Текст книги "The Corpse Bridge"

Автор книги: Stephen Booth

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 39 страниц)

11

Diane Fry’s flat was in one of the large detached Victorian villas in Grosvenor Avenue, just off Castleton Road. Although the tree-lined street had once been prosperous, almost all the properties were in multiple occupancy now – one-bedroom flats, smaller bedsits and some houses where the tenants shared communal facilities.

Cooper knew this as a student area, mostly for young people studying at the High Peak College campus. He had no idea why Fry had chosen to live here when she came to Derbyshire. And he had even less understanding of her reasons for staying in Grosvenor Avenue when she could so easily have afforded somewhere better on her detective sergeant’s salary.

But that might have been because he’d never asked her about her reasons. Or he’d never asked her properly. There was a lot about Diane Fry he didn’t understand, but she only shared information about herself on a need-to-know basis. At least that meant he wasn’t the only person who didn’t understand her. Nobody at West Street did. The only person he’d ever met who might have a bit more insight was Diane’s sister, Angie. Cooper reassured himself with that fact.

A couple of the other tenants were just leaving the house as he parked outside the gate. They didn’t look like students, though. They were a bit too old and bundled up in old clothes as if off to a night shift at a job where they didn’t expect to stay clean. When he said hello to them, they answered readily enough, in accents that sounded East European. Of course, Grosvenor Avenue wasn’t just student territory any more. The High Peak College students were competing for cheap accommodation with migrant workers from countries in the European Union.

He remembered something Fry had said to him years ago, when he moved out of Bridge End Farm into his own little flat on Welbeck Street. ‘A cheap rent just means something really grotty that nobody else wants,’ she’d said. But number 8 Welbeck Street was a lot better than this.

Cooper rang the bell set among half a dozen others by the front door and it was opened almost immediately.

‘Hello, Diane.’

‘Hi. Come in.’

She left him to close the door and set off up the stairs. She was dressed in unfaded denim jeans and a sparkling white shirt, like someone who’d decided to dress casually but found she didn’t have any casual clothes. He’d rarely seen her when she wasn’t wearing black suit trousers, aiming for the smart professional look. Yet this look suited her. It somehow managed to soften her edges. Her fair hair had grown a little longer too, and it masked the hard lines of her face, which in the past she’d always seemed keen to emphasise. Whatever had caused the change in her appearance, he was glad of it. Though he knew better than to comment on it. Fry never took compliments well.

‘Aren’t you supposed to say “thank you for coming” or something like that?’ said Cooper, though he was speaking to Fry’s retreating back.

‘Oh, yes. Thanks, Ben.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he muttered as he followed her up the stairs. ‘Always a pleasure.’

Fry’s flat was on the first floor of the house. It consisted of a bedroom, a sitting room, a bathroom with a shower cubicle, and a tiny kitchen area. As soon as he entered, Cooper noticed that it had been redecorated since the last time he was here. He recalled striped wallpaper in a faded shade of brown and a carpet in washed-out blues, pinks and yellows, a pattern that looked as though it had been designed to hide substances spilled on it. The redecoration had done wonders. Fresh paintwork in cleaner, bright colours and a new carpet on the floor. Was Fry responsible for this? Or had the landlords insisted? That seemed much more likely. They would be looking to attract replacement tenants now.

Fry’s own possessions seemed to be scanty, judging by the cardboard boxes around the flat. They would barely fill the back of a small van. Surely there must be some books, music, a few prized objects she’d collected over the years. Okay, perhaps not souvenirs of the Peak District. But, well … something. He suspected these boxes contained clothes, bedding and not much else.

‘Have you moved some stuff already?’ he asked.

‘A bit,’ she said.

‘Do you want these boxes moving?’

‘No, I’m taking those myself. I can get three or four in the boot of my Peugeot each trip. It’s just this table and the bookshelves. Oh, and the TV is mine.’

Cooper nodded. ‘No problem.’

So there were bookshelves, but that didn’t mean there had been books. In fact, he couldn’t imagine what sort of books Diane Fry might read in her leisure time. Blackstone’s Police Manuals Volumes 1–4. That would be about the shape of it.

‘The shelves will have to be dismantled,’ he said.

‘Oh.’

‘It’s easy enough. Just a few screws to take out.’

Fry frowned and looked around her. ‘I don’t think I have a—’

‘I’ve got a set of screwdrivers in the Toyota,’ said Cooper.

‘Brilliant.’

He watched her for a moment as she folded towels into a plastic carrier, her slim hands working quickly and precisely, the sleeves of her shirt rolled up above wrists that looked too fragile to have any strength. A strand of hair had fallen over her face and she had a faint sheen of sweat on her temple. She gave the job of packing as much concentration as she did any other task and she didn’t seem to notice his observation. He’d ceased to exist again just in that moment.

It was so typical of this woman. For Fry, a person was either useful to her or just a nuisance. And she could switch them from one to another in the blink of an eye. Cooper wished he had the ability to tune people out the way she did. But he just couldn’t do it. Right now he was aware of almost nothing else but Diane’s presence so close to him in the cramped sitting room. Yet she seemed to have forgotten his existence for a moment. It was strange that he didn’t resent this more. Instead, it made him feel sorry for her.

‘I’ll put the TV in the car, then I’ll bring the tools back up with me, shall I?’

She looked up. ‘That’ll be great, Ben.’

So he unplugged the TV set and carried it downstairs. Luckily, Fry wasn’t the type to go for a massive sixty-five-inch widescreen. This one would fit in the back of the Toyota without difficulty. And he could carry it on his own too. Not that he had much choice.

He found the little toolbox, covered the TV set with a coat and locked the car carefully. When he returned to the flat, Fry was sitting down looking unnaturally relaxed. And she’d made him a coffee.

‘I thought we’d take a break,’ she said. ‘Have a seat.’

Cooper did as he was told, but with trepidation. Looking at Fry’s jeans and shirt, it struck him for the first time that she’d dressed specially for the occasion – and that wasn’t just for the packing. There was something else she’d planned.

Fry leaned forward. ‘So…’ she said.

‘So?’ Cooper repeated.

He had a sudden dread that Fry was going to start asking him personal questions. And not just any old questions, but the full cross-examination – all the same questions that people had asked him over and over again in the months after Liz was killed.

And he was right. But it was such an odd thing. Within a few minutes of Fry broaching the subject, he found himself telling her exactly what it had been like. He spilled it all out – the plans he and Liz had been making, what the wedding was going to be like, their dreams for the future, the possibility of having children very soon.

And then that afternoon at the Light House pub, when he and Carol Villiers had been examining the cellar while Liz searched for forensic evidence in one of the bedrooms upstairs. And there was the fire.

That was the most difficult part to talk about. He’d been through it many times for the subsequent inquiry, the inquest, the trial hearings. But it didn’t make the telling any easier, no matter how many times he ran over the events as if they’d happened to someone else. The stink of smoke, the roar of flames, the crash of shattering windows, the terror of being trapped in the burning building. The knowledge that his fiancée was two floors above him, alone, and unaware of the blazing stairs. And finally the moment when he realised that she was no longer behind him as he fought his way to safety. The moment he lost her to the flames.

Cooper felt himself drifting into his memories as he talked. His immediate surroundings faded away, the dismal first-floor flat receding into the distance. He saw only Diane Fry’s face in front of him, her eyes curiously compelling, as if this had been the opportunity he’d been awaiting for so long.

It was only when it came to talking about the aftermath of the fire that he faltered. The period when he was away from work on extended sick leave was the most difficult to explain. Liz’s death had been tragic and meaningless. But the things he did in the following few months were inexplicable. When he looked back now, they had no logic. He’d lost his senses and he couldn’t explain that to anyone.

‘After it happened,’ he said, ‘I mean, after the fire, there were months and months when I kept telling myself it was all a mistake and Liz wasn’t really dead at all. Some of the time I think I actually believed that.’

Fry nodded.

‘I understand,’ she said.

But Diane Fry wasn’t that good an actress. He didn’t believe she understood at all. She just knew it was something people said in the circumstances. And yet she’d taken in every word he’d told her. He had no doubt about that.

Cooper felt suspicion welling up again. Was all this concern genuine? Surely not. Fry had some ulterior motive. What it was, he had no idea. He supposed it would become evident one day. And whatever it was, it wouldn’t be to his benefit.

After a moment he managed to change the subject. ‘I suppose you’re looking forward to living in Nottingham,’ he said.

‘Well, what do you think?’

‘You can’t wait, I suppose.’

‘You got that right. Look at this place. Well, I know it’s where you’re from and all that, but really…’

‘Is there anybody here you’ll miss?’ asked Cooper tentatively.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Fry.

‘Really?’

‘Mr and Mrs Khan at the corner shop. They’ve always been very nice to me.’

The silence was broken when Cooper’s phone buzzed. At first he tried to ignore it. But Fry looked at him expectantly.

‘Perhaps you’d better answer that,’ she said. ‘It might be important. Some urgent development in your murder inquiry.’

She was right, of course. It might have been that. But the call was from the East Midlands Ambulance Service. They’d been given his name by a patient who’d just been admitted to the Accident and Emergency department at Edendale General Hospital.

He listened for a few moments while Fry watched him curiously, no doubt alerted by the sudden change in his manner.

‘What’s up?’ she said when he finished the call.

‘It’s my landlady, Dorothy Shelley. She’s been taken to hospital. It sounds as though she’s had a stroke.’

‘That’s a shame. You’ve grown quite close to her, haven’t you? I heard you look after her quite a bit.’

‘Yes.’

But Cooper felt a wave of guilt. He hadn’t been paying much attention to Mrs Shelley recently. The old girl had been very good to him, ever since he first turned up to look at the flat in Welbeck Street. She’d treated him pretty much as a grandson and he was sure his rent ought to have gone up substantially in the past few years, but for her indulgence. He should have returned the consideration by keeping a closer eye on her as she got increasingly frail and confused.

He certainly ought to have been there tonight when she needed him. She could have just banged on the wall and he would have gone straight round. He wondered if she’d been able to call the ambulance for herself or if someone else had come to her aid. He wondered how long she’d been obliged to wait for help.

‘She gave them my name,’ said Cooper, in a tone that expressed far more than the mere words conveyed. ‘I’m sorry. But I have to go.’

Diane Fry went to the window and watched for a few minutes as Cooper left the house and got into his car. He didn’t look back. He had someone else to worry about now.

Fry closed the curtains and turned back to the half-empty cardboard boxes littering the floor of her flat. She seemed to have spent a large part of her life watching Ben Cooper walking away.

12

Saturday 2 November

It was so hard to get used to the change from British Summer Time. The clocks had gone back the previous weekend and suddenly the sun was setting before he managed to get away from work. Cooper looked out of the window and saw the sun had gone from the sky. It was dark by the time he got home, which was always too depressing.

Of course, it happened every year, but that didn’t seem to make any difference. It caught him out every time. No matter how many times he was reminded about changing his watch, the reality of its effect on his daily routine didn’t sink in. Not until it happened. And then, somehow, he felt deceived.

It made Cooper feel the way he had when he was a child, expecting the summer to go on for ever and feeling that sense of loss and disappointment when the light faded and he knew that winter was on its way. He could recall the feeling now, remembered how let down he’d always felt, as if even the calendar were prepared to betray him.

Yes, he certainly learned that lesson as a boy. The whole world was the same. People too. He’d discovered that you couldn’t rely on anything or anyone. If you let yourself be fooled into trusting someone, the same betrayal was inevitable. The day would eventually come when the weather changed and winter arrived.

Mrs Shelley’s stroke last night had been a serious one. His landlady’s nephew had turned up at the hospital. Cooper had never liked him – he suspected the man had no interest in his aunt, except for the prospect of inheriting her two properties in Welbeck Street. There was no doubt that Cooper’s rent would go up when that happened – but only until the houses were sold off to the first property developer who came along.

Dorothy Shelley looked more than just frail as she lay in her hospital bed in the intensive care unit. She looked deathly pale and so thin that her fragile bones protruded from the sunken skin on her shoulders. Her eyes were deep set and the shape of her skull stood out as clearly as if it were a specimen in an anatomy class.

It hardly needed saying, but the medical staff had to say it anyway. One stroke was often followed by another, and then another. And if Mrs Shelley suffered just one more stroke as serious as the first, it might well be fatal.

Well, it was the weekend and he wasn’t supposed to be on duty, but the hospital could get in touch with him at any time if they needed to. Though he supposed they would contact the nephew now. Family members always took precedence in hospital procedures. Next of kin and all that. But at least if he heard nothing, he could call later, perhaps on Sunday. Waiting was always the worst thing.

The fact that tomorrow was Sunday put an idea into his mind. There was a retired clergyman he’d known for many years. The Reverend William Latham had been their local vicar for decades. He’d conducted the wedding of Joe Cooper and Isabel Howard, and baptised all of their children, including Ben. He’d guided the young Ben towards confirmation and given him communion a few times. And he’d expressed his disappointment when Ben stopped going to church.

The Reverend Latham was rarely called on now. Retired clergymen were often relied on to stand in and conduct services when there were vacancies. But the old man generally declined invitations, preferring to let the younger clergy do the work. The last time Cooper saw him was at his mother’s funeral.

But he knew Latham was still around. He sent a Christmas card every year – one of the few cards Cooper still received with an overtly religious theme, usually a nativity scene with angels and shepherds. He wasn’t sure the old vicar really believed in the Nativity story, or anything that appeared in the Old Testament. An air of irony always seemed to seep from his cards when they were opened. Sometimes there was a subtle joke included in the message inside. The Reverend Latham definitely had a subversive sense of humour.

Like a lot of Victorian clergymen, Bill Latham had an obsessive interest in history, particularly stories from the past of his own parishioners. Unlike the Victorians, he’d never had time to indulge his interest while he was serving as a Church of England minister. The old joke about only working one day a week hadn’t been true for a long time. A vicar was more likely to be rushing from one parish to another, attending meetings and training courses, and involving himself in the community. But since he’d retired the Reverend Latham had made up for lost time.

‘Ah, young Ben,’ he said in surprise, when Cooper called him. There was a short pause, during which Cooper could almost hear the old clergyman mentally checking through his recollection of the stories he’d heard and making sure he’d got it right. ‘I was so, so sorry to hear about your loss…’

‘Thank you. It’s in the past now.’

‘Of course.’

In fact, Latham had taken the trouble to write to Cooper at the time of Liz’s death – a long handwritten letter that arrived at Bridge End Farm addressed to him, along with the more usual sympathy card. Cooper still had the letter, stored away in its envelope. He’d taken it out and read it a few times during those months on sick leave and alone at home in Welbeck Street. It was strange how much comfort you could glean from a few heartfelt paragraphs written by someone you respected, a man who’d played an important part in your life. They didn’t need to share a religious belief for that to matter.

‘So you’re keeping well, Ben?’

‘Yes, I’m fine.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

Latham enquired about the rest of his family. Once he’d dug into his memories, they seemed to start flowing unstoppably, like a rusty tap being turned on. He not only remembered Matt and Claire, but he knew the name of Matt’s wife Kate and recalled that they had two children.

‘Two girls, am I right? They must be, oh … I suppose they’re almost grown up now. It’s been such a long time.’

‘They’re teenagers anyway,’ said Cooper.

‘Ah. Well, perhaps not such a long time, then. It’s difficult to keep track. And your Uncle John and the rest of the family?’

‘All fine.’

‘Good, good.’

Latham paused, possibly feeling that he’d achieved a success. He must be approaching eighty now. Cooper remembered him as being very active and fit, so he was pleased the old man’s mental faculties seemed to be intact too. It encouraged him to ask the favour he wanted. The reaction was enthusiastic.

‘Oh, I’d be delighted,’ said Latham.

‘Are you free today?’

‘Any time you like.’

‘I’ll pick you up later,’ said Cooper.

Geoff and Sally Naden were sitting together in an interview room at West Street. Mr Naden had managed to tame the wild tufts of grey hair that had sprung from the sides of his head when Cooper saw him in the churchyard at Hartington. But his expression hadn’t improved. He still looked just as angry.

His wife sat primly next to him, her arms folded and her knees pressed tightly together, as if she were afraid of touching anything. Perhaps she was frightened of being contaminated by the taint of crime that might be staining the table and seeping out of the walls. Cooper couldn’t really blame her for that. He sometimes thought he could smell it himself.

‘Mr and Mrs Naden, thank you very much for coming in,’ said Cooper, sitting down across the table from them. ‘We really appreciate your help. This is my colleague, Detective Constable Villiers.’

Carol nodded and smiled. Her smile always looked genuine and trustworthy. She could play the ‘good cop’ role very well, if required.

‘We saw the appeal on the news,’ said Mrs Naden. ‘It was asking for people to come forward. If they were in the area where … you know.’

‘Yes, that’s correct.’

Her husband looked surprised and irritated that she seemed to have appointed herself spokesperson. There was a definite edginess between them. It dawned on Cooper that it might have been his wife that Mr Naden was thinking about yesterday, when he was wielding that rake so passionately.

‘We heard there had been an incident,’ said Naden. ‘A body.’

‘You did the right thing,’ said Cooper. ‘It could be very useful to us. But we’ll try not to keep you too long. If you could just tell us in your own words what you saw or heard that night.’

‘Well, it was dark of course,’ said Naden.

‘Ah yes,’ asked Cooper. ‘Is it your usual practice to go for walks at night?’

‘It wasn’t that late actually,’ said Mrs Naden. ‘It was barely dark at all. Dusk, really.’

‘It’s the quietest time,’ put in her husband.

‘Anyway,’ said Sally hurriedly, as if she thought he’d said the wrong thing, ‘we saw something, so we thought we’d better come in and tell you about it. Didn’t we, Geoff?’

‘No, we heard something,’ said Naden. ‘To be accurate.’

His wife pursed her lips. ‘I,’ she said firmly, ‘I thought I saw something.’

Her husband sighed. ‘I’m afraid my wife has a bit of an overactive imagination, Detective Sergeant Cooper. She starts putting two and two together in her mind and gets five, then she convinces herself it’s a scientifically proven fact. I’m sure you must know what women are like.’

‘Er…’

Cooper could sense Carol Villiers shift uncomfortably next to him, as if about to argue. But Villiers was no Diane Fry. She wouldn’t let any animosity show. She knew when to hold her tongue and let people talk.

Mrs Naden’s face was set into rigid lines, her mouth turned down at the corners. She looked sour and obstinate. It was probably her normal expression.

‘Perhaps we could just let you tell your stories one at a time,’ suggested Cooper.

‘Certainly,’ said Naden. ‘I’ll go first, shall I?’

‘Well, that was the trouble, right from the start,’ said his wife. ‘He insisted on going first, as always. He thinks he knows better than everyone else. But he’s usually wrong.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Naden, turning slightly pink. ‘If you’d just shut up for a few minutes—’

Cooper held up a hand. ‘We’re not here to offer marriage guidance counselling,’ he said. ‘So if you don’t mind, could we stick to the subject?’

Now they both looked offended. But there was a limit to anyone’s patience.

‘Well, we were just there, that’s all,’ said Naden sullenly.

Mrs Naden tapped her fingers on the table, then seemed to remember the risk of contamination and tucked her hands hastily into her lap.

‘And what did you hear, sir?’

‘A noise. You’ll ask me to describe what kind of noise, of course.’

Cooper nodded expectantly.

‘Screaming, I suppose you might call it. But not, you know…’

‘What?’

‘Well, it didn’t sound like someone being attacked, if you know what I mean.’

‘Mmm. Not exactly.’

‘Shrieking,’ said Mrs Naden, ‘is what I would have called it. If I’d been asked.’

Cooper looked from one to the other. ‘Would you agree with that, Mr Naden?’

‘It might just have been high spirits,’ he replied.

Sally Naden snorted derisively and her husband began to look angry again.

‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘someone was definitely there. That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it?’

Cooper turned to Mrs Naden. ‘And you say you might have seen something.’

‘I believe so. Just … something white, there in the trees.’

‘Something white? A person? Or a light, perhaps?’

‘I don’t know. It could have been either.’

‘You’re not certain, Mrs Naden?’

‘No,’ she admitted reluctantly.

Geoff Naden tilted his head on one side and regarded Cooper seriously, as if about to pass judgement.

‘You see, we’re all much better off when we just stick to the facts, aren’t we?’

Mrs Naden coughed and glanced at Villiers’ notebook.

‘Detective Sergeant,’ she said tentatively, ‘you spoke to my husband yesterday in the churchyard at Hartington.’

‘Yes, Mrs Naden.’

‘Do we take it that the person who was killed … well, was it Sandra Blair?’

‘Actually, we’re still waiting for a formal identification,’ said Cooper.

She nodded. ‘I understand. We did wonder. We know her a bit, you see.’

‘From the tea rooms,’ said Naden.

‘Yes, from the tea rooms,’ agreed his wife.

Cooper smiled at them. It was quite satisfying to see the Nadens in agreement for the first time since they’d arrived at West Street.