Текст книги "Dead and Buried"

Автор книги: Stephen Booth

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

‘Of course I will.’

‘You know what they used to call me, don’t you? Mad Maurice.’

Cooper nodded. Some people still called him that. He doubted whether Wharton would want to hear it, though.

‘Well, that was me,’ said Wharton. ‘Mad Maurice. Not this pathetic thing that I am now. I’d like them to remember me as Mad Maurice, the terror of the Light House. Will you tell them that?’

‘I’ll be happy to, sir.’

‘Right then.’ He laughed weakly. ‘So, if we’re done here – why don’t you bugger off? Haven’t you got a home to go to?’

19

At Bridge End Farm, Matt Cooper looked round for Amy and Josie, then drew his brother across the yard towards the machinery shed, to be out of earshot.

The big shed where the tractor and equipment were kept had always been Matt’s territory, and he treated it like a den, a place to go when he wanted to get away from the family for a while. Certainly, the girls had been well taught as children that they had to stay away from farm machinery.

‘You know what it’s like,’ said Matt uneasily.

‘No. Tell me.’

‘The thing is,’ said Matt, ‘not everybody has much faith in your lot these days.’

‘My lot?’

‘Yes, your lot. You know what I mean.’

‘The police.’

‘Yes.’

‘You can say it, Matt. It’s not a dirty word.’

‘Well, that’s a matter of opinion.’

‘Oh?’

Matt rubbed the sleeve of his shirt against the side of the big green John Deere, as if trying to wipe away a speck of dirt. It looked a bit futile given the amount of mud caking the wheel arches. The tractor was overdue for a wash.

‘Some of the lads …’ he said. ‘Well, they don’t have anything good to say about the police these days. There have been far too many farms in this area targeted by thieves, and the cops have done nothing about it, except hand out crime numbers for insurance claims. It’s no use when you’ve lost a vital bit of kit, or your best calves have vanished in the back of some toerag’s trailer. People are finding that it’s affecting their businesses, and their families are getting frightened, and there’s no one they can turn to for protection.’

‘I’ve heard all this before,’ said Ben.

‘Yes. Well you’re going to hear it again, a lot more. And it won’t just be from me. I’m warning you, that’s all.’

Ben could see that Matt was nervous. The fact that his brother was a police officer had always been a bit of problem for him, constantly putting him in an awkward position where he was trapped between a rock and a hard place. The turning point had come last year, when Matt had taken the law into his own hands and shot a burglar in his yard. The moment he was handcuffed and arrested for attempted murder was the point when he decided whose side the police were on.

It was a common enough story. Ben himself felt uncomfortable sometimes when he heard about normally law-abiding citizens who found themselves on the wrong end of the criminal justice system for defending themselves and their property, or who got a speeding fine for doing forty-two miles an hour on an open road. These were the same people who saw burglaries and criminal damage being committed without any apparent effort by the police to investigate, and whose lives were made miserable by antisocial behaviour carried out with impunity.

For months now, he’d been hearing complaints that the Metropolitan Police had been happy to baton-charge peaceful pro-hunting marchers from the Countryside Alliance, but had stood by and watched as rioters burned and looted half the city.

In this country, policing was supposed to be conducted by consent. But more and more often it seemed that the police were losing the support of the public. Whose side are they on? was a common cry.

‘I’m sure you’re able to talk sense into these lads, if they got the wrong idea,’ said Ben.

‘Well …’

‘Aren’t you, Matt?’

‘I’ve tried. But it’s a losing battle. I’m sorry, Ben, but that’s just the way things are going.’

‘So they won’t talk to me.’

‘They say they have nothing to tell.’

‘Then the conversation won’t take long.’

‘There are two people still missing, Matt. And Aidan Merritt – did you know him? He got his head bashed in at the Light House the other day.’

‘Yes, I know.’

Matt looked over his shoulder, fiddling with the tools on his workbench. Ben found himself beginning to get irritated by the pointless clatter. His brother had called him to the farm, so he must have something useful to say.

‘Matt, you understand – it’s either me or someone else they’ll have to talk to.’

His brother sighed. ‘Okay, I can set something up. They’ve said, as a last resort, that they’ll meet you on neutral ground.’

‘What is this? Neutral ground? Are we at war now?’

‘That’s what they said.’

‘And these are people who were at the Light House the night the Pearsons were there?’

‘At the Young Farmers’ do, yes. They were down in the bar part of the time, playing pool. They know pretty much everyone. It’s the best I can do.’

‘All right, I suppose I’ll have to take it. What neutral ground?’

‘The old field barn on the Foolow road.’

‘I know where that is. Tonight?’

Matt looked at his watch. ‘Yes, if you can manage it. I just need to make one phone call.’

Ben nodded. So Matt’s contacts were just waiting for the call to come out and meet him. It had all been a bit of play-acting really, that show of reluctance. They had both known the outcome.

Cooper was on a quiet stretch of road half a mile from Bridge End Farm. The road became very narrow and winding here, and the surface deteriorated, as if it was about to peter out into a farm track, the way some Peak District roads did. Only if you were familiar with the area did you know that you had to drive on for a few hundred yards to emerge on to a decent surface again, where the road crested the brow of the hill and began a descent into the valley.

The lights of the town would come into view by the time he reached that point. But here, with the trees overhanging the dry-stone walls, there was no light to speak of.

He glanced in his mirror.

‘What the heck …?’

The car behind him was approaching too fast.

He felt a violent bump, and the Toyota slewed sideways, the nearside front wheel almost slipping into a shallow ditch just short of the stone wall.

Cooper fumbled to unfasten his seat belt. But by the time he’d opened his door and struggled out of the car, the vehicle that had bumped him was gone, disappearing into the darkness. He knew it was white, that was all. A white pickup. He couldn’t be sure of the make, though he vaguely thought it looked Japanese. He had no clue about the number plate. It might have been obscured with mud. He might just not have been looking.

He cursed quietly. He’d be useless as a witness. With an hour or so, he’d be wondering whether the shunt had really been deliberate, or if it could just have been an unfortunate accident.

Still shaking slightly from the shock, he got back in his car, reversed it on to the road and carried on. What else was there to do?

The field barn hadn’t been used for a while. Not for its proper purpose, anyway. At some time it had become surplus to requirements on whichever farm it belonged to. Too inconvenient for storing hay, too expensive to maintain, impossible to get planning permission for a conversion. So it had stood, damp and deteriorating, half of its roof fallen in, the ground around it scattered with sheep droppings.

Cooper steered the Toyota off the road and into the gateway. He killed the engine, but left the headlights on for a moment as he examined the building. It was big for a field barn, divided into two sections by a brick wall that was completely out of keeping with the pale limestone the building had originally been constructed from. The side nearest the road had been occupied by sheep in recent months. The other half had been used for housing farm equipment, and the doors were high and wide enough to get a tractor in. The roof was more intact too, with only the occasional missing tile that would show light through in the daytime.

Recent tyre tracks ran in from the road. The doors at the far end of the barn stood open, and he looked for the glint of a headlight or reflector that would indicate a vehicle parked partially out of sight. It was difficult to tell in the dark, with his headlights only just reaching, but he thought the barn was empty.

He got out of the car, locked it carefully and took a few paces into the field.

‘Hello?’ he called.

But there was no answer, except for a chattering of rooks in a copse of trees across the road. No traffic passed; there were no houses in sight. The field itself was empty too, the grass looking as if it might have been reseeded and left to establish itself. He turned and looked at the gate. An old chain hung from it, but it was broken off where it had been attached to an iron bolt in the stone wall.

‘Hello?’ he called again. ‘Anyone there? It’s Ben Cooper, Matt’s brother.’

Still silence. He didn’t know how many people were here to meet him. He couldn’t even be sure of their intentions at second hand. In other circumstances he would never have come alone, without backup. He certainly would have made sure someone knew where he was going. But this was different. It was more personal.

And someone did know where he was, of course. Matt had arranged this meeting, or had at least passed the message on. His brother was complicit in whatever happened. That ought to be reassuring.

He moved forward a few more feet, smelled the odour of sheep from the open end of the barn. There were no sheep here now, but they’d left their mark in more ways than one. His boots squashed a carpet of black pellets underfoot as he moved.

‘I arranged to meet someone here,’ he called. ‘Where are you? Come on out and let me see you.’

No answer. No sound of movement, no light of a torch to let him see where someone stood in the darkness. He took half a dozen more steps. The further he got from the road, the darker it seemed to become. That must be an illusion, because there were no street lights out here. The entire area was deep in that true darkness you only ever got in the countryside, when the sky was overcast with cloud as it was now. No stars, no moon, no glimmer of illumination from a nearby village or lights of traffic on a main road.

‘Damn,’ he muttered.

He was standing just short of the open doors now, so close that he would have been able to hear the tick of an engine as it cooled. He knew this must be a test. They wanted to see how he would react, what sort of person he was. It was a typical game to play. He ought to stop at this point, go back to his car, fetch the torch that lay on the back seat, switch the headlights on to light up the building again. But that would look as though he was scared. It would be a retreat. He knew that at least two pairs of eyes would be watching his every movement from somewhere in the blackness. He couldn’t look weak, or they might just drive away and he would never get a chance to talk to them and hear what they had to say.

Cooper felt in his pocket for the reassurance of his ASP, the extendable baton carried by CID officers. Folded, it was small enough to be unobtrusive, but it extended to eighteen inches of steel with a flick of the wrist.

He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, thinking, Well, Matt, I hope you know what you’re getting me into.

When the two men appeared from the barn, they had balaclavas over their faces and carried weapons in their hands. Cooper was too busy trying to make out their eyes to take in the details of what they were threatening him with. So he missed seeing the first blow coming, and it caught him off guard. The impact in his side sent spurts of agony up his arm and down into his left leg.

‘Stop. Back off. I’m a police officer.’

‘We know that.’

The second blow came too quickly for him to react. It struck from behind, an impact with a heavy object on his back, throwing him forward. He stumbled as he tried to keep his balance. Don’t go down, you mustn’t go down.

A third swing from his assailant glanced off his shoulder and struck his temple. Cooper fumbled for his ASP, twisted his body, struck out at the dim shape looming out of the night. He heard a curse of surprise as the ASP hit home.

But then someone else grabbed him from behind. Cooper jabbed an elbow backwards and felt it sink into cushiony flesh. A whoosh of breath past his ear was followed by a relaxation of the grip on his neck. He twisted his hips and grabbed at an arm, forcing it back against the wall. He was vaguely aware of the size and weight of the body he was heaving against – a billowing torso and clumsy limbs, as if he was wrestling a king-size mattress.

He struggled to get a grip on something, but his fingers slid off the surface of a waxed coat. He could smell the wax itself, and deeper smells ingrained into the fabric. He saw the business end of a baseball bat swinging back for another strike.

Then lights came over the hill and swept across the field, briefly illuminating a corner of the barn.

‘Shit,’ muttered one of the men. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

The arms released him, and he dropped to the floor. He heard the confused sounds of running feet, an engine starting up, doors banging, someone shouting.

Groggily, Cooper picked himself up and felt the side of his head. There was no blood, but it was painful, and he could feel a lump developing where the the bat had hit him.

He lifted his eyes at the sound of a vehicle slowing, and peered into the headlights to see a familiar face behind the wheel. The car stopped, a door opened and the driver jumped out.

‘Matt? What are you doing here?’

‘Thank God. Ben, are you all right? What happened?’

‘What do you think? Somebody jumped me.’

‘Why would they do that?’

‘Because I was asking too many questions in the wrong place?’

‘What questions? Who could be so worried about questions?’

‘Actually, I thought you might know, Matt.’

His brother flinched away. ‘What?’

‘In case you hadn’t put two and two together, I was attacked right after you talked to your mates who used to be in the Young Farmers Club.’

‘No.’

‘Oh yes. It’s hardly open to debate.’

‘They wouldn’t do such a thing,’ said Matt.

‘I think so. But I’m just wondering whose side you’re on.’

‘I never wanted for this to happen.’

But Ben could hear the doubt in his voice, and see it in his eyes. He still knew his brother well enough for that. He’d retained some of the ability to read Matt’s thoughts in an expression or a small gesture.

‘If your friends had nothing to do with the Pearsons, what are they so sensitive about? Why do they object to people asking questions?’

Matt looked distressed.

‘I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to be the one who told you this, Ben,’ he said.

‘What? What?’

‘There was something going on at the Light House, something that had nothing to do with drinking beer. Maurice Wharton had lock-ins, you know.’

‘Why? What was going on?’

‘Drugs, they reckon.’

‘I had no idea. You mean someone was dealing at the Light House?’

‘Yep.’

‘Did Wharton know about it?’

‘I couldn’t say. Though it’s hard to imagine him not being aware of what went on at his pub.’

A blue Land Rover drove in to the gateway and stopped.

‘Who’s that?’

‘The lads you were supposed to be meeting,’ said Matt.

‘What?’

‘They phoned and said you weren’t alone, that someone else was here.’

‘So who were those guys?’ said Cooper. ‘I must have been followed. Was it a white pickup?’

‘Ben, I have no idea.’

20

Ben Cooper woke up the next morning sore and angry. When he looked in the bathroom mirror, he could see a bruise developing rapidly on his temple. His hands were scratched and raw where he’d grappled with his assailants, trying to get a grip on a waxed jacket and a bloated body.

He’d reported the incident, without any expectations of a result. He was unable to identify the two men, and the farmers who’d turned up with Matt knew nothing about them, or what sort of vehicle might have been following him.

Turning his face from one side to the other in the mirror, Cooper hoped that nothing like this happened just before the wedding. He’d be in big trouble then. Very big trouble.

He had the impression that Gavin Murfin was whistling as he entered the CID room at West Street that morning. Murfin seemed to have perked up considerably since the arrival of Diane Fry. Everything he did was contrary to his previous behaviour. He’d disparaged Fry for years, referred to her in private as the Wicked Witch of the West. Now he seemed glad to see her.

It gave Cooper an uneasy feeling. In Murfin’s present end-of-term mood, he might be planning something drastic. A final farewell that would ensure he was remembered for ever, his name enshrined in station legend.

Murfin placed his bag carefully on the desk, looking thoughtful. Over the years, Cooper had learned that his colleague could occasionally produce a flash of insight from his long experience in CID. This might be one of those moments, if he was lucky.

‘What are you thinking, Gavin?’

Murfin sniffed. ‘I’m thinking about what’s in this bag.’

‘Which is?’

‘A steak and kidney pie and a vanilla slice.’

‘What else have you been buying?’

‘Oh, nothing.’

Cooper peered into the bag.

‘Blow-up Bonking Baa Baa? Seriously?’

‘Stag night,’ said Murfin, snatching the bag away.

‘No need to be embarrassed, then.’

‘I’m not.’

‘That had better not be for me, Gavin,’ said Cooper.

‘Course not. I wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘Who else is getting married, then?’

‘No one you know.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really. I do have a life outside the office.’

‘A mate down your local pub, maybe?’

‘Could be.’

‘Well you don’t have any other social life. Unless you’re in the habit of making friends at the chippy.’

Becky Hurst was shaking her head in disbelief. ‘Blow-up Bonking Baa Baa. Does that sort of thing still go on at stag nights? Incredible.’

Irvine laughed. ‘What? Are you saying women don’t get up to the same sort of stuff on hen nights? Have you seen Edendale town centre in the early hours of a Sunday morning?’

Cooper leaned towards Murfin and spoke to him quietly.

‘We need to talk, Gavin.’

‘All right, I don’t mind.’

‘And I mean soon. When we go off shift today.’

‘It’s a date.’

Cooper straightened up again, turning back to face the room

‘What’s going on then? Anything?’

‘You asked me to track down the vehicles owned by Ian Gullick and Vince Naylor,’ said Irvine.

‘Yes?’

‘Gullick has a blue Ford Transit van. He’s a market trader, so that makes sense.’

‘And Naylor?’ asked Cooper.

‘A Toyota Hilux pickup.’

‘A pickup? What colour?’

‘White.’

‘Of course it is.’

For a moment, Cooper forgot his bruises. Were things starting to come together at last? If so, it would be worth it.

‘Did we know that Maurice Wharton was an ex-copper?’ he asked.

Irvine nodded. ‘Yes, it’s in the files.’

‘It’s not unusual to find a retired police officer running a pub, is it?’ said Villiers.

‘He wasn’t retired. He got kicked out. Gross misconduct.’

‘Was he bent?’

‘No. He put the boot into a suspect once too often. You wouldn’t have heard about him because he wasn’t serving in this region. He was down in London, in the Met. He was rooted out of the Territorial Support Group in one of the Met’s regular clean-ups.’

‘It’s hard to imagine.’

‘He went to seed a bit after they dumped him,’ said Murfin.

‘You can say that again.’

‘He’s a big guy, though. At one time, when he was younger and kept himself fit, he would have been pretty intimidating.’

Diane Fry entered the CID room, came to a halt in front of Cooper and tilted her head on one side to examine his bruises.

‘I suppose you’re going to ask what happened,’ said Cooper.

‘No, I heard.’

He wondered for a moment who would have rushed off to spread gossip to Diane Fry. She wasn’t usually the sort to be whispering in a huddle over the coffee machine. But then he remembered her ability to enter a room unobtrusively, a trick that must allow her to overhear all kinds of things.

‘I gather there’s even a suggestion that it was some members of the local farming community who were responsible,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know there was a provisional wing of the National Farmers Union.’

Cooper gave her a curt nod. It seemed the only suitable acknowledgement to the closest that Diane Fry had ever come to making a joke.

‘Someone else’s blood on David Pearson’s anorak,’ he said. ‘So what happened, do we think?’

‘The Pearsons did something bad, and realised they had to disappear?’ suggested Irvine.

‘They attacked or killed someone? But who?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it? Apart from the timing being so far out, you’d think it might have been Aidan Merritt.’

Fry snorted. ‘Oh yes. Out by around two and a half years, that’s all.’

‘It would be convenient, though. We’d solve two mysteries at one go.’

‘Have we got any other theories, aside from these fantasies?’

Everyone was silent, until Hurst chimed in. ‘We’ll just have to hope for a DNA match from the blood.’

‘Is that the best we can do?’

No one answered, and Fry sighed.

‘It looks as though it is.’

‘Otherwise, we’re going to ask all the same questions that were asked before?’

‘Yes, and as many more as we can think of,’ said Fry.

‘Why?’

‘If you ask enough questions, the person who’s lying will eventually change their story. Anyone who’s telling the truth can’t do that.’

‘A small bunch of regulars were looked at closely by the original inquiry team. Vince Naylor, Ian Gullick.’

‘Their stories tallied.’

‘Everyone’s stories tallied. At least anyone who was sober enough to remember what happened.’

‘You left a name off the list,’ said Hurst.

‘I know. Aidan Merritt. It’s too late to ask him any more questions.’

‘It had to be someone local.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, who else was in the immediate area apart from locals?’

‘Nobody that we know of, apart from the party of four tourists we can’t identify.’

‘What about guests staying at the Light House?’

‘They’d already stopped taking bookings before Christmas, remember? There was no one staying at the Light House.’

‘No one?’

‘Well, no one who wasn’t local. No one except the Whartons themselves.’

‘Is that right?’ Cooper turned suddenly to Murfin, who stopped chewing whatever it was he’d surreptitiously sneaked into his mouth. ‘Gavin, when you finally got to the Light House that day, it must have been a few hours after the Pearsons had been reported missing?’

‘Of course.’

‘Who was there?’

‘At the Light House? Just the Whartons, and a couple of regulars.’

‘Which regulars?’

‘Ian Gullick, Vince Naylor. They were always there. Practically lived in the place. They spent every hour they could in the games room.’

‘It was the day before Christmas, though.’

‘So?’

‘Hasn’t everyone been telling us that the Light House was always closed over Christmas? If the pub was shut, what were Naylor and Gullick doing there?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You didn’t ask?’

‘Ben, we were in the middle of a major search operation, not to mention the effects of a snowstorm. It never occurred to me to ask them what they were doing there. I suppose I just thought they were helping to clear the snow or something.’

‘How had they come? In a four-wheel drive, or what?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t remember seeing anything. When I think about it, I don’t think even a four-wheel drive would have made it to the pub in those conditions. Our vehicles couldn’t. We had to walk.’

‘Yes,’ said Cooper, picturing the depth of snow covering the access to the Light House from the road. ‘There’s only one way anyone could have got up there. It would have needed a farmer with a tractor.’

‘I’m amazed this wasn’t followed up at the time,’ said Fry. ‘Here are two individuals who might have had a grudge against the Pearsons. They were witnessed having an argument with them forty-eight hours previously, and they were on the scene not long after David and Trisha disappeared. What was the SIO thinking of?’

‘There were multiple witness statements taken from customers and staff who were at the Light House on the night after the argument,’ said Cooper. ‘Gullick and Naylor had no contact with the Pearsons that night. Maurice Wharton said he would never have let the two of them back into the pub if they hadn’t promised to behave themselves and stay away from the Pearsons. And by all accounts they did behave themselves. Apart from the angry words spoken the previous night, there was no suspicion against Naylor or Gullick, or any of their friends.’

‘We need to ask them some more questions.’

‘Of course. That’s what we’re here for.’

‘One more thing,’ said Fry. ‘Samantha Merritt gave us the names of some teachers she said her husband used to have a drink with sometimes after school. We talked to those teachers. And guess what? They said that a group of them often used to go for a drink, but that Aidan Merritt hardly ever joined them. They couldn’t explain why he would say that.’

‘And what do you think, Diane?’

She shrugged. ‘The usual reason would be an affair, wouldn’t it? You know, I’m going to be a bit late, dear – I’m just going for a drink with a few people from school.’

‘The usual reason,’ said Cooper. ‘But … Aidan Merritt?’

‘Why not Aidan Merritt?’

‘I don’t know. He just doesn’t seem the type.’

‘You never knew him. Or wait – did you? Maybe you had a private chat with him at the Light House some time? During the Young Farmers’ soiree maybe? A drunken get-together over a pint of Old Moorland, was it?’

‘No,’ said Cooper calmly. ‘I’ve just talked to a few people about him. That’s what we do. We get an idea of what sort of person the victim was.’

‘You don’t need to to tell me how to do my job.’

‘I’m not trying to, but—’

‘So can you think of another reason why Merritt would consistently lie to his wife about what he was doing after work?’

‘Well, no.’

‘Okay. Then perhaps we could explore the possibility that he was having an affair.’

‘Fine.’

‘That wasn’t too difficult in the end, was it?’

Cooper watched her leave. He wondered if Fry actually thought she’d won him over, convinced him with the force of her argument and brought him on to her side. Well, she might want to believe that. But all she’d done was convince him that he’d have to find a new approach to the problem.

‘We could try asking the first Mrs Rochester.’

‘Who?’

‘Betty Wheatcroft,’ said Cooper. ‘Mrs Wheatcroft was very upset by the death of Aidan Merritt. She’s a bit nervous about being on her own, I think. In fact, she seems to be developing irrational fears about someone coming to her house to attack her.’

‘Violence like that can be very worrying to old people. They feel vulnerable, and they don’t really know where the danger might come from.’

‘Yes, you’re right. But in my view she was a little too upset. It wasn’t just a general fear. I’m sure Merritt meant something to her personally.’

That morning, Superintendent Branagh sat Cooper down in her office. DI Hitchens was already there, leaning against the window. His jaw was set in a stubborn line, like a man who’d decided on a course of action and was determined to go through with it.

‘DS Cooper, how is your team settling down?’ said Branagh.

To Cooper, it sounded very much like preparatory small talk. His team had been settling down for months already.

‘Very well, ma’am. Thank you.’

‘I’m delighted to hear it. We’re in for rough times, you know.’

‘We’ll survive, ma’am,’ said Cooper. ‘We’ll survive.’

Branagh nodded, but he had the impression she hadn’t really been listening to the answer.

‘I hate having to bring in outside help,’ she said. ‘I would prefer to feel that the division can do the job with its own resources. As you know, there’s only one thing I detest more. And that’s leaks to the press.’

‘Yes, I’m aware of that.’

‘But we had no choice in this case. The Major Crime Unit have taken responsibility for the Merritt murder inquiry.’

She put an unusual amount of emphasis on the last few words. Cooper glanced at Hitchens, who raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement of some unspoken message.

The superintendent frowned, noticing the bruise on Cooper’s temple.

‘Did something happen to you last night?’

Cooper automatically touched the sore place. ‘No, it’s nothing.’

‘Not falling out with your fiancée over the wedding plans, are you?’

Cooper tried to laugh politely, but Branagh wasn’t fooled.

‘Oh well. None of my business, perhaps?’

‘Thank you for asking, though,’ said Cooper.

‘No problem. The thing is, DS Cooper, we want you to understand that the presence of officers from the Major Crime Unit doesn’t preclude us from taking appropriate action for ourselves when we think it’s necessary. For example, if new information should come to light in our ongoing inquiries into the disappearance of David and Patricia Pearson.’

‘Ah,’ said Cooper, a light beginning to dawn.

‘Which,’ continued Branagh, ‘I believe you’ve been working on.’

‘I have, ma’am.’

‘Well, I would be very happy to hear we’d made some progress in our part of this operation. A suspect or two brought in for interview, perhaps. That would be good news, wouldn’t it? The sort of thing that would reflect well on E Division’s capability. Do we understand each other?’

‘Perfectly,’ said Cooper.

He was sitting up straighter in his chair, feeling the adrenalin already surging through his veins at the prospect of action. Those bruises didn’t hurt at all, now he thought about it.

Cooper stood up to leave the office. Branagh held him back by fixing him with her steady, piercing gaze.

‘DS Cooper,’ she said.

‘Yes, ma’am?’

‘Remember what I told you. Any problems or concerns you have, feed them back to me via your DI here. You have our full backing.’

‘I haven’t forgotten,’ said Cooper.

‘In that case,’ she said, ‘I’ll take it you don’t have any problems.’

Cooper strode back into the CID room. Everyone looked up as he entered, as if sensing the new mood in the air already.

‘Luke,’ he said.

‘Yes, boss?’

‘Ian Gullick is running a greengrocer’s business, you said.’

‘He has a stall on the market in town twice a week,’ said Irvine. ‘The rest of the week he’s probably setting up pitches on other markets around the county. Chesterfield, Buxton, I don’t know where. But Edendale is his home ground.’

‘And what day is it today?’ said Cooper.