Read Online Dancing With the Virgins by Stephen Booth - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen Booth
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night, and then they're moving house to make room for all the family. In the end, they have to get a new job that they hate, just so that they can pay for it all. It's like getting a life sentence without having the pleasure of committing the crime, the poor sods. Not for me. There's just me and the cats, since Mother died.'
‘ Was that recently?' asked Cooper. The loss of his own father was recent enough to make him curious about someone else's experience of the death of a parent.
‘ It was a year ago. She was very old, of course. And she never feared death, that was a consolation. I used to take her to church until she couldn't get there any more. But she could see the church tower from her bedroom, and that seemed to be enough at the end.'
‘ And your father?'
‘ Oh, he's been gone a long time.'
‘ Don't you find that losing a parent makes the one that's left seem very precious?' said Cooper .
Owen looked at him cautiously. 'Yes, you're right. Actually, I think I might have worked with your father a time or two.'
‘ Yes,' said Cooper. 'I'm sure you did. ’
After a moment's silence, Owen chuckled into his beard. 'No, I'm on my own. I'm a happy bachelor. Young, free and single, that's me. Well . . . two out of three's not bad. Nobody's really free. ’
Cooper nodded. But he wasn't thinking about Owen Fox. He was thinking of Yvonne Leach and the two boys he had seen at Ringham Edge Farm. It was one thing to live a life restricted by obligations, in the way that Owen described. But it was another thing altogether when it was fear that ruled your life .
And Cooper's instincts told him that what he had seen at the farm was exactly that. It might be superficially concealed from the outside world, but it was bubbling very close to the surface. The Leaches were people whose lives were ruled by fear .
5
Since Diane Fry had arrived, the woman had kept her face turned away towards the window. The light from the desk lamp fell only on her left side, outlining her profile, delineating a high cheekbone and a straight nose. It highlighted the gold in a strand of hair tucked behind her ear, and it threw unmerciful shadows on the fine lines etched into the skin of her neck .
The apartment she lived in was austere, with minimal modern furniture, scrupulously clean, and cold, harsh lighting that created stark lines between light and shade. It was as if the rooms had been designed so that some one moving around in their cool spaces could know precisely where the shadows fell, where details were distinct and where they were not. Fry pictured the woman rehearsing her positioning in these rooms like an actress walking about a stage, seeking the best angle, presenting her most favourable side to the audience. On the other hand, perhaps she moved through the shadows by instinct alone — the instinct of a wounded animal. Because there was no mirror in this room to examine the effect in. No mirror, but a pale patch on the wall where one had once hung .
Maggie Crew sat behind a desk, as if conducting a formal interview with a client. On the desk, there were only a few items — a telephone, an ashtray, a paper knife. Along the side wall were a couple of shelves of law books and journals and a stereo system, finished in matt black, with neat racks of CD cases, their titles too small for Fry to make out .
Behind Maggie was a big sash window looking out over the roofs of Matlock. It had a view down the Derwent Valley to the point where it narrowed into a high gorge, with a hill above it that had been hacked and blasted into pieces by quarrying. Heavy green drapes hung from a brass rail over the window, capable of shutting out the natural light entirely during the day. Apart from that, there was little ornamentation in the room. The furnishings spoke to Fry of pretension with out showiness, a subtle statement of the owner's dis regard for the comfort of her surroundings. According to the reports, Crew spent all her
‘ Was that recently?' asked Cooper. The loss of his own father was recent enough to make him curious about someone else's experience of the death of a parent.
‘ It was a year ago. She was very old, of course. And she never feared death, that was a consolation. I used to take her to church until she couldn't get there any more. But she could see the church tower from her bedroom, and that seemed to be enough at the end.'
‘ And your father?'
‘ Oh, he's been gone a long time.'
‘ Don't you find that losing a parent makes the one that's left seem very precious?' said Cooper .
Owen looked at him cautiously. 'Yes, you're right. Actually, I think I might have worked with your father a time or two.'
‘ Yes,' said Cooper. 'I'm sure you did. ’
After a moment's silence, Owen chuckled into his beard. 'No, I'm on my own. I'm a happy bachelor. Young, free and single, that's me. Well . . . two out of three's not bad. Nobody's really free. ’
Cooper nodded. But he wasn't thinking about Owen Fox. He was thinking of Yvonne Leach and the two boys he had seen at Ringham Edge Farm. It was one thing to live a life restricted by obligations, in the way that Owen described. But it was another thing altogether when it was fear that ruled your life .
And Cooper's instincts told him that what he had seen at the farm was exactly that. It might be superficially concealed from the outside world, but it was bubbling very close to the surface. The Leaches were people whose lives were ruled by fear .
5
Since Diane Fry had arrived, the woman had kept her face turned away towards the window. The light from the desk lamp fell only on her left side, outlining her profile, delineating a high cheekbone and a straight nose. It highlighted the gold in a strand of hair tucked behind her ear, and it threw unmerciful shadows on the fine lines etched into the skin of her neck .
The apartment she lived in was austere, with minimal modern furniture, scrupulously clean, and cold, harsh lighting that created stark lines between light and shade. It was as if the rooms had been designed so that some one moving around in their cool spaces could know precisely where the shadows fell, where details were distinct and where they were not. Fry pictured the woman rehearsing her positioning in these rooms like an actress walking about a stage, seeking the best angle, presenting her most favourable side to the audience. On the other hand, perhaps she moved through the shadows by instinct alone — the instinct of a wounded animal. Because there was no mirror in this room to examine the effect in. No mirror, but a pale patch on the wall where one had once hung .
Maggie Crew sat behind a desk, as if conducting a formal interview with a client. On the desk, there were only a few items — a telephone, an ashtray, a paper knife. Along the side wall were a couple of shelves of law books and journals and a stereo system, finished in matt black, with neat racks of CD cases, their titles too small for Fry to make out .
Behind Maggie was a big sash window looking out over the roofs of Matlock. It had a view down the Derwent Valley to the point where it narrowed into a high gorge, with a hill above it that had been hacked and blasted into pieces by quarrying. Heavy green drapes hung from a brass rail over the window, capable of shutting out the natural light entirely during the day. Apart from that, there was little ornamentation in the room. The furnishings spoke to Fry of pretension with out showiness, a subtle statement of the owner's dis regard for the comfort of her surroundings. According to the reports, Crew spent all her
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