frowned at the picture of Chatsworth House, as if it could have some hidden significance he was supposed to figure out. Chatsworth? Was there a connection? Was she trying to tell him something?

‘It’s too subtle for me,’ he said.

He dropped the mail on the table and headed towards the kitchen. ‘Randy,’ he said, ‘why the hell have I started talking to myself?’

Copies of the Social Services report on the Oxleys had arrived on Cooper’s desk at West Street. The visits to Waterloo Terrace were summarized, along with meetings at the Social Services offices. It took several sheets. Cooper knew he was unlikely to have time to read the older stuff. The visits had started in 1986, and the most recent was four weeks ago, at the beginning of April.

Taken together with visits by their landlords, Peak Water, by officials from other council departments such as environmental health and education, and from the police, it would make a pretty intimidating list. No wonder his own appearances day after day had failed to impress the Oxleys. He must have seemed the latest of a long line of official busybodies, anxious to interfere in their lives, poking their noses in, demanding information about their private affairs. And all, obviously, with the purpose of finding an excuse to get them out of their homes. The fact that any of the Oxleys had spoken to him at all ought to be taken as a compliment. Even ‘bugger off’ was more than some of the council representatives had achieved.

Cooper took a call while he was reading the reports on the Oxleys boys again. It was Fran Oxley.

‘Do you still want to talk?’ she said.

‘Of course.’

‘I thought you might have given up by now.’

‘I won’t be giving up.’

‘Can you come to see me tonight? It’ll have to be latish, about nine? I’ll be home from work then.’

‘Yes, I’ll be there. What do you want to talk about?’

Fran hesitated a moment, but seemed to make up her mind. ‘If you come tonight,’ she said, ‘I’ll tell you about Neil.’

Cooper was smiling when he put the phone down. The fact of somebody actually speaking to him gave him a surge of satisfaction. For a moment, it crossed his mind that it might be a con, a practical joke by the Oxleys. But Fran had sounded sincere, if a little hesitant.

Humming quietly to himself, he went back to the reports. It was then that he noticed the Oxleys had an Anti-Social Behaviour Order in force against them.

‘For goodness’ sake. No wonder Lucas Oxley made such a point of saying he wouldn’t tolerate his lads getting in trouble.’

Cooper looked up guiltily, hoping no one in the office had heard him. He didn’t even have the cat for an excuse.

An ASBO made a difference. Persistent juvenile offenders were a thorny problem for the police. Experienced defendants knew to plead ‘not guilty’ to charges every single time. They had learned that it meant their case would have to go to a crown court trial and a jury verdict. Well, you have to try your luck, they would say. Then they would make up a story to explain their actions — any story at all, it didn’t really matter. Often, they put up no defence at all, but left it to their defence lawyer to pick holes in the prosecution case and expose any procedural flaws that could be found.

Some defenders had become expert at getting an acquittal on a technicality, picking at the threads of the procedural detail, so that even the most damning evidence of guilt might never be considered by the court. Police officers had learned that the most important thing in their lives was to follow correct procedure, if they were ever going to get a conviction. The fully documented chain of evidence, the properly executed search warrant, the interview conducted to the letter of the rule book — those were the only real strengths they could call on, under the scrutiny of a court. Justice, truth, and the suffering of victims were insignificant side issues.

And even time could be against them. The defence might find ways of delaying a case so long that witnesses forgot what they had seen, or changed their minds, or decided it might be more sensible, after all, not to appear in court.

But an Anti-Social Behaviour Order could be taken out in civil proceedings, which meant the same burden of proof wasn’t needed. Just the number of complaints from neighbours could be enough for the council to obtain an ASBO, which obliged the family involved to refrain from anti-social behaviour for a specific period — in this case, five years. But the sting in the tail was that, although an ASBO was a civil action, breaking one was a criminal offence and could mean a jail sentence.

Of course, the threat posed by an ASBO might also mean that people would go to greater lengths to conceal offences.

Cooper thought about Lucas Oxley. He seemed like a man genuinely passionate about keeping his family in line, but also obsessive about preserving their privacy. What lengths would Lucas go to if he thought one of his family had stepped over that line?

Also in the heap of paper on his desk, Cooper found copies of the conviction records for the Oxleys and began to thumb through them. He saw that three years previously, Scott Oxley had been convicted of criminal damage, and given probation. No surprise there. But he had been charged jointly with Craig Alan Oxley, aged sixteen.

‘Who’s Craig?’ said Cooper.

Then there was another conviction. Two years ago, for taking a vehicle without the owner’s consent, Scott had been sentenced to fifty hours community service. He was charged jointly with Craig Alan Oxley, aged seventeen.

‘Craig? There isn’t a Craig.’

Cooper scanned the rest of the records. He wondered if that was how most of the Oxleys spent their time — doing community service instead of working for a living.

‘But the point is, who’s Craig?’

Was he a middle brother? A cousin? Cooper searched for a separate record for Craig Alan Oxley. His address was given as 5 Waterloo Terrace, Withens. That was Fran Oxley’s house.

If only the Oxleys were on the electoral roll, it would help a lot. But the Oxleys probably believed that if they were on the electoral roll, all sorts of people would come looking for them, to make them pay Council Tax and income tax.

And Fran’s husband — what was his name? Barry Cully, that was it. But he wasn’t her husband. Fran had told him that Barry was an electrician and was away working in Saudi Arabia at the moment. So Craig could be living at Fran’s house.

But then Cooper turned to the last page of Craig Oxley’s court records. No, he wasn’t living in Fran’s house. He was in Lancashire. For his last offence he had been sent to the Young Offenders’ Institution at Hindley.

Cooper thought about trying to obtain school records for the Oxleys. Of course, he wasn’t even certain that they were all Lucas’s children. But one thing he felt sure of — for the Oxley boys, school would mean social isolation. Only at home in Withens were they among their own kind.

DI Hitchens put his head round the door of the CID room and called Cooper away from his reports. Cooper had already stopped humming after reading about the ASBO and Craig Oxley. But this wasn’t a good sign, either.

‘We’ve pulled in one of Neil Granger’s associates, by the name of David Senior,’ said Hitchens. ‘He seems to have the closest links to Granger, and he was actually seen near his house on Friday night, a few hours before Granger was killed.’

‘Are we interviewing him, sir?’

‘No, he’s stewing in his own juices at the moment, waiting for the duty solicitor. But interestingly, we had a call from Granger’s brother, who wants to talk to us.’

‘You think he has some information on this Senior?’

‘It seems likely. I’m scenting a breakthrough. You met Philip Granger, didn’t you, Ben?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Let’s go and see what he has to say, then.’

Philip Granger was looking a bit better than last time Cooper saw him. The initial shock had perhaps worn off now, and some more useful information might well be coming back to him. This was a strange time for relatives, following a suspicious death. Until someone was charged with murder, or twenty-eight days had passed, Neil Granger’s body wouldn’t be released for a funeral, so his brother might have to wait a month or so yet before he could start to put the whole business behind him.

‘I heard that you’ve arrested David Senior,’ he said.

‘No. At the moment, he’s helping us voluntarily,’ said Hitchens.

Granger nodded. ‘Right. But I think there might be something you haven’t realized.’

‘What’s that, sir?’

‘Neil was gay.’

Hitchens shrugged. ‘So?’

Granger looked surprised at the DI’s reaction and didn’t seem to know what else to say for a moment. Cooper felt surprised, too, but concentrated on not giving it away in his expression.

‘Neil didn’t make any big deal of it,’ said Granger. ‘But he did get the piss taken out of him by some of our cousins. That’s one reason he was keen to move out of Withens, you see. I thought it might make a difference — Neil being gay, I mean.’

‘It doesn’t make any difference to us, sir,’ said Hitchens. ‘These days we aim to treat everyone fairly, regardless of ethnic origin, religious belief, gender or sexual orientation.’

‘Oh.’

It might have been the first time that Philip Granger had heard the words, but they were familiar to Cooper. In fact, he was fairly sure they were on a noticeboard somewhere in the station under the heading ‘Statement of Purpose’.

‘I mean, the time has long since passed when the fact that your brother was gay would lead to us making any assumptions about his lifestyle or his associates,’ said Hitchens.

‘I see.’ Granger looked almost disappointed. ‘I thought I was helping.’

‘Unless you’re suggesting this has some direct relevance to the enquiry into your brother’s death?’

‘Well, I’m not sure,’ said Granger. ‘It’s just that David Senior... well, I don’t know what connection you think he has to Neil. But they were... they had a relationship.’

‘Do you know anything else about David Senior?’

‘He used to work at the chemicals factory with Neil. That’s where they met, but that’s all I know about him.’

‘Does he ride a motorbike?’

Granger frowned. ‘Not as far as I know. Why?’

‘We were told that some of your brother’s friends were bikers.’

‘If it was Neil’s neighbours who told you that, they probably meant me. I ride a motorbike.’

‘Probably,’ said Hitchens, as if that had confirmed what he suspected.

Now Granger looked a bit uncomfortable, perhaps feeling that he hadn’t helped as much as he hoped he would.

‘There was something else.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘You were asking me about antiques and things...’

‘Have you remembered something?’

‘I’m not sure. But there was a small box on the mantelpiece in Neil’s house when I went there on Saturday. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but I don’t remember ever seeing it there before.’

Cooper searched his memory. He thought he had done pretty well checking the CD player, but he had never noticed the box.

‘What was it made of?’ he said.

‘It was metal. Bronze or brass, I couldn’t tell. About this big—’ Granger held his hands a few inches apart.

Hitchens looked at Cooper, who shook his head. ‘Well, well,’ said Hitchens. ‘Let’s see if anyone else has noticed it.’

As soon as Philip Granger had left, DI Hitchens’ manner changed. Cooper had to lengthen his stride to follow the DI back to his office.

‘Is there a rush, sir?’ he said.

‘We have to get on to it straight away,’ said Hitchens.

‘This bronze or brass box, you mean?’

‘Well, there’s that as well.’

‘And...?’

‘I need to get somebody to work turning over the local arse bandits. They’ll be shitting themselves knowing one of their bum chums has got himself done in.’

‘But, sir, didn’t you just say...?’

‘Of course I did.’ Hitchens stopped suddenly. ‘You’ve got to be sensitive with bereaved relatives, you know, Cooper. Didn’t they tell you that in training?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, then. Do you want to do bandits or box?’

‘Box,’ said Cooper.

Diane Fry and Gavin Murfin were on the M6 motorway, approaching the junction with the M5 north of Birmingham. They were already well inside the vast urban sprawl at the heart of the Black Country. It couldn’t have looked more different from the empty wastes of peat moor around Withens.

‘Is the Black Country the place where black pudding comes from?’ said Murfin.

‘Of course it isn’t.’

‘Well, I just wondered, like. I know Bakewell pudding comes from Bakewell, so I thought—’

‘No, Gavin, it doesn’t.’

‘OK.’

They were passing through the western edge of Smethwick, having taken the wrong exit from the M5 when Murfin got excited about seeing the West Bromwich Albion football ground. Fry was starting to feel edgy as they came closer to her old stamping grounds. The feeling of tension was like steel springs trying to pull her into the air, so that she hardly seemed to be touching her car seat. But she knew she mustn’t take out her own edginess on Gavin Murfin.

‘What about blackberry crumble, then?’ said Murfin.

‘No, Gavin! Now, will you shut up about it?’

‘All right.’

Fry remembered all too clearly shopping with her friends in Birmingham or at the Merry Hill shopping centre, touring the Birmingham clubs, drinking lager while she listened to the boys talking about West Brom.

They drove through Langley and hit traffic at the junction with the A4123 Wolverhampton Road, where the signs all seemed to point to the Merry Hill shopping centre. It had been Fry’s shopping mecca as a teenager, the place where all her friends had gone to meet on a Saturday — not to spend money, because they didn’t have any. Well, not unless somebody had nicked a few quid from their mum. They went just to walk around, to be there and be seen there. It made you part of the crowd, part of the Merry Hill lot.

With her friends, she had come to know the place so well that it was like a second home. They had learned all the ways of avoiding the security guards and the CCTV cameras. But there had been others attracted to Merry Hill shopping centre, too — men who had money, and had seemed attractive. And perhaps a little dangerous, too.

‘Black Forest gateau?’ said Murfin.

They turned south on Wolverhampton Road and headed towards Warley and Bearwood. And as soon as she saw the big white cross picked out in brickwork on the tower of Warley Baptist Church, she knew she was back home.

There were starlings roosting on the high ledges, their white droppings streaking brickwork that had always seemed a little ornate for a Baptist church. They stopped to fill up with petrol. On the forecourt of the petrol station, Fry saw the familiar blue-and-cream buses passing, and heard the sound of a genuine West Indian accent.

Murfin was intrigued by the Caribbean restaurants and Punjabi food stores they passed along the road.

‘A Somali takeaway!’ he said. ‘We don’t get those in Edendale.’

‘You’re not getting one here, either,’ said Fry. ‘Turn left up ahead.’

They turned into a housing estate and drove through the streets to Hilltop. Murfin didn’t question her directions, knowing that she was familiar with the area. They passed Warley High School on Pound Road. It was the middle of the morning, lesson time, so there were no kids hanging around outside. Fry heard a bell ring somewhere and was glad they were already past. She didn’t want to be in sight of the school when the kids appeared.

Warley Baths were now called a swimming centre. Further up Thimblemill Road was the library, where Fry had spent even more time, sitting among the books, looking for something she could relate to, something that told a story similar to her own. She had never found anything.

At the infant school someone had planted a yucca in a concrete flower bed, and there were security shutters over some of the windows. But it still looked much the same. Next door was the King’s Community Church. Had it been called that back in the 1980s? She had a feeling that ‘community’ had been an invention of the eighties. Before that, people hadn’t felt the need to use the name. A community was something you just were.

They negotiated their way through a series of little roundabouts, each with its cluster of shops and a pub. And on George Road she found the Plough still there at one end of the road, with the George Hotel at the other, near the infant school. Familiar places, all of them. Yet alien now, too, like backdrops for a recurrent bad dream.

From the roundabout near the Hilltop shops, she could see the view across the valley to more houses. There were some masts on the horizon, but she couldn’t remember what they were for.

‘Do you want to stop, Gavin?’ she said. ‘You can get a pie in the shop over there.’

‘Why, sure,’ said Murfin, surprised.

While he went into the shop, she walked a few yards back to the roundabout. Yes, the little brick semi was still there, too. It wasn’t a council house any more, by the look of it, but had probably been bought from the council by its occupants. The new owners had put in a Georgian-style front door and leaded windows, removed the crumbling rendering from the walls and covered them with artificial stone. They had painted all the woodwork white, and they had even erected a little wooden fence, which symbolically separated the house from the pavement.

For many years, Fry hadn’t been able to hear certain songs cropping up on the radio without being transported back to Warley. Anything by Right Said Fred or Salt ’n’ Pepa turned some kind of switch in her mind, and she instantly found herself again in that crumbling council house on the Hilltop estate. She would be lying on her bed in her own room, listening to a cheap stereo and holding the diary she had hidden under her spare sweaters in a bottom drawer, just as Emma Renshaw had done.

In those days, there had been particular pieces of music that she had used to try to lift her mood, and others she had chosen because they matched her depression, or because their words allowed her to wallow in tearful self-pity. Now, they all meant the same thing. They all recalled the bedroom and the diary, the painful recording of the details of her life, the failure of a miracle to happen.

Fry stood for few moments longer, looking at the window of the front bedroom. Then, beginning to get embarrassed, she turned away.

Murfin was waiting for her by the car, smiling contentedly. Food always made him happy. Fry could get envious of him, if she spent too much time in his company.

‘We can cut through this next street, Gavin,’ she said.

‘OK.’

They passed Warley Water Tower, so like a medieval fortress from a distance that it had fuelled her fantasies as a child. And beyond the golf club were Warley Woods. The woods seemed to mark the southern boundary of her territory, with Wolverhampton Road at the western edge, providing the escape route into town. The woods looked neater and more well trained now, less threatening in their orderliness, but also less like a place that might offer a refuge when you needed one.

In a short time, the place had changed a lot. Yet Fry knew she would have difficulty putting her finger on what exactly it was that had changed, what the subtle differences were that made this place so alien from the world she had known as a teenager.

She was glad she’d come, though. Warley was the physical link to her past, and seeing it had helped her to put it into perspective. Finding that the house on the Hilltop estate was nothing like it had been fifteen years ago gave her the power to sever the link in her memory. The bedroom and the diary couldn’t exist behind that stone cladding and the leaded windows. The music had faded with the sight of the little white fence.

And now, maybe, she could put the whole of her past to rest.

Murfin had stopped the car at a crossroads, where there were long rows of shops running to right and left.

‘This is Bearwood,’ said Fry. ‘Where Emma Renshaw went missing, too.’