Dancing With the Virgins (29 page)

*

The two farmers had been just about to leave the cattle
market. The sale was over for the day, and most of the
vehicles had left the car parks, but for a few trans
porters still waiting to load. The men were dressed in
overalls and flat caps and smelled as though they had spent some of their money in the bar before setting off
home.

‘
You couldn't buy a pint of beer for those prices I got,' said one of them.

‘
Bastards,' said the other. 'All pissing in the same pot,
these dealers.
’

Ben Cooper nodded sympathetically. 'I know what
you mean. The farmer has to put up with lower prices
all the time when meat is still selling for the same amount in the supermarkets.'

‘
Bloody right. There's no justice to it. What will they
do when every farmer in the country has gone to the wall? That's what I want to know.
’

Cooper was waiting for Diane Fry to finish taking a call on the radio in the car. He was the sort of person
that people always chose to talk to, especially when
they had problems. Maybe there was something about
his face that encouraged them.

‘
They'll buy all their bloody meat from abroad, that's
what,' said the second farmer. 'They don't need us any
more. They can get anything they want cheaper some
where else. These prices are just a way of killing us off
one by one.' He spat into a drainage channel. 'Bastards.'

‘
If we had another war like the last one, they'd be buggered.'

‘
Aye, good and proper.
’

Finally, Fry came back from the car and stood listen
ing to their conversation in amazement. 'Have you finished writing the script for
Farming Today?
If so, I wonder if any of you know where Keith Teasdale is?
’

The first farmer opened his mouth as if he might say
something, then closed it firmly.

‘
You'll have to ask Abel Pilkington,' said the other
man. 'He's inside somewhere. What's Slasher Teasdale
done, then?'

‘
Slasher?
’

The farmer said: 'It's a nickname.'

‘
What does it mean?'

‘
Ah. You'll have to ask
him
that.
’

Cooper and Fry had parked at the back of the cattle
market, close to where a double-decker transporter was
reversed up to the loading area, its tailgate lowered on
to the concrete apron. They scrambled up on to the
concrete, but could see no one among the rows of steel pens. They crossed an iron platform that moved under
foot, and found themselves looking at the face of an
enormous weighing scale. It recorded their combined
weight at just over twenty-three stone.

‘
You've put a bit of weight on,' said Cooper.
'What?'

‘
Well, it isn't me. I'm thirteen stone and always have
been. I never change.
’

Fry stared doubtfully at the scale. Cooper wondered
whether she knew he was joking. She looked genuinely worried. 'I shouldn't bother about it too much,' he said.
'They sell 'em by the kilo here, anyway. The more you
weigh on the hoof, the more money you fetch in the ring.
’

Fry wasn't amused. 'Tell you what,' she said. 'You
hold on here and talk to yourself about the price of beef
while I find this Pilkington character.'

‘
If you say so.
’

Cooper waited by the transporter while Fry crossed
the concrete and stood on the vehicle's steel ramp. Inside the market, the silence of the building was
strange after the bellowing cacophony of Tuesday. The
starlings gathered on the ledges were whistling plain
tively and darting in and out of the gaps in the roof.
All traces of blood and urine and the soft, green faeces
of frightened animals had been hosed away into the
gutters behind the pens. Here and there the floor was
still wet, drying very slowly in dark, glistening patches.

‘
Where is everyone?' asked Fry, hushing her voice
automatically at the first bounce of the echo from the
breeze-block walls.

‘
In the back, probably,' said Cooper. 'Near the sale rings.'

‘
OK.
’

She set off down the passageway opposite the ramp,
walking between the steel pens.

‘
Are you sure you want me to wait here, Diane?
’

‘
Yes. Just keep an eye out.'

‘
I might be able to show you the way,' called Cooper,
his voice getting louder and more insistent, echoing in
the roof space.

‘
For God's sake,' she snapped. 'I can find my way
through an empty building without your assistance.
’

*

Fry had hardly got halfway down the passage when a gate clanged open somewhere. She heard Cooper call
something else to her, a single word that sounded like
an insult. She couldn't quite hear what he said because
of the noise, a crashing of gates and the thudding of
hooves on concrete. But she reacted angrily to the sound
of the word, and turned to answer him.

‘
Did you say "bollocks"?' she yelled
.

Cooper began to shake his head and opened his
mouth to shout at her again. But Fry was distracted by
a vibration in the ground, the impression of an earth
quake approaching from behind. She turned and saw
double doors open and a great bellowing rush of ani
mals burst through the gap into the passage where she was standing. The heaving beasts filled the entire width
of the passageway as they barrelled towards her
.

Fry spun to her left and found a section of brick wall
and a six-foot wide pen that had long since lost its gate.
She dodged into the pen as the cattle reached her, but
found one of the animals following her blindly, barged aside by the rush of its companions. It was frightened
and angry, and it swung its head from side to side,
catching her clothes with the sharp points of its horns. She backed against the wall, braced herself and lashed
out with a kick, which landed on the animal's heavily
muscled shoulder. It hardly seemed to notice
.

Now the beast was confused. It slipped and lurched around the pen, making Fry jump to keep her feet out
of the way of its hooves. She smacked it twice on the
nose with her fist. It shook its head, and backed off. She
took the opportunity to leap out of the way over the
nearest gate and into the next pen, where she slipped
on the damp floor, twisted her ankle and fell flat on her
back
.

She became aware of Ben Cooper standing over her.
She was infuriated to see a smile playing across his face
as he looked down at her.

‘
Actually, I shouted "bullocks",' he said
.

*

The driver of the transporter had appeared and joined
Cooper on the loading bay as the cattle thundered up
the ramp into the wagon. He watched in amazement as Fry clambered from pen to pen.

‘
You could hurt yourself doing that,' he said
.

Looking around for someone to blame, Fry saw a
dark-haired youth in a pair of green wellingtons coming
towards her.

‘
I nearly got trampled by those animals then,' she said. 'Aren't there any precautions?
’

The youth merely chortled, flapping uneven teeth at her as he passed. Behind him, Abel Pilkington himself
glowered from the wall of the sale ring, hooking his thumbs through the braces of his overalls.

‘
Any fool knows not to stand in the passages when cattle's being moved. How did you get in?' he said.
'Through the loading bay.'

‘
Well, you've no right. There's signs, you know.
Authorized persons only past this point, they say.'
The dark-haired youth had connected a thick hose to
a tap. A high-pressure jet began to hit the ground where
the cattle had passed, and water cascaded down the
passageway. Fry had to raise her voice above the noise,
but Pilkington seemed used to it.

‘
We're looking for Keith Teasdale,' she said.

‘
Why didn't you say so? He's not here. Once we finish
the sale, he goes off to his other job. Down at Lowbridge.
’

‘
Do you mean the abattoir?' said Cooper.

‘
That's it. That's where you'll find Slasher Teasdale.
’

‘
Why Slasher?' said Fry.

‘
It's a nickname. If you ask him nicely, happen he'll
demonstrate.
’

Pilkington continued to glower at them, and didn't bother saying goodbye as they walked back towards
the loading bay. By the time they reached the car, Fry
was limping slightly.

‘
Have you hurt your leg?' said Cooper.

‘
I slipped, that's all. The floor's wet in some of those
pens.'

‘
Diane, you've, er, got your shoes a bit messy, too. It
looks like cow shit.
’

Fry looked down at her feet. 'Bullocks',' she said
.

*

Lowbridge was called a village, but the spread of devel
opment along the valley bottom from Edendale meant
there was no distinction any more between the two
places - no green fields or farms to separate them, only
a road sign indicating the point where one house was in Edendale and the one next door was in Lowbridge
.

The abattoir was off the Castleton Road. Unlike the
cattle market, it was modern and clean, all stainless steel
and white tiles, like a vast urinal, its surfaces washed
constantly. The air smelled of disinfectant, and the men
moving around inside sloshed about in plastic aprons
and thigh boots, with white caps covering their hair.
The atmosphere reminded Fry of a hospital operating
theatre.

‘
Ben,' she said, 'I know Teasdale claims to have a
legitimate reason to be in the Ringham area when Jenny
Weston was killed ..

‘
But you're sceptical. Maybe you're thinking about
this nickname, Slasher. But it would be a bit of a give
away, don't you think? Like a burglar wearing a striped
sweater and carrying a bag marked "swag".'

‘
Look at this place he works. Don't you think he might have some expertise with a knife -
and
access
to a nice, sharp blade of his choice?' She got irritated
when he didn't respond. 'Too obvious for you, is it? I
suppose you prefer to look for the inner meaning of things?'

‘
Not necessarily. But I find keeping an open mind allows a bit of fresh air in.'

‘
Don't talk to me about an open mind.
Your
mind is
so rustic it should be in a woolly coat with a sheepdog
behind it.'

‘
Thanks.
’

Fry took a deep breath. 'Let's have a word with Teas-
dale's employer before we speak to the man himself.'
She took a cautious peek round the wall into the
building, and was relieved to see no dead animals, and
no blood
.

*

'Teasdale?' said the manager when they found him in
his office. 'Keith Teasdale? Yes, he's on the books.'
The office was like any other - a computer in the corner and a desk littered with paperwork. From the extent of it, it looked as though an abattoir manager
might actually have more paperwork to deal with than
a police officer, though it was hard to believe. The man
ager had his work clothes in a kind of ante-room with
a washbasin.

‘
Well, you can talk to Teasdale if you really want to.
He's around the place somewhere.'

‘
How long has he been with you?' asked Fry.

‘
Oh, a year or two. I'm not sure exactly without looking it up. He's not one of the full-time staff, you know.'

‘
But experienced, though?'

‘
Experienced? Well . . . In what way?'

‘
Experienced in the use of a knife? For bleeding animals. Gutting, and so on. Whatever it is you do here.'

‘
Teasdale?' The manager stared at Fry. 'We are talking
about
Keith
Teasdale?'

‘
I believe so, sir.
’

The manager began to laugh. 'Expertise with a knife.' He laughed some more. Cooper and Fry looked at each
other.

‘
Could we share the joke?' asked Fry
.

The manager pulled a tissue from a box on the desk.
They expected him to wipe the tears of laughter from his
eyes. But instead he began to wipe his hands, rubbing
between the fingers as if to dry a sudden outbreak of
sweat.

‘
Keith Teasdale does not use a knife in his work.' He
began to snigger again. 'As far as I know, anyway.
’

‘
So what does he do exactly, sir?'

‘
Keith Teasdale. Old Keith, eh? Expertise with a knife?
Expertise with a yard brush, more like. Teasdale is a
cleaner. He shoves a wet mop about the place. Not much of a lethal weapon, surely?'

‘
I see.'

‘
Unless you can be charged with being in possession
of an offensive mop bucket.'

‘
But they call him Slasher at the market,' protested
Fry.

‘
We call him that here too,' said the manager. 'Ah, I
see. What's in a name? Is that evidence against him,
then?
’

Now another tissue had to be used. And this one did
go to the face to mop up the tears. 'Do you want me to
tell you how he got the nickname "Slasher"?
’

A man appeared in the doorway of the ante-room,
hesitated when he saw the visitors and began to go away again with an apologetic nod.

‘
Hey, Chris,' called the manager. 'This is the police.
They want to know why we call Keith Teasdale
"Slasher"!
’

The other man began to laugh too. 'Are you going to
tell them?'

‘
Of course. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing
but —!'

‘
Poor old Keith.
’

They both laughed for a while. Fry was beginning to
go pink with anger.

‘
Basically, Keith Teasdale has a bladder problem,' said the manager.

‘
Sorry, didn't I explain? We're police officers, not doctors.'

‘
No, but that's why he got his nickname, you see.
He's always having a slash somewhere. Round the back
of the building. In the lorry park. Over by the hedge
there. It got to be a joke that any time you went round
a corner, there was Keith having a slash. One day the
ministry inspectors were here, and they saw him at it.
He got a real ticking off then. Head office wanted me
to sack him. But he's harmless really. Since then, he's
had to put up with everyone calling him Slasher, though. It's become quite a joke, I can tell you.'

‘
I'm positively splitting my sides, as you can see, sir.
’

The manager looked at her. 'Well, you have to be a
part of it to appreciate it, I suppose. You develop a peculiar sort of sense of humour working here.'

‘
So I gather.
’

When they finally located Keith Teasdale, he was dig
ging a solidified mass of dead leaves out of a drain
cover behind the abattoir. There was a curious smell on
this side of the building, more reminiscent of a butcher's
shop than a hospital. But the brush Teasdale clutched
in one hand looked particularly unthreatening.

‘
I've already told you I've been up to Warren Leach's
place,' he said.

‘
Known him for long?' asked Cooper.

‘
Yes, years. How old is his eldest lad, Will? Eleven? I remember when he was just a nipper. He wanted to
help me with the rats once, because he took a liking to the terriers. But his dad stopped him coming near me.
He always was a bit of a sour bugger, Warren.'

‘
Would you say you know him well?'

‘
No one knows Warren well. It doesn't do to get too
close to him. Nasty temper, he has.
’

Teasdale folded his hands over the end of his brush.
His fingers that had turned brown and creased and faintly shiny, matching his corduroy trousers.

‘
But you're still doing work for him. You were at
Ringham Edge Farm on Sunday,' pointed out Cooper.

‘
I was. But Warren sent me packing, like I said. No
money to pay for rodent control, he said. Can you believe it? That's no good on a farm, no good at all.
You can't have rats round a milking parlour. It should
be clean, like this place is.'

‘
When was the last time you went before that?
’

Teasdale rolled his eyes and chewed the tips of his moustache. 'Can't remember exactly. It'd be a month
or two, anyway. Is it important, then? Am I a witness?'

‘
Have you noticed anything unusual going on at the
farm?' asked Fry.

‘
Unusual? There's nothing much usual about Warren
Leach.'

‘
What about Mrs Leach? Do you know her?'

‘
Her you never see. Well, maybe just a passing glimpse now and then. But she never speaks, never
wants to say hello. She's unsociable. But then, she is married to Warren, so you can't blame her, I reckon.
’

Teasdale seemed to get bored with the conversation suddenly and tossed his clump of leaves into a wheel
barrow, where they landed with a wet thud.

‘
Did they tell you in there what they call me?' he
said, watching the leaves shift and settle in the barrow.
'Yes, they did,' said Cooper
.

Teasdale nodded. 'They love it. They think it's a great
laugh here, and at the mart. They usually tell people to
ask me to demonstrate. Did they tell you that?
’

‘
Yes,' said Cooper. 'But don't bother.
’