The Dead Place by Stephen Booth Page A

miles of wall for every square mile of farmland. Instead of regular field patterns, the eye was likely to see a confusing geometry of stone, long courses of wall exaggerating every contour in the landscape.
    Some of the farms at Wardlow had been converted into homes, but others were still working. A tractor turned out of a yard as they reached the start of the village, where two Union Jacks were flying. Cooper noticed that the village pub was closed during the day, like so many in places without much tourist trade. The Church of the Good Shepherd was just beyond a cattery operating from a cluster of surplus farm buildings. It was a small stone church with a slate roof and leaded windows, but no tower. Anything bigger would have been out of place.
    They finally found space wide enough to park alongside someone's hedge without blocking the road completely, and they crossed to the church. Through double gates they walked into a grassed area, where a pair of stocks stood near the rear wall. Cooper didn't think they were medieval - more likely erected for a village fete some time in the last few decades. A chance to throw wet sponges at the vicar, rather
    83 than rotten eggs at a convicted felon. Ritual humiliation, all the same.
    Behind the church was the graveyard itself, small and underused. There'd be no need to close this one to burials for a few years yet.
    'Melvyn Hudson said there were very few funerals in Wardlow,' said Fry.
    'He's from the funeral directors, Hudson and Slack?'
    'That's right.'
    'Well, I'm sure Mr Hudson is right. A lot of these graves date back to Victorian times.'
    Several large sycamores and beeches darkened the top end of the graveyard, and nothing grew underneath the trees. Even their own seedlings had sprouted and died in the barren ground. Dead branches, beech nuts and small stones crunched under their feet as they walked among the gravestones. Swallows swooped around them, diving almost to the ground in pursuit of the small flies that hung in clouds over the graves. The Victorian graves were surrounded by low iron railings, rusted and falling apart in the damp air.
    'Here's the deceased councillor,' said Cooper. 'Mrs Sellars, right? It's by far the newest burial here.'
    'OK. Now, where's the phone box?'
    'The other side of the church.'
    A small parish room was attached to the church, a kitchen visible through a window piled with jars, cutlery and old newspapers. As they walked past it towards the phone box, Cooper saw a movement inside a house directly across the road. It was no more than a shape against the light, but he knew they were being watched.
    'Has anyone spoken to the neighbours?' he asked.
    'All those who had a view of the church or the phone box,' said Fry. 'Uniforms did it yesterday.'
    'The residents directly opposite have a good view.'
    84 'Unfortunately, they were attending the councillor's funeral themselves.'
    'Pity.'
    'As you can see, there aren't many others to talk to.'
    Cooper looked at the red phone box itself, twenty yards away from where he was standing. It was more than a pity, wasn't it? It was a big stroke of luck for the individual who'd made the phone call. There was no way he could have known that the occupiers of that property opposite weren't watching every movement he made.
    Although he hadn't heard the tapes himself yet, Cooper was starting to have a sneaking doubt about the caller's intentions. On the surface, he appeared to have taken care to conceal his identity, as might be expected. But some of this individual's actions looked almost reckless - as if he wanted to be identified. Maybe the whole thing was no more than a cry for help. But there was no point in suggesting the idea to Fry.
    Behind the churchyard, Cooper could see a sprawl of farm buildings and trailers, and a wandering pattern of drystone walls. A cockerel crowed somewhere nearby, though it was already afternoon. The phone box stood close to a footpath sign, its fingerpost so weathered that the