Dying to Sin (19 page)

There was no question that policing had changed. It had been transformed in the few years since Palfreyman retired, and it was changing still. There weren’t any beat bobbies any more. In fact, there weren’t any beats, except under a different name. In Derbyshire, they were called Safer Neighbourhood police teams – a combination of police officers, special constables, PCSOs and local authority wardens, even some Neighbourhood Watch volunteers.

Meanwhile, just across the border, Nottinghamshire had become the first force in the UK to have armed officers on routine patrol. In parts of Nottingham, officers were issued with Walther P99 pistols, just like the one James Bond used, and had Heckler and Koch semi-automatic carbines in their patrol cars for back-up.

And that was before September eleventh and July seventh, and all the other landmark dates of terrorism. Cooper found the development worrying, an ominous sign for the future of policing in this country. But he couldn’t ally himself with the Palfreymans of the world, either.

‘Yes, I
do
have the training to spot a liar,’ said Fry as they walked back down Palfreyman’s drive to the car.

‘I’m sure you do, Diane,’ said Cooper.

‘I know all the indications to watch for.’

‘You don’t need to tell me. You know David Palfreyman was just trying to wind you up back there, don’t you?’

‘Bastard.’

Cooper looked across the road. ‘Hold on a minute, Diane. I won’t be long.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘There’s a Range Rover parked at the Brindleys’ house. Is it theirs?’

‘Yes, I think it’s Mr Brindley’s. Why?’

‘It’s a TD model.’

‘So? You’re not that interested in cars, Ben.’

‘Do you know what TD stands for, Diane? It means Turbo Diesel. I want to ask Mr Brindley if he’s ever been offered cheap illegal fuel.’

When Cooper came back, Fry was sitting in the car, still fuming.

‘They’re called the Ten Signs,’ she said. ‘Lack of eye contact, a change in the pitch of the voice, clearing the throat. And then there’s the body language – tapping the foot, fidgeting with the hands, blinking too much.’

Cooper got behind the wheel. ‘Turning the head or body away, changing the subject, attempting to deflect questions using humour or sarcasm.’

Fry looked at him. ‘Have you done the same course?’

‘Er, I sort of picked it up on the job,’ he said, trying not to sound too much like Palfreyman.

‘What did Mr Brindley say?’

‘He’d never even heard of illegal diesel.’

Fry watched the landscape going by as Cooper drove over the plateau towards Edendale. On the highest points, the drizzle and mist became almost indistinguishable from low cloud, and Cooper had to put the headlights on. Spray from passing lorries made visibility even worse.

‘Ten Signs,’ said Fry. ‘Put all those techniques together, and only a really good actor can get away with an undetected lie. And PC David Palfreyman is
not
that good an actor.’

Back at the office, they found DCI Kessen in the CID room with Hitchens. He had put in an appearance from his other major enquiry and was catching up on progress.

Kessen studied Fry as she entered the room.

‘Ah, DS Fry, glad you could join us.’

Fry seemed to go stiff and awkward, as if she’d been caught out doing something she shouldn’t. But that wasn’t the case, was it? She’d been following a reasonable line of enquiry that might have produced some useful information. Cooper wanted to speak up in her defence, but no one would have appreciated that, least of all Fry.

‘Your DI has brought me up to speed on the Rakedale enquiry. You did a good job recovering the crucifix from the grave site.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Hitchens held up the evidence bag containing the cross. ‘Examination reveals scratch marks on the back, near where the arms and the upright meet. They’re probably initials, Diane. We think they look like an “N” and possibly an “H”.’

‘The owner’s initials?’

‘Could be. They do match a set of initials from the list of employees at Pity Wood, but unfortunately that doesn’t help us to make an identification. Not yet, anyway.’

‘But it might do,’ said Fry.

‘Let’s hope so.’

Kessen nodded. ‘Yes, that’s very helpful. As I said, a good piece of work. However, DS Fry, we’ve agreed your energies would be best employed from this point on exploring the missing persons angle. It’s being neglected at the moment.’

‘Missing persons? But, sir, I think I could be more productive pursuing some other lines –’

‘No, DS Fry, I think I’d prefer you to concentrate on the missing persons check.’

Fry hesitated too long before she responded, and Kessen registered it.

‘Of course, sir.’

Cooper looked across at her, but she refused to meet his eye. Was it just coincidence that he’d been thinking only yesterday about the DCI’s apparent even-handedness? Was that why he’d noticed this little incident? Or was it that Kessen’s attitude had changed since the arrival of a new superintendent over his head?

Cooper didn’t know how to interpret what he’d witnessed, but he was sure that Diane would be filing the incident away in that very efficient mental filing cabinet she carried around inside her head. He pictured it as the equivalent of one of those old-fashioned green cabinets, heavy and fire-proof, with drawers that slid out on strong, steel hinges.

For a moment, he wondered what was written in his own file – the one pushed to the back of the bottom drawer, slightly dog-eared and crushed out of shape by the more important information in front of it. Nothing he’d want to read about himself, probably.

18

‘SOCOs collected a lot of samples from the kitchen at the farm,’ said Hitchens, assembling the team when the DCI had left. ‘Some old blood traces that the lab is working on, and lots of other stuff, the kind that you might expect in a kitchen. But analysis also found substantial traces of a chemical compound, KNO
₃
. Potassium nitrate.’

‘Potassium nitrate?’ asked Fry. ‘What is that used for?’

‘The lab thought we might want to know that. Killing tree stumps, for a start. You can get it in most garden centres, or hardware shops. It’s an ingredient of some fertilizers. Also toothpastes that are formulated for sensitive teeth. And gunpowder.’

‘Versatile stuff, then.’

‘Wait – you haven’t heard the best one. Potassium nitrate was considered for many years to be an anaphrodisiac.’

‘A what?’

‘They thought it suppressed sexual desire. It was added to food in all-male institutions. Did you ever see
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
?’

‘The film with Jack Nicholson?’

‘Right. Well, in the film, Nicholson’s character mentions that’s he’s afraid of being “slipped” potassium nitrate in the mental institution where he’s committed. It was a common practice at the time, a way of controlling the behaviour of patients.’

‘Cool. But I’m not sure it helps us.’

‘Is potassium nitrate a natural product, or artificially manufactured?’ asked Cooper.

‘It’s a naturally occurring mineral,’ explained Hitchens. ‘Traditionally, the major sources were the deposits crystallizing on cave walls, or the drainings from dung heaps. Ammonia from the decomposition of urea – you know.’

‘We get the picture,’ said Fry.

‘But it can also be manufactured. The old method was to mix manure, wood ash, earth and organic materials such as straw.’

Cooper nodded. ‘A compost heap, in fact.’

‘Exactly. But they were known as nitre beds, which sounds nicer, I suppose. A heap was kept moist with urine in the, er … traditional manner, and turned to accelerate decomposition. After a year, it was leached with water, and the resulting liquid was rich with nitrates, which could then be converted to potassium nitrate, crystallized and used in gunpowder.’

‘Potassium nitrate is an explosive, then?’ said Fry.`

‘Not on its own. It does have another useful property, though, particularly for fireworks manufacturers. A mixture of potassium nitrate and sugar produces a smoke cloud six hundred times its own volume. Just great for smoke bombs.’

‘How does it kill tree stumps?’

‘It doesn’t really kill them. You have to kill the stump first – then the potassium nitrate makes it decompose faster.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Cooper. ‘Those compost heaps – did you say they were called “nitre beds”?’

‘That’s right. One of the common non-scientific names for potassium nitrate is –’

‘– saltpetre?’

‘Correct.’

Cooper found that he wasn’t in the least surprised. It seemed to fit so naturally with what he’d learned already of the owners of Pity Wood Farm, and the other residents of Rakedale.

‘Potassium nitrate is used in Edgar Allan Poe’s story “The Cask of Amontillado” as the lining of the crypt where Montresor buries Fortunato alive. It’s why he has so much trouble with his breathing in his last moments. “
For the love of God, Montresor!
”’

‘Didn’t the IRA use saltpetre in their bomb-making operations at one time?’ said Fry. ‘I had a feeling it had been put on a restricted list, not available for sale to the general public.’

Hitchens laughed. ‘You can make bombs from sugar and fertilizer, so why would anyone worry about saltpetre?’

‘Also, it’s been implicated in having carcinogenic properties.’

‘I don’t think anyone was worrying about getting cancer or making bombs,’ said Cooper.

‘Oh?’

‘This other stuff in the kitchen. Did it include sesame seeds, by any chance?’

‘Yes, it did,’ said Hitchens. ‘How on earth did you know that, Ben?’

He’d have to ask Amy for the exact wording, but Cooper thought he could remember the recipe pretty well.

Squeeze out the blood. Embalm it in a shroud
and steep it in a solution of saltpetre, salt and pepper
for two weeks, then dry in the sun. The candles are
made from a hanged man’s fat, wax and Lapland
sesame
.

‘I’d like to make a prediction,’ he said. ‘I predict that if we find another body at Pity Wood Farm, it will be missing a hand.’

Within a few minutes, and thanks to the internet, Cooper knew how to make potassium nitrate himself. The practical part was simple. You could either dissolve solid fertilizer in boiling water, or boil down a liquid fertilizer until crystals started to form. When the solution had cooled to room temperature, it was placed in a fridge. The white crystalline precipitate was mainly KNO
₃
. Garden products tended to contain ammonium nitrate, too, which contaminated the KNO
₃
.

‘We should have picked this up earlier,’ said Hitchens. ‘Potassium nitrate can cause eye and skin irritations. Breathing it in can irritate the nose and throat, causing sneezing and coughing. High levels can interfere with the ability of the blood to carry oxygen, causing headaches, fatigue, dizziness and a blue colour to the skin and lips. Even higher levels can cause trouble breathing, collapse and death. Long term, potassium nitrate may affect the kidneys and cause anaemia. Chronic long-term health effects can occur some time after exposure and can last for months or years.’

‘Is this really something you ought to keep in your fridge?’ asked Murfin.

‘No, Gavin.’

‘And what was it that Derek Sutton died from, did you say?’

‘Heart failure.’

‘That appears on so many death certificates. It’s what doctors write in when they can’t see any other cause of death but don’t want to put the family through the ordeal of a postmortem.’

‘Obviously, no one would have suspected potassium nitrate poisoning at the time, so there wouldn’t have been any toxicology done, even if there had been a PM,’ said Fry.

‘Well, it’s academic, since there wasn’t a postmortem,’ said Hitchens. ‘Derek Sutton was signed off, certificated and cremated within a week.’

‘It would be cremation, of course. So no chance of getting an exhumation order.’

‘You say that no one would have suspected potassium nitrate poisoning,’ said Cooper. ‘But his brother Raymond might have suspected it, if he knew what Derek was up to.’

Hitchens shook his head. ‘That old man? How would he have known the effects of potassium nitrate? Who knows what saltpetre is exactly? I didn’t, until just now.’

‘Even so, he must have wondered what was wrong. You don’t just drop suddenly without any other symptoms, do you?’

Hitchens checked the report. ‘Eye and skin irritations, sneezing and coughing, headaches, fatigue, dizziness, a blue colour to the skin and lips, trouble breathing.’

‘I found several sites on the internet where I could order food-grade saltpetre. Lots more where it’s listed as an ingredient in garden chemicals.’

‘OK.’

He’d also found a method for treating skin infections that had supposedly been passed from father to son over many generations in farming. If you got bitten or scratched and it looked as though the wound was getting infected, you should bathe the area in a solution of hot water and saltpetre. It inhibited the growth of organisms associated with skin infections. Clostridium, Streptococcus and Staphylococcus. It made sense. He was just surprised that he’d never heard of it in his own family. Father to son over generations? Maybe Matt used the treatment on the quiet.

‘Ben – this thing about a hand of glory,’ said Fry, interrupting his reading. ‘You don’t think you’re letting the superstition business get to you too much?’

‘Not me. I think it had got to Derek Sutton, though.’

‘You really think there’s a body without a hand somewhere?’

‘Yes.’

‘Prepared to bet on it?’

‘I’m not really a betting man,’ said Cooper.

‘Ha-ha.’

Potassium nitrate had a smell reminiscent of burnt gunpowder. That rang a bell with Cooper. For a while, supplies of fertilizer had been stored in a breeze-block extension to the main barn at Bridge End. The inside always had a heavy smell of potassium nitrate fertilizer. Burnt gunpowder was right – it had always made him think of Bonfire Night and firework displays.

He would probably never be able to go to a garden centre without being reminded of it these days. Not without being reminded of poor Derek Sutton, preparing his saltpetre recipe in the kitchen at Pity Wood.

Fry was seething quietly at her desk when Hitchens appeared at her side, his face creased with discomfort.

‘Diane, have you got a minute?’

‘Sir?’ said Fry, automatically responding to the tone of his voice. It was a management tone, the kind of voice people used when you were being summoned into their office for a reprimand. Or to get bad news. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Let’s just step into my office, shall we?’

They moved out of earshot of the team in the CID room and Hitchens shut the door of his office with a deliberate slam.

‘I shouldn’t be telling you this,’ he said. ‘But we’ve worked together for a while now, and I think you ought to know as soon as possible. Sit down, won’t you?’

Reluctantly, Fry sat. She preferred to stay on her feet when they were discussing an enquiry. Sitting in the chair across from his desk felt too much like a disciplinary interview, the recalcitrant pupil called to the headmaster’s room.

‘There was a meeting of the CID management team this morning,’ he said.

Fry nodded. Of course, everyone knew that. Word had gone round the CID room like the wind. DIs and above were in a meeting with the new superintendent. Something was afoot, they said. Changes were going to be made. The End of the World was nigh.

‘Detective Superintendent Branagh has been studying the department carefully before she takes up her new role,’ said Hitchens. ‘She’s gone into everything very thoroughly – detection rates, targets, staff records. As Mr Jepson said, she’s very thorough. Very thorough indeed.’

‘A ferociously efficient administrator. That’s what he called her.’

‘Oh, yes. Well, that was accurate, too.’

Hitchens seemed to be gathering his thoughts. A uniformed PC knocked on the door and stuck his head in, but Hitchens waved him away with an abrupt gesture.

‘Superintendent Branagh asked for copies of all the PDRs for everyone. All of us. Me, too. She doesn’t believe in people getting stale and falling into a routine. She says an officer who gets into a rut is an officer going nowhere.’

So perhaps the doom mongers were right. Fry pictured some of the older CID officers, such as Gavin Murfin or DS Rennie. A shake-up would come as a shock to some of them.

‘Has she got some changes in mind?’ she asked.

Hitchens nodded. ‘She’s going to produce a set of proposals for the department. But it’s safe to say that some moves are on the cards.’

‘Moves?’

‘Transfers. A few shifts in areas of responsibility. Maybe a promotion or two, Diane.’

He was trying hard to sound positive, but Fry could see through it. She wasn’t fooled by flannel, and her DI should know it by now.

‘I take it there was something specific about me?’ she said. ‘You were talking about me during this meeting?’

‘Well, you were mentioned,’ admitted Hitchens, his eyes flickering nervously like a guilty suspect in an interview room. He looked as though he was starting to regret sending the PC away, after all.

‘And what did Detective Superintendent Branagh make of my Personal Development Review? Has she got something in mind for my future? Will I actually be allowed to know what’s being said about me some time?’

‘There will be individual interviews, of course. Everything will be discussed with you fully. You’ll have an opportunity to have your say at that time.’

‘But …?’ said Fry.

‘It’s all still up in the air, Diane. There’s nothing absolutely definite …’

‘But …?’

Hitchens sighed. ‘Superintendent Branagh was asking – did I really think you fitted in here? She wondered if you might be more suited to another division. I’m sorry, Diane.’

Cooper consulted his notes, reminding himself of what he’d missed doing. Time seemed to be going by so fast, what with one thing and another.

He saw that he hadn’t suggested a search of the old caravan at Pity Wood Farm yet, as he’d meant to do. Maybe that wasn’t too urgent, because the forensics team probably wouldn’t get round to it for days anyway. He added a note to fit in a visit to the heritage centre some time, to see if they had anything on Pity Wood. Old photos could reveal such a lot.

Then Cooper noticed that he’d never spoken to anyone at the auctioneers, Pilkington’s, to ask them whether they’d been approached about a farm equipment sale. There must be something planned for the disposal of all that machinery and the other stuff at Pity Wood. It wouldn’t all fit into the skip.

Cooper thought about the interior of the house, the few items they’d recovered that might be of relevance. The farm records, some jars of crystallized saltpetre, a single Sani Bag. And he supposed the family Bible should be included. But might there be something important that was no longer present, so they just weren’t seeing it? The impression of a
Marie Celeste
, abandoned intact, could be quite misleading.

He looked at his phone. Fry had been called in to see the DI, and neither of them had looked too happy. Besides, she was supposed to be chasing mispers now, so he supposed he was a free agent for a while. Initiative was called for. He reached for the handset.

‘Mr Goodwin, did you ever meet the previous owners of Pity Wood Farm?’ asked Cooper, when he managed to get through to the Manchester solicitor.

‘Oh, no. It was all done through the estate agent. The farm was already unoccupied when we visited for a viewing. I know they were called Sutton, but we had no personal contact. Just the usual exchange of contracts.’