Blind to the Bones. Stephen Booth

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      Then Cooper’s phone rang again.

      ‘What now?’

      He couldn’t let it ring for long this time. He saw that the number was one of the direct lines into E Division headquarters at West Street.

      ‘Ah, Cooper. I didn’t think you were going to answer.’

      ‘No, sir,’ said Cooper, recognizing DI Paul Hitchens’ voice immediately. ‘I mean, yes. I just had a bit of difficulty because my hands weren’t free.’

      ‘You’re not driving, are you?’

      ‘No, sir.’ Cooper tucked the phone between his shoulder and ear as he pushed his trolley past the apples and drew up to the dairy cabinets. He heard Hitchens take a breath.

      ‘Look, I’m sorry to bother you on your rest day, but something has come up, which you need to know about before you come on duty in the morning.’

      ‘A case, sir? Have we got an incident?’

      ‘Well, not exactly. We’re loaning you out again.’

      ‘Sorry?’

      ‘The Rural Crime Team were very pleased with you yesterday. They’ve asked if they can have you for a while longer. Apparently, they have some more enquiries coming to a conclusion.’

      ‘Oh, but sir –’

      ‘The RCT are flavour of the month at the moment, you know. Rural crime has a high profile, so it’s getting priority treatment at higher levels. You know what I mean.’

      ‘So you’re agreeing to an abstraction, sir?’

      ‘For a while, Cooper. We’ll see you back here before long, no doubt. You’ll have all this rural crime cleared up in no time. I’ve got every confidence in you.’

      Cooper picked up a milk carton and stared at it blankly. The confidence of your senior officers was good. But Hitchens sounded a little too confident for Cooper’s liking.

      ‘How long will it be for?’

      ‘Well … I don’t know exactly. Not at the moment. But we’ll see how it goes.’ He paused. ‘Nothing to worry about, Ben,’ he said. ‘DS Fry will be keeping in touch.’

      ‘Is everybody happy with this, sir?’

      ‘Yes, of course,’ said Hitchens. ‘Everybody’s happy.’

      Diane Fry sat stony-faced, trying not to show how the news was affecting her. Inside, she felt as though her heart had dropped suddenly into her stomach. For a moment, the clematis flickered into flames, and the cat turned yellow eyes towards her as a shadow fell across its window.

      ‘Well, it goes without saying that I’m not happy,’ she said.

      ‘We all have to bear the brunt of abstractions,’ said DI Hitchens. ‘We benefit from them too, when we need them. You have to look at it from a management point of view, Diane.’

      ‘I can’t see the sense of this one.’

      ‘The Rural Crime Team say they have some major ongoing enquiries that are coming to a head. They requested assistance, and they’ve got it. End of story.’

      ‘I’m not happy, sir. We’re already understaffed, as you know.’

      ‘Of course. But what’s new?’

      ‘And the abstraction is in effect from when?’

      ‘Yesterday.’

      ‘Damn.’

      For a while, Fry had wanted rid of Ben Cooper. She had even seen him as a threat. But that seemed a long time ago now. Instead, she was feeling aggrieved at the idea that she was going to lose him. Maybe more than aggrieved.

      ‘How were the Renshaws, by the way?’ said Hitchens.

      ‘Difficult. I don’t think they’re ever going to accept the possibility that their daughter is dead. They’re living in a fantasy world, in which they expect Emma to turn up home at any moment. That makes it very hard to talk to them.’

      ‘Mrs Renshaw has gone a bit nutty, I’m afraid. And she doesn’t realize it. We call it the Daft Old Biddy syndrome around here. DOBs, they are. Daft Old Biddies and Daft Old Blokes. We get plenty of them phoning the station. The control-room staff are like saints.’

      ‘I could use a few saints,’ said Fry. ‘All I have is Gavin Murfin.’

      The man with the walking stick recognized a sympathetic listener when he saw one. He had news of crimes to pass on to Ben Cooper every week, even though he could have no idea that Cooper was a police officer. Most of his stories were culled from the newspapers, and were therefore inaccurate. But, occasionally, he had one of his own from the Edendale neighbourhood of Southwoods, where he lived.

      ‘Do you know, some of the old girls up my way won’t open their doors to anybody now, except Meals on Wheels,’ he said as Cooper tried to squeeze past him by the dairy products. ‘They’re too frightened, see. They had another lot of those blokes round the other day, who pretend to want to check your gas supply for leaks. So some old dear lets them, because she’s worried about being gassed during the night, or her bungalow blowing up. Then one bloke keeps her talking, while the other goes through the house and pinches her purse and stuff.’

      ‘Distraction burglaries,’ said Cooper.

      ‘It’s disgusting. It’s always the old folk they go for, you know.’

      ‘Yes, I know.’

      ‘It’s because they think we’re all stupid. Mind you, some of those old dears are stupid.’

      ‘They target anybody who’s vulnerable,’ said Cooper.

      ‘I’m not vulnerable. They have to show me identification if they want to get in my house. And I phone the council or whatever to check they’re who they say they are. They don’t like it, some of them, but I make them wait.’

      ‘That’s very sensible.’

      ‘And if I ever see one of them make a wrong move, I’ll clobber him with my stick.’

      ‘That’s not so sensible.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Well, first of all, you might get seriously hurt if they hit you back.’

      ‘I don’t care.’

      ‘And you might find yourself on a charge of assault, if you use unreasonable force.’

      ‘I don’t care about that either.’

      ‘If you have any suspicions, the best thing to do is to call the police.’

      ‘Bollocks. What would they do? They don’t turn up СКАЧАТЬ