Deity (7 page)

Noble walked in, holding papers. ‘We’ve got more uniform searching up and down the river, just to be thorough. Nothing yet. On the plus side, DS Gadd’s organised a door-to-door on Station Road and, apparently, someone leaving early for London on Tuesday did see the road was closed. Every other resident says the road was open later that morning so it looks like you were right. Our perpetrator faked the closure while he dumped the body.’

‘When was this?’

‘Two days ago.’ Noble consulted a scribbled note. ‘A Mr Hargreaves left his house at three thirty in the morning to drive to London. He couldn’t cross the bridges and had to take the A52 instead.’

‘Three thirty,’ Brook said thoughtfully. ‘So we’re unlikely to get witnesses walking the dog.’

‘What
about anglers? They get up at all hours to bag the best spots.’

‘Get uniform to speak to every angler on that stretch. And maybe run off some notices to post near the bridges. Any chance of decent forensics?’ ventured Brook, though he already knew the answer.

Noble shook his head. ‘SOCO weren’t confident, not at the scene anyway.’

Brook nodded. ‘Water washes away many sins, John – though I prefer malt.’

‘They did find a large piece of cloth in the river nearby. They’ve bagged it for tests but we don’t even know if it connects with our John Doe.’

‘What about the bridge?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Let’s hope the body gives us an ID. What’s that?’ asked Brook, looking at the sheaf of papers.

‘Statement taken from the lads who spotted the victim in the river.’ Noble handed the report to Brook, who skimmed it briefly.

‘Let’s call him the deceased until we’re told it’s murder, John.’ Brook yawned heavily and tossed the papers on to the desk. ‘Decent lads?’

‘Solid kids from good families. No juvey—juvenile cautions,’ Noble corrected himself before Brook caught his eye. ‘And those CCTV cameras near the bridge were dummies.’

‘Any other cameras locally?’ asked Brook.

‘In Borrowash? Hardly. The only excitement round there seems to be the odd broken wing mirror.’

Brook put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. ‘All this careful planning suggests our man’s a murderer.’

‘Man?
So you’ve definitely ruled out multiple suspects.’

‘I think so. Statistically we’re looking for a male, especially as our John Doe may have needed lifting. And, whether he has accomplices or not, he was on his own when he dumped the body.’

‘How do you know?’

‘The traffic cones,’ replied Brook, looking up at Noble to see if he wanted to take the reins.

Noble lifted his shoulders in a gesture of defeat. ‘What about them?’

‘He couldn’t carry the cones as well as a
Road Closed
sign. Two people could have done it. After he dumps the body, he’s in a hurry so he picks up his sign
. . .
’

‘
. . .
and leaves the cones stacked on the pavement thinking no one would notice,’ finished Noble. ‘Presumably he blocked off the road from the other side as well – somewhere out of sight of the bridges.’

‘I think so.’

‘We should—’

‘I already looked, John. There’s nothing to see though I’ve got a picture of an impression in the road that could have been from a line of cones – all fairly pointless.’

‘We might get a fingerprint from the cones he left behind.’

Brook wrinkled up his nose. ‘Doubtful.’

‘At least we know he must have driven off south, towards Elvaston Castle, because if he parked on the river bridge to dump the body, he must have run the hundred yards back up to Station Road for his sign.’ Noble looked at the ceiling, thinking it through. ‘But when he drove away, he pulled up to his other road-block so it was easier to put the sign
and
the cones in his car.’

Brook
smiled approvingly at his DS. ‘There you go. Though if he’s transporting a body, some kind of van is more likely.’ He pushed the
A–Z
towards Noble. ‘All of which gets us to here, the junction of the B5010, where he turns right towards the A6 and A50, maybe heading for the M1 or back into Derby.’

‘Or left towards Shardlow – assuming he’s not from Thulston.’

Brook sighed. ‘You’re right. We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s wait for Forensics and the post mortem to find out exactly what we’re dealing with.’

The middle-aged man in a crumpled white chef’s uniform stared in disbelief as Rusty spoke to him. He then turned and glared over at Kyle and the others, giving them a lingering look up and down. Finally he shrugged and a moment later followed Rusty to their table and set a tray of soft drinks down, before distributing them to the students. He wore an ID badge with the name
Lee
and the archaic title
Refectory Manager
.

Adele smiled for the first time that day. The uniform and the title seemed incongruous to her, since the pinnacle of culinary sophistication in the college café was cheese on toast. Nevertheless she added the word ‘Refectory’ to her mental list of arcane words for future use. Just in case.

Rusty smiled. ‘Thanks,’ he said, talking to the table.

‘Aye. Well, don’t get used to it,’ said Lee. ‘I’m not a fucking waiter.’

Rusty placed a pound coin on to the empty tray without looking up.

The Refectory Manager looked down at it in surprise, if not gratitude. ‘Blimey. Think I’ll have it framed.’ He nodded his appreciation before trudging back to his till.

‘Waiter
service, eh?’ teased Kyle.

‘Hark at Simon Cowell over here,’ added Becky.

Rusty was embarrassed. ‘My mum was a waitress for a while, and they earn a pittance, so I try to leave a tip if I can.’

Adele beamed at him. He squirmed under her gaze. ‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Rusty.’

‘Yeah, thanks for the drink, bruv,’ said Kyle, taking a swig of Coke.

Rusty examined the camcorder strapped to his right wrist. ‘No probs.’

‘I can’t imagine your mum as a waitress, Rusty,’ said Adele. ‘She’s so pretty.’

‘It wasn’t for long. And there was nothing else she could get in Chester.’

‘Don’t they need models in Wales then?’ asked Fern, turning to grin at Becky. To her surprise, Becky looked away, unsmiling.

‘She must be raking it in now though, if you’re such a moneybags,’ said Kyle.

‘Not really,’ said Rusty. ‘But it was my eighteenth last week so Mum’s spoiling me.’

There was an uncomfortable silence round the table from all except Fern. ‘Happy Birthday,’ she said gaily, missing the sudden mood-change. ‘Did you have a party?’

Becky and Adele rolled their eyes at Fern until she became vaguely aware she’d said the wrong thing.

Rusty smiled at the table, equally unaware of her faux pas. ‘No. But my mum bought me this new camcorder.’ He brandished it proudly. ‘And a cake.’

‘Your mum sounds nice,’ said Kyle warmly. He nodded sadly at the others. Poor Rusty. Nobody knew. Eighteenth
birthdays were a big deal in a life so short of landmarks. They were an excuse for wild partying and drunken revelry with friends, extravagant presents from parents and maybe even a cruise round Derby, hanging from a Stretch. Assuming you had friends, of course. He looked at Rusty and realised he knew very little about him.

Suddenly Rusty looked up into his eyes. ‘What’s a MILF?’ The others darted their eyes around the table in panic. ‘That is what Wilson called my mum, isn’t it?’

It was difficult for the others to keep a straight face in the ensuing silence. Fortunately the writer among them came to the rescue. ‘It stands for Mums I Like Fine,’ said Adele, with a quick glance at Fern to discourage giggling.

‘That’s right,’ agreed Becky. ‘And Wilson’s such a good judge of personality.’ She stared at the top of Rusty’s head, then open-mouthed at Fern and Adele.
Was this guy for real?
Social skills zero, street patter zero. She sneaked a glance at Fern, who was starting to snigger, and Adele who was mouthing at her to stop.

Rusty looked up again and smiled. ‘Funny, I had Wilson down as a bit of a knobhead but he’s right. Mum’s the best. It’s been very difficult for her, having to move again.’ He looked away again, embarrassed, and no one pressed him to finish. They’d all heard the rumours of bullying.

‘It’s
my
eighteenth tomorrow,’ said Kyle, changing the subject. He looked round at his fellow students with an apologetic smile. This time even Fern was on message and looked intently at her drink. ‘Don’t worry,’ he continued. ‘You don’t need to waste your weekend on me. I’m not having a party either. Things are tight at the moment. There’s just me and Mum. Daddy Warbucks offered to pay but Mum
doesn’t . . .’ Kyle’s voice became more halting and he began to wish he’d said nothing. ‘Well,’ he finished tamely.

‘I couldn’t come anyway,’ said Fern, trying to hide her relief. ‘My parents are taking me Bournemouth for the weekend. Lame or what?’

Adele laid a hand across Kyle’s and fixed him in her gaze. ‘You should celebrate.’

Kyle looked at her with his doleful eyes. ‘Should I?’ He emitted a half-laugh. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Well, I think so. You only get one eighteenth. And on a Friday too.’ She smiled but felt a stab of pain. Friday was always her special night with Adam. The first time they’d made love was on a Friday, last summer at his cottage.

‘He doesn’t have to celebrate if he doesn’t want to,’ said Becky.

‘Celebration implies happiness,’ said Rusty almost to himself.

‘Rusty’s right. There’ll be other times,’ said Kyle. ‘When I’ve . . .’ He hesitated, then smiled sadly. ‘But thanks, Ade.’

Adele’s face hardened. ‘Suit yourself,’ she replied. ‘You can sit in the corner fondling your Morrissey posters and feeling sorry for yourself. But I’m coming round at seven with your present and you damn well better be there, Faggot.’

Kyle’s mouth fell open and there was shock and surprise around the table. Adele raised an eyebrow and glared at Kyle and he glared back. A second later Kyle’s mouth curved into a huge grin as Adele started to chuckle. ‘You saucy bitch,’ he screamed at her in his campest voice. ‘You’re so un-PC, girlfriend.’

‘That’s a date then.’ Adele laughed and everyone joined in. Even Rusty managed a thin smile.

Kyle
looked around the table. ‘And you guys are all invited.’

‘Going Bournemouth,’ repeated Fern.

Becky looked at her sternly. ‘Yeah, leave me dangling, ho – that’s dread.’ She turned reluctantly to face Kyle. ‘I normally wouldn’t waste a Friday on you, Faggot, I want that understood, but if Fern’s dumping me then I’m sure I can find an hour for you – as long as we’re not listening to the fucking Smiths all night.’

Kyle smiled at her. ‘Great. I’ll lay on some booze. Uncle Len can afford it. What about you, Geek Boy? You gonna come?’

Rusty looked at him, puzzled. ‘Me?’

‘Yes, you.’ Kyle nodded.

Rusty was still confused. ‘You mean come to your party? As a guest?’

‘No, as a waiter, you sherm. Yes, as a guest.’

It took him a little time for the penny to drop. Then his face lit up. ‘I could film it for you,’ he said. ‘You’ll be the stars. And I promise I won’t get in the way.’

‘We’ll let you know if you do.’

‘And I could bring another DVD,’ he said excitedly. ‘Have you seen
Badlands
?’

‘Is it as good as
Picnic at Hanging Rock
?’ asked Adele.

‘You liked that?’ asked Rusty.

‘It was wicked,’ said Kyle. ‘Wondrous.’

‘Pretty good,’ conceded Becky.

Fern looked less certain but nodded in agreement. If Becks liked it, she liked it.

Rusty managed to lift his head towards Adele. Her eyes were still red from the tears. ‘What about you? Ade?’

Adele stared off into the distance. ‘Haunting,’ she said finally.

Rusty smiled and looked briefly at each in turn, before returning his eyes to the floor.

Becky
held her hands open. ‘Just one thing, Geek Boy. What happened to the three girls in the film?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, where did they go?’

‘They disappeared. They walked up Hanging Rock and were never seen again.’

Becky pulled a face. ‘I know that. But it’s a film – what happened to them in real life?’

‘You’re missing the point, Becks,’ said Kyle.

‘
I’m
missing the point? Cheeky fucker.’

‘But you are,’ said Kyle. ‘See, it doesn’t matter what happened to them.’

‘It matters to me.’

‘Kyle’s right,’ said Adele. ‘What matters is they left of their own accord, on their own terms.’ She looked over at Kyle, who held her gaze for a second.

‘Oh, is that what matters?’ said Becky. ‘Well, that’s not what matters to me, Ade. I want to know if they really died. I mean, they must have found out what happened. Three girls can’t just vanish like that, can they?’

‘One of them was found a week later, remember,’ said Rusty. ‘But she had no memory of what had happened.’

‘D’uh!’ said Becky. ‘I’m not a mong. I saw the film.’

‘Yes, you did. And you should already know the most important thing,’ said Kyle. ‘They left their pain behind them for everyone else to bear.’

‘Yeah, okay, they left their pain behind. Boo hoo! But what
actually
happened to them?’ she insisted. ‘I can’t write a five-hundred-word review on just that. Three girls climb a rock and disappear. End of.’

‘It’s a mystery,’ said Rusty, risking another smile.

‘Stop
grinning at me, Geek Boy, or you’ll be wearing your teeth as a necklace.’

‘He fancies you.’ Fern laughed, leering at her friend. Rusty looked away, suddenly flushed.

Becky sidled round to him and put a hand up to stroke his cleanshaven cheek. ‘Course he does. He’s got eyes, hasn’t he?’ She remembered a line from the film. “Am I your Botticelli Angel?” ’ She giggled at Fern then turned back to Rusty and kissed him on the same cheek. ‘Mmm, you’ve got quite the manly stubble, haven’t you, Geek Boy?’ She laughed.

‘Don’t be dread, Becks,’ said Adele.

‘What?’ Becky held her hands open to underscore her innocence.

Rusty didn’t move, a faint smile fixed on his face. He pulled the camcorder up to hide his reddening features and began filming her.