message service. So they had waited for the next train from Manchester. And the next.
The schedule filled Fry with a sense of despair. No wonder the West Midlands officer had been glad to get the case off his desk. If Emma Renshaw had left the house in Darlaston Road as planned, there were two possibilities. Either she had disappeared in Birmingham, and had never made it to the train at all. Or she had vanished when she changed trains in Manchester.
Fry was looking at the names of two of the largest metropolitan areas in Britain, cities where a girl of nineteen could melt away so easily. A change of identity, and her family would never see her again, if she didn’t want them to. Fry knew that all too well.
On the other hand, the evidence bag that she was holding contained a Motorola Talkabout with a bright blue inlay over the keys – a phone which Vodafone said had belonged to Emma Renshaw. Without a group of ramblers deciding it was time for a spring clean, the phone might have lain undiscovered for ever. If one of those ramblers hadn’t been the mum of a teenager whose mobile phone had been stolen by muggers, it would have been sent to the council tip with the rest of the rubbish. And if it hadn’t been for the police officer at Chapel-en-le-Frith who had taken the time and trouble to trace the owner of the phone, no one would ever have thought of submitting it for forensic examination.
But that’s what they had done, and the result was in Fry’s hands. Down the right side of the phone, the blue inlay was streaked with the dried residue of a dark brown liquid that had glued up the keys and trickled into the little hole where the lead for the re-charger should fit. According to the label on the bag, the stains had been confirmed as human blood.
Fry knew that she might be looking at the last remaining biological traces of Emma Renshaw. Her fingers might almost be touching the pathetic remnant of Emma’s life, a desiccated dribble of her DNA.
And that was what opened up the tunnel of fear that she had already begun to slide down.
DC Gavin Murfin had sandy hair and a pink face, and he always seemed to have dabs of tomato sauce on his lower lip. He was well past forty, yet he took no notice of any nagging about the condition of his heart. He had experience, though, and that was worth gold these days. Even Diane Fry had to admit it.
Fry found DC Murfin at his desk in the CID room, answering the phone with one hand and eating from a paper bag in the other. She waited impatiently until he put the phone down.
‘And I’ll complain to the Chief Constable about you too, madam,’ he said to the empty air. Then he looked up and grinned at Fry. ‘We’re not providing the high quality of customer service the lady expects for her Council Tax.’
‘I hope you were polite, Gavin,’ said Fry.
‘Polite? I charmed her so much that she’s coming round straight away to have sex with me.’
But Fry wasn’t in the mood for Murfin’s brand of humour.
‘Gavin, what are you doing at the moment?’
‘Eh?’
‘Nothing much, by the look of it.’
‘I’m just having a minute, like.’
‘Well, your minute’s up. There are crimes to be detected.’
‘I’ve already detected one this year, Diane.’
‘Well, it’s time to get your average up. Let’s see if we can make it one point five.’
Murfin sighed. ‘I’ll just finish this sarnie.’
Fry looked at his sandwich more closely. ‘Gavin, is that what I think it is?’
‘Bacon and sausage.’ Murfin licked a bit of the grease off his fingers, then wiped the rest of it on a forensics report.
‘There’s half an inch of fat on that bacon, Gavin. Have you never heard of cholesterol?’
‘Yes, of course I have. Me and the wife went there for two weeks’ holiday last summer.’
Fry breathed in slowly, suppressing an urge to begin screaming. She knew it came from the fear, not from anger at Murfin. It was something she would have to deal with later.
‘Get the jokes out of your system now, Gavin,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a couple called Renshaw coming in.’
Murfin gave a muffled groan from behind a mouthful of sausage. ‘You’re kidding! Not Emma Renshaw’s parents?’
‘Do you remember the case?’
‘Everyone remembers it. What have they been doing now?’
‘Who?’
‘The Renshaws, of course.’
‘Why should they have been doing anything?’
‘Well, they’re regulars. Ask Traffic.’
‘Gavin, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Then you ought to pull some of the files on the Renshaws before you talk to them. It might reduce the shock, like.’
Murfin answered the phone and pulled a face at Fry.
‘Too late. They’re here already.’
‘Bring them up then, Gavin. No, hold on a minute. Come here.’
Murfin stopped at Fry’s desk on his way out of the CID room. She opened a drawer and pulled a Kleenex tissue out of a box. She carefully wiped the tomato sauce off his chin, screwed up the tissue and threw it in the bin.
‘OK. Now you look a bit less like an overweight vampire. You won’t scare the Renshaws so much.’
‘You’re kidding. It’s me you ought to be worrying about, Diane. Those two are scarier than any vampire. They’re like something straight out of Night of the Living Dead.’
‘You’re watching the wrong videos again, Gavin. Try something a bit more sensitive.’
‘I don’t do sensitive,’ said Murfin, as he went to meet the Renshaws.
Fry sat down, took another breath and looked across the room. Opposite Gavin Murfin’s chaotic, paper-strewn desk was another that looked empty, almost abandoned. It had been cleared by its occupant before a secondment to the Rural Crime Team. The sight of the empty desk made Fry wonder if there would come a time when there was nowhere she could go for support when she needed it.
By full light, black-headed gulls had been drifting up from the reservoirs in the valley, scavenging for the previous night’s roadkill.
Every day, on his way into Edendale from Bridge End Farm, Ben Cooper had got used to seeing the squashed and bloodied remains of the wildlife slaughtered by traffic during the hours of darkness. Dead foxes and badgers, rabbits and pheasants, hedgehogs and stoats littered
