The Dead Place

But who was she kidding? Whatever colour she chose wouldn’t make a bit of difference to the sly, evil look of the words themselves.

I can smell it right now, can’t you? It’s so powerful, so sweet. So irresistible.

She left the DI’s office and walked slowly back to the CID room. Ben Cooper wasn’t at his desk, but Gavin Murfin and a couple of other DCs were in, and they looked up as she entered.

As usual, there was a whiff of pastry from Murfin’s direction. Steak pie or Cornish pasty, she wasn’t sure. Right now, she wouldn’t have been able to identify it. Another, more elusive smell was in her nostrils, something rancid, unhealthy, yellow and evil. It was a smell she knew would only get closer and couldn’t be dispersed by the ventilation system.

I can smell it right now, can’t you? … It’s the scentof death.

‘Let’s get the map out,’ said Hitchens, almost before he could get back into the CID room. ‘We need the Ordnance Survey map, Diane – White Peak.’

‘We could use the mapping system on the computer,’ said Fry.

‘That’s no good for a six-mile radius. We won’t be able to see enough detail at that scale.’

He cleared a table while Fry found a copy of the right map and they spread it out.

‘Wardlow is here,’ said Hitchens. ‘Now we need a ruler to measure three miles in each direction. Damn it, the village is too close to the edge of the map – we’ll have to turn over to the other side. Why is everything you want to look at on an OS map always too close to the edge?’

Cooper came in as they were finding a ruler, and Hitchens called him. ‘Ben, just the lad we need. You know this area, I’m sure.’

‘Yes, sir. What is it you’re looking for?’

The DI explained, while Fry checked the scale of the map and used the ruler and a pen to draw a rough circle around the location of the public phone box in Wardlow, helpfully marked by the OS with a capital ‘T’ and a little blue handset.

‘Why the six-mile radius?’ asked Cooper.

‘We’ve got some clues from the tape. Or we think they’re meant as clues.’

Continuing the westward arc of her three-mile circle on to the other side of the map was tricky, but finally Fry managed it.

‘We’ll get somebody to do a proper job of it, but this will do for now,’ said Hitchens, oblivious to the exasperated look that Fry gave him. ‘What do you make of it?’

Cooper bent over the map. ‘Well, you’ve got an area that includes a dozen villages and one small town. Several dales on the western side, including part of the Wye Valley. The main A6 between Bakewell and Buxton is down here, and near the top there’s a smaller trunk road that cuts right across the A623.’

‘A busy area, would you say?’

‘Only parts of it, sir. The two main roads carry a lot of traffic. And there are some popular tourist spots, such as Tideswell and Monsal Head. And Eyam of course, on the eastern side.’

‘That’s the plague village, isn’t it?’

‘Plague?’ asked Fry.

‘Oh – Ben will tell you the story some time.’

‘I’ll look forward to it.’

Cooper moved a hand across the map, spanning his fingers over tight clusters of contour lines and long bands of green woodland. ‘But there are much quieter corners here, too. This is part of the Derbyshire Dales Nature Reserve. Only walkers can get into some of these smaller dales, and the woods on the valley sides are quite dense. What roads there are tend to be single track and too narrow to take a vehicle of any size. On the other hand, the eastern and northern parts are limestone plateau. That’s farming country, with a few small villages and the odd abandoned quarry thrown in.’

Fry watched Cooper and Hitchens poring over the map. They looked like two schoolboys marshalling their armies of toy soldiers to act out a desktop battle.

‘We’re looking for somewhere within this area that might be referred to as “the dead place”,’ she reminded them.

Cooper stood up and drew a hand across his forehead. ‘The possibilities are endless.’

Fry sighed. ‘Ben, that isn’t what we wanted to hear.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ said Hitchens. ‘Let’s think about this logically. What are the possibilities.’

‘“The dead place” …’ said Fry. ‘Well, does he mean the place itself is dead, or is he referring to a place for the dead.’

‘As in a cemetery?’ said Cooper.

‘Hold on, let’s take the first option,’ said Hitchens. ‘What did you say – where the place itself is dead?’

‘Yes. It depends what sort of bee he has in his bonnet.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, it could be some kind of anti-quarry protest, or some farmer driven to the end of his tether by Foot and Mouth Disease. Are there any disposal pits for incinerated cattle around here?’

‘Not that I know of. Foot and Mouth never reached these parts, but there were some farms affected down on the Staffordshire border.’

‘Factory closures, then. Any major employers gone under?’

‘Not since the pits closed in the east of the county. Lots of communities almost died out there. But not here.’

‘Toxic waste dumps?’

‘OK, wait … yes, there’s one near Matlock.’

Hitchens shook his head. ‘Too far. It’s way outside of the six-mile zone.’

‘What about a place for the dead, then?’ said Fry. ‘A cemetery. What better place to hide a dead body than among hundreds of others?’

‘He’d still have to bury it, or conceal it in some way,’ said Cooper. ‘People visit cemeteries all the time. I’m sure they wouldn’t be used to seeing a fresh body left lying around.’

‘There must be some abandoned cemeteries,’ said Fry.

‘Well, plenty of closed churchyards. Most of the older ones are full now and don’t have room to expand. In a lot of villages they have to send you to the municipal cemetery, or to the crematorium.’

‘Mostly the crem these days, isn’t it? I don’t think I’ve ever been to a burial in my life. Everyone I’ve known who died has been cremated.’

‘But the churchyards are still there.’

‘OK. Anywhere else you can think of, Ben?’