The Dead Place

‘It depends what you mean by a cemetery. There are plenty of burial places, some of them thousands of years old – Neolithic sites, remains of chambered cairns. A lot of them are in fairly remote locations, but hikers like to visit the more historic sites. You couldn’t leave a body in full view for long without it being discovered.’

‘Like the Nine Virgins,’ said Fry.

‘Exactly.’

Cooper remembered the Nine Virgins well. The body of a murdered mountain biker left inside the stone circle had been found within minutes of her death. No such luck in this case, though.

‘Some sites aren’t so well known, of course,’ he said. ‘There’s the Infidels’ Cemetery, for example.’

‘The what?’

‘The Infidels’ Cemetery. Oh, it’s really a tiny, neglected nineteenth-century graveyard on the road between Ashford in the Water and Monsal Head. Last time I saw the place, it was waist high with nettles and weeds. And it’s in the middle of nowhere – you’d drive right by without knowing it was there.’

‘And why is it there?’

‘I think it was actually the graveyard for a community of Baptists. They weren’t regarded very highly by their neighbours, I suppose.’

‘Why “infidels”?’

‘Well, the story is that the inscriptions were recorded by a local historian, who noticed that none of the epitaphs contained references to the Bible, God or Jesus. That was so unusual at the time that it was considered very suspicious.’

‘Between Ashford in the Water and Monsal Head?’ Fry remembered the DI mentioning Monsal Head. ‘It’s not far from Wardlow, then.’

‘Very close.’

‘Let’s go take a look. I’d like to get the lie of the land around Wardlow anyway.’

She looked at Hitchens, who nodded. ‘I can handle everything here. It’s going to be a question of waiting at the moment.’

‘Do you have time, Ben?’ asked Fry. ‘You’re the obvious candidate for a guide.’

‘I’ll get my coat.’

In the CID room, Gavin Murfin had seen Dr Kane leave after the meeting.

‘You know, I didn’t realize they made profilers so young,’ he said.

‘Actually, she doesn’t call herself a profiler,’ said Fry.

‘Oh no, of course not. Not since the Washington Snipers, and the Rachel Nickell case. Not to mention Soham, when the SIO took the wrong advice. Even profilers start to get themselves a bad name after too many disasters. So obviously they have to change their name to something else.’

For once, Fry didn’t try to shut him up. It was DI Hitchens who started to look annoyed. ‘As a matter of fact, DC Murfin, the real professionals have always tried to play down the hype that the press generate around psychological profiling. Dr Kane has asked us to refer to her simply as a specialist advisor because she wants to avoid publicity.’

‘To keep a low profile, in fact,’ said Murfin, and laughed.

Hitchens went a bit red around the ears. It was interesting to watch, because the DI was known as a man who found amusement in winding up his own senior officers. Some people said it was why he hadn’t made chief inspector by now.

‘Dr Kane is an investigative psychologist,’ he said. ‘She’s trained in behavioural science and criminology, so she can provide a useful insight into the investigative process. She’s been an advisor on a number of cases for other forces.’

Fry gave Murfin a warning glance, and he tried hard to look chastened. ‘No offender profile then, sir?’

Hitchens shook his head, still edgy. ‘We don’t have enough information at this stage. We don’t even know what sort of offence we’re looking at, if any.’

Murfin seemed to think about what else to say, then changed his mind and kept quiet. Hitchens waited for more comments, fidgeting a little, before turning to go back to his office.

‘Besides,’ he said, ‘she isn’t all that young. Thirty-three.’

7 (#uce2fb08c-cad3-5e36-9d8f-5a4ca0280486)

Twenty minutes later, Cooper’s car was climbing out of Ashford in the Water. The River Wye took a sharp turn here as it came down from the north, so an observer standing at Monsal Head seemed to be looking up two separate valleys. A small road dropped down from a Bavarian-style hotel and an adjoining café before running north into the woods of Upperdale and Cressbrook Dale. To the south there was no road, only a footpath that clung to the slope for a while before slithering down to the river and crossing a bridge to the opposite bank.

A few walkers were on the five-arched viaduct that spanned the valley. The Wye narrowed as it ran underneath, and less adventurous visitors could be seen sitting on the banks of smooth grass enjoying an hour of September sunshine. But the walk down to the river was steep, and many people stayed to have lunch at the café or eat an ice cream while they enjoyed the view.

Fry shaded her eyes against the sun in the south-west. ‘What’s that place on the side of the hill up there? It looks like the ruins of a house.’

‘Hob Hurst’s House,’ said Cooper. ‘It isn’t really a house.’

‘And I suppose there was never really anyone called Hob Hurst?’

‘Well, no.’

‘How did I guess?’

‘It’s the name of a character in local folk stories. A goblin or a giant, I’m not sure which. What you can see there is actually the result of a landslip, but it does look like a ruined house from a distance, if you have a bit of imagination.’

‘Whoever built that hotel certainly had a bit of imagination,’ said Fry. ‘Some romantic Victorian, I suppose, fresh from a trip to the Alps.’

‘Probably. You know, when this viaduct was built for the railway line, there was a campaign against it. Everyone said it would ruin the view, just for the sake of getting from Bakewell to Buxton more quickly. Now it’s one of the most popular sights in the area.’

They almost passed the Infidels’ Cemetery without seeing it, although it was right by the roadside. Cooper had driven a few yards beyond it before he braked suddenly and reversed. Part of the wall that had once protected the graveyard had been knocked down. A wire fence was all that barred the gap, though the deep beds of stinging nettles behind it looked pretty hostile.

It was much quieter here than at Monsal Head. Across the valley they heard a shepherd calling to his dog, his voice a high, harsh cry like a moorland bird. Somebody was shooting on the opposite hill. As always in the countryside, the sound of gunfire didn’t seem out of place, let alone worth commenting on.

‘Well, nobody has been in this cemetery for months,’ said Fry. ‘Even I can tell that.’

‘They didn’t venture beyond the first couple of yards, anyway.’

Most of the ancient gravestones had fallen flat and were smothered with tangled goose grass and brambles. The stones that had stayed upright were coated in yellow lichen and shrouded in ivy that masked their familiar graveyard shapes. The only exceptions were the two stones nearest the road. Someone had cleared the ivy from them, revealing their inscriptions.

With difficulty, Cooper read the name and dates on one of the stones.

‘I don’t think this person was much appreciated in his day,’ he said. ‘“Though man’s envy may thy worth disdain, Still conscious uprightness shall fill thy breast.” I might suggest that one to Gavin for his epitaph.’

‘Why? Is he feeling under-appreciated?’

‘I think so.’ Cooper moved a few yards to the side. ‘Diane, look at this one.’

Only a small patch had been cleared in the ivy covering the second stone. It had been done quite recently, too. The broken stems were still shredded and oozing a little sap when Cooper touched them.