Текст книги "Dead and Buried"

Автор книги: Stephen Booth

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

5

An hour or so later, Ben Cooper was standing uncomfortably in the middle of a room. He was used to entering people’s homes, studying their furniture and bookshelves, getting an idea of the way they lived from an observation of small details. But this was different. He was being asked to examine things he wasn’t really interested in, and which seemed to have no significance. The size of the windows, the height of the ceilings, the decorative stonework on the exposed lintels. It was making him feel uneasy – especially when he was aware that he was being closely observed himself.

‘And look at this. We installed this ourselves.’

He found he’d been ushered into a bathroom. There was something very odd about four people crowding into a bathroom all at once, the whole lot of them gazing at a free-standing claw-footed bath with whirlpool effect, as if it was the prime exhibit at a crime scene.

The thought sent Cooper’s imagination spinning out of control. He began to picture a dead body lying in that bath, a head sprawled against the taps, blood pooling around a claw foot on the laminate flooring as it dripped from a slashed wrist. The wrist would be his if he didn’t escape soon. This house was making him feel suicidal.

‘Lovely, isn’t it?’

‘Oh … yes.’

Actually, it wasn’t this house, but all the other houses that had come before it. Number fifteen Meadow Drive was just the latest in a long series of properties he’d looked at this week, not to mention all the others last week and the week before. If he’d been asked, he would have suggested there were far too many homes for sale in the Edendale area right now. If it was a difficult time for the housing market, then surely some of these vendors should be holding off putting their properties on the market for a while. That would make the list shorter, at least.

Not that anybody was likely to ask him, of course. But he’d obediently turned up for the viewing appointment. He’d even taken the opportunity presented to him by Diane Fry to escape from the scene on Oxlow Moor. Normally he’d never have done that. Deep down, Cooper felt as though he’d abandoned a job half done. He hoped Liz appreciated the compromises he made for her.

‘Perhaps you’d like to talk about it.’

That was the estate agent. She was one of a long line of anonymous salespeople with a folder full of glossy brochures and a mouthful of misleading terminology. He’d learned that ‘easy to manage’ meant ‘not enough room to swing a cat’ and ‘full of period features’ meant ‘needs knocking down and completely rebuilding’.

Cooper nodded, and stepped outside. As soon as they were out of earshot, Liz leaned closer.

‘What do you think, Ben? I love it.’

‘We can’t afford it.’

‘But look at the size of the kitchen, and those fireplaces. Look at the garden, and the view. We won’t find anything better than this.’

‘But we can’t afford it.’

The estate agent looked round the edge of the door with a bright, artificial smile.

‘How are you getting on?’ she asked.

Liz smiled at her. ‘We need to talk about it a bit more.’

But as they walked back through Edendale town centre towards his flat in Welbeck Street, the one thing they didn’t do was talk about it.

Liz was good at this. She could detect his mood with great accuracy, and know exactly how to respond to it. She instinctively saw that it wasn’t the right time to discuss the subject most on her mind. He supposed this was how couples were when they knew each other very well. It had been a new experience for him over the last year or two, one which he would gladly get used to.

Instead, they chatted away about inconsequential things – the weather, their families, the gossip in the office, and of course the wedding arrangements. Well, perhaps not all so inconsequential.

‘This new evidence in the Pearson case,’ said Liz. ‘I suppose DS Fry is hoping to make it into a murder inquiry.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, it helps to justify her existence, doesn’t it? There’s no point in having a Major Crime Unit without major crime.’

‘You’re so cynical sometimes,’ said Cooper.

‘Come on, Ben. We all have to justify our existence these days.’

He had to admit that was true. They were all looking over their shoulders, wondering whether their job would be the next to be declared surplus to requirements in this time of austerity. When police stations were being closed and the most experienced officers forced into retirement, the concept of front-line policing was becoming less and less clear. No role or department was really safe from the cuts. There was no such thing as job security, not any more. If you couldn’t make a good case for the importance of your role, then you shouldn’t expect anybody else to be doing it on your behalf during all those meetings going on at headquarters in Ripley. Even for Liz, there was no immunity from cuts in her job as a civilian crime scene examiner.

They passed the little baker’s shop in Clappergate, which during the day had wicker baskets standing outside on the pavement and an ancient delivery boy’s bicycle strung with onions. A few doors down, the New Age shop was still there, though it wasn’t so new any more. Its rich smells of aromatherapy oils and scented candles and the glint of crystals in its window were strangely redolent of the 1970s.

On the corner of Hulley Road, near the market square, they stopped automatically in front of one of the estate agents and gazed at its darkened display of properties.

Most of their searching for a home was done online, just like everyone else. Liz had set up email alerts on all the main property sites. Rightmove, Primelocation, Findaproperty. Her search parameters were way out, in Cooper’s opinion. She’d set the maximum price too high, the minimum number of bedrooms too many, the requirements for a garden and double garage too ambitious. But it meant that suggestions were flooding in, without any effort on their part. Everything was found on the internet now. And yet there was something irresistible about an estate agent’s window when you were house-hunting.

Properties in the more desirable parts of old Edendale were well out of their league. The picturesque lanes of Catch Wind and Pysenny Banks, where the River Eden ran past front gardens filled with lobelias and lichen-covered millstones. Those were just a dream. The properties they were looking at were smaller, newer, less full of period features. But still too expensive.

‘Why would anyone visit an estate agent’s at night?’ said Liz. ‘Who would do that?’

‘We would,’ said Cooper.

She squeezed his arm. ‘So we would. We must be mad.’

‘I don’t think so. It’s nice to dream sometimes.’

‘That’s one of the things I like about you.’

In fact they’d looked at this estate agent’s window before, in daylight. It was very upmarket, handled high-end properties for equestrian interests and buyers with plenty of spare cash. If he looked, he knew he would see plenty of nice properties displayed on those boards. Old farmhouses full of character, with stable blocks and pony paddocks. But he wasn’t looking too closely, and he never would. The prices made his eyes water. They rose to seven figures and just kept on going.

‘We ought to have a list of estate agents,’ said Liz. ‘There might be some we’ve missed.’

‘Oh, of course. Why not?’

There was a list for everything. So many choices to be made before the day. Which photographer, what sort of music, whether to have a video made. If it wasn’t on a list, it didn’t exist.

Liz squeezed his arm.

‘Everything’s going to be perfect,’ she said.

‘Of course it is. Perfect.’

And he so wanted it to be perfect. For himself, he would be happy just to be married to Liz, no matter whether the ceremony was in the local register office or Westminster Abbey. To be married and planning the rest of their lives – that would be enough.

But he knew how important the wedding was for her. The bride’s big day and all that. And he aimed to make it absolutely perfect.

She was a little tired now, he could tell by her voice. It was such a warm voice, soft and caressing. He loved to hear that familiar sound, the intimate touch on his arm.

Cooper remembered standing right here once before, and catching their reflections in the glass of the estate agent’s window. It didn’t surprise him any more how well matched they looked. Being with Liz felt comfortable, as if it was what he’d always been destined for.

‘What are you looking at, Ben?’ she said.

‘Oh, nothing.’

‘Not that very, very expensive house, then?’

‘Er, no.’

‘Shame. I thought you might be having the same dream that I do when I see a property like that.’

Liz always looked small at his side, her dark hair shining in the street lights, her face lit up with a simple, uncomplicated pleasure. It delighted him that she could respond this way whenever they spent time together. Who wouldn’t love to have that effect on someone?

‘Kiss?’ she said, as if remembering the same moment that he was reliving.

He kissed her. And it was only then that he remembered it was her way of making him agree to anything.

Later, after he’d parted from Liz, Cooper entered his ground-floor flat at number eight Welbeck Street, just by the river near Edendale town centre.

He was only a tenant here, but it had been home for some time now. The flat carried its own significance in his life. It marked his break away from the family, the first place he’d lived in apart from Bridge End Farm, where he’d grown up. The day he moved into Welbeck Street had been the first real step towards independence. It was only after he left the farm that he realised quite how stifling the constant proximity of your family could be. He loved them all, of course. But it was such a relief not to have them around all the time.

But the flat would have to go soon. His landlady, Mrs Shelley, who lived next door at number six, was aware of his approaching marriage and the fact that he and Liz were house-hunting. She’d expressed her regrets about losing him, twisting her ancient cashmere sweater about her shoulders with hands that were becoming increasingly arthritic. The old lady found a lot of advantages in having him living right next door. She’d considered him available to call on in an emergency, even if it was nothing more urgent than changing a light bulb she couldn’t reach herself. And she appreciated the reassurance, she said. Young Ben was in the police, after all.

But when it came right down to it, he didn’t think she was sorry that he’d be giving her notice soon. She was ageing now, and becoming quite frail. The pain of the arthritis was etched more deeply into her face day by day. Cooper could see in her eyes when she talked to him that giving up the responsibility of having tenants would be a relief. In the first-floor flat there was a student called Matilda, from Lund in Sweden, gaining experience with a local placement before she completed her training. She would be gone at the end of the year, too.

And he had no doubt that number eight Welbeck Street would be put up for sale then, another property added to the housing market. This one would sell quickly, though. It was a small stone-built semi, and would make an ideal first home for a young family. The conversion into two flats hadn’t been perfect, and the stud walls were a bit shoddy, if the truth were told. But it had always felt comfortable to Cooper. Cosy, even. It would never suit Liz.

He took off his jacket and walked through the flat into the decrepit conservatory at the back, overlooking the garden. And there was another problem.

The cat came running towards him, tail up, purr like a motorbike engine. Cooper bent to stroke the tabby fur and look into the bright green eyes.

‘And I really don’t know what’s going to happen to you,’ he said quietly.

When everyone had finally left the scene on Oxlow Moor, Diane Fry reversed her Audi down the track, turned and drove back over the moor towards the deserted pub.

She’d measured the distance at about a mile and a half from the scene on Oxlow Moor. Not an easy walking distance. But Fry was sure she’d seen it. A figure, running through the smoke. Impossible to tell whether it was male or female.

The building was dark and silent, in a way no pub should ever be. Fry walked round the outside in the gathering dusk, examining the windows. Even the first floor had been boarded up. High above her, just a single dormer window set into the roof had been left uncovered. A determined vandal had managed to reach it with a stone, and the glass had shattered outwards from a small hole, as if it had been hit by a gunshot.

She did a complete circuit, and ended up standing outside the back door, which had clearly been forced open.

Fry pulled her jacket closer around her shoulders as she stepped through the broken door frame. She took two paces into the darkened pub, and stopped, all her senses twitching. Something was wrong, and it was right here. Her instincts had drawn her to it unerringly.

Slowly, she backed up. She fetched her Maglite from the Audi, and went back into the pub. The electricity supply was turned off, of course, and she had no hope of finding the consumer unit to switch it back on.

Bit by bit she swept the light around the room she’d entered. Not a room exactly, but a passage that seemed to widen out to her left into a storage area where empty cardboard boxes had been stacked.

The light of her torch showed that the dust on the floor had been disturbed close to the doorway. Not just footprints, but distinct signs of a disturbance. Two sets of feet at least, she guessed. Two or three people involved in a recent scuffle.

And what was that? Dark spatters on the floor, a spray of droplets spreading towards her, stopping just short of her feet. She smelled a familiar metallic tang. Not overwhelming, but definitely fresh. The odour was so distinctive that she felt the hairs stirring on the nape of her neck.

Fry took a step back towards the door, made another sweep of the interior, focused her beam on a darker patch in the shadows across the other side of the room. A huddle of clothes and awkwardly sprawled limbs.

She sucked in a sharp breath, all her suspicions confirmed.

‘My God,’ she said. ‘How did anyone miss this?’

6

Cooper had a message waiting for him next morning. He had to see Detective Superintendent Hazel Branagh, the head of E Division’s CID. That never boded well. But it was even worse when he had no idea what he was being summoned about.

Before he went up to the management floor, he took a couple of minutes to bring himself up to date on what had been happening overnight. His heart sank when he read about the discovery at the Light House. The incident report read like his worst nightmare. Especially when it began: Call received from DS Fry of East Midlands Major Crime Unit …

Damn, he said to himself when he’d digested the details. Better get it over with then.

The top floor at West Street was marginally more comfortable. A bit of carpet here and there, a recent paint job on the office doors. There was less of an air of desperation: no piles of evidence lying around waiting to be processed, no signs of the public intruding, let alone sweating suspects and drunks detained for a night in the cells.

Superintendent Branagh’s office was near the end of the corridor, where the quietness was itself intimidating. He knocked and was called straight in.

Whenever he looked at Branagh, Cooper couldn’t help remembering Gavin Murfin’s comment when he’d first set eyes on her: She’d look good in the front row of a scrum. It was the shoulders that did it.

‘Ah, DS Cooper,’ she said.

He knew it was serious then, just by the tone of her voice, the underlying hint of disapproval or disappointment. The super had always liked him, or so he thought. But things could change.

‘So. How did we miss a body in the pub?’ asked Branagh.

‘It was just bad luck.’

‘Worse luck that Detective Sergeant Fry made the discovery instead. One up for the Major Crime Unit. It makes us look incapable.’

‘I know,’ said Cooper. ‘Believe me, I know.’

He could have wished it was anyone else except Diane Fry. Even Gavin Murfin would have been acceptable, stumbling across the body while looking for a cup of tea. Murfin would have gloated, but it might have been bearable.

He knew Diane Fry. He anticipated that she would say nothing about it. But she would definitely look smug. Boy, would she look smug.

Branagh spread her hands on her desk, and looked at Cooper thoughtfully. They were strong hands, probably the strongest he’d ever seen on a woman. They inspired confidence in him, a feeling that he could rely on her leadership.

‘The death of the man found in the abandoned pub should be our first priority,’ she said. ‘It’s a fresh case, and we’re still in the first twenty-four hours. We’re far more likely to get a result.’

‘We haven’t even identified him yet, ma’am.’

‘Well, get on to it.’

‘There’s a briefing in half an hour,’ said Cooper. ‘DCI Mackenzie from the EMSOU.’

‘I know him,’ said Branagh. ‘Alistair Mackenzie will do a good job. But …’

‘Yes, ma’am?’

‘If you do have problems, talk to your DI, who will keep me in the loop. EMSOU need our help at the moment. We won’t let ourselves be pushed around by them.’

‘I understand.’

‘It would be nice,’ said Branagh, ‘if we could tie up the Pearson inquiry as well as the new case. David and Trisha Pearson are names that have been haunting this division for years. And not only E Division. The subject comes up regularly at meetings of the Senior Command Team. It’s never been forgotten. We hear about it often from the family.’

Cooper nodded. ‘I’ll make sure I get up to speed on the Pearson situation before the briefing starts.’

‘That’s an excellent idea.’

‘I wasn’t on duty myself at the time it happened,’ he said. ‘But I think I know someone who was.’

It was more than two years since David and Trisha Pearson had gone missing. Two visitors from Dorking in Surrey, they had been known to no one in the area until they disappeared. Now everyone had heard their names.

The Pearsons had vanished one night in December, when a snowstorm closed in suddenly as they walked back to their rented cottage. Their winter break in the Peak District had ended that night. They had been in their thirties, fit and active. But they had never been seen since.

It had been just before Christmas, too. Cooper knew what that would have been like. All over Derbyshire people would be winding down for a long break at home with their families, snatching up those last-minute presents, gathering for seasonal parties with their friends or office colleagues, going out and getting drunk on any old excuse. Well, who needed an excuse? It was nearly Christmas, after all.

That was how it had been for most people. But not for those who were obliged to work over the holiday period. There were always a few who drew the short straw. And they tended to let you know how they felt about it.

‘Yes, I was duty DC,’ said Gavin Murfin, when Cooper sat him down in a chair in the CID room. ‘Funny how I always seem to pull the Christmas rota. Anyone would think there was a conspiracy to land all the worst jobs on the local sucker. I must have a big neon sign on my head or something. Dump your unwanted shit here.’

Cooper signalled to the rest of the team, and they gathered round Murfin like a family listening to their ageing grandfather tell a favourite story. Becky Hurst sat upright with her arms folded and a sceptical expression on her face. Luke Irvine slouched casually in a swivel chair, eyes moving constantly from his computer screen to Murfin and back. Carol Villiers leaned against the wall, the light from the window behind her. Cooper perched on a desk and studied Murfin as closely as if he’d been a suspect in an interview room.

‘Did you go up to Oxlow Moor, Gavin?’ he asked.

‘Well, not at first. I was called out to the cottage where the Pearsons were staying. They were reported missing by the farmer’s wife, who’d gone to see if they needed anything after the snow stopped. That was quite late the next day, you understand.’

‘The day after they disappeared?’

‘Right.’ Murfin shivered at the memory. ‘It was damn cold up there. Snow on the ground, a wind that cut right through you like a knife. You should have heard me moaning about being dragged out of a nice warm office on a false alarm. We were having a bit of fun here, those of us who were in over Christmas. There were mince pies and everything.’

‘But it wasn’t a false alarm, was it, Gavin? Did the incident escalate quickly?’

‘I wouldn’t say it was quick. People are reported missing all the time – everyone knows that. And they were adults, after all. It wasn’t as if they were kids who’d run away from home. But given the weather conditions … well, there was a bit of concern about their welfare, like.’

Cooper could understand why Murfin sounded defensive. Decisions could seem mistaken with the benefit of hindsight. But no one wanted to call it wrong in the early stages and end up looking like a fool.

Murfin gazed round the circle of faces. ‘Well, the owners of the property had keys, so there was no problem getting inside the cottage. But we could already see the Pearsons hadn’t slept there the night before. In fact, no one had been there since before the snow started. There was a drift up against the door, and no footprints in the snow outside, except the owner’s. The cottage was cold, too.’

‘The Pearsons’ car was still there, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. A Range Rover, as I recall. Smart motor. It was covered over in snow, so it hadn’t been driven for a good twenty-four hours.’

‘That must have set alarm bells ringing.’

‘Right. People die of exposure in those conditions. But we had no idea at first where they might have been, what they’d been doing – what they were wearing, even. They might have gone to stay with friends, been picked up by a taxi. We just didn’t know. No one was keen to start making big decisions that would tie up a massive amount of resources over Christmas.’

‘What was the deciding factor in the end?’

‘We got hold of a mobile number. Either from the property owner or the agency who handled their holiday lettings. It must have been on their booking details, I think. That was David Pearson’s phone. We kept trying it and trying it, but there was no answer. It was dead.’

‘That must have been the phone we found in the peat.’

‘I guess so. Well, we started to get properly worried then. The incident went up the chain of command. And suddenly I was just an extra body in a crowd. And I’ve got to tell you, no one liked being called out at Christmas time. But they all did their bit.’

Murfin looked up suddenly. Cooper sensed a presence at his shoulder and turned, just as a new voice broke in. A voice he recognised instantly. Diane Fry.

‘And meanwhile,’ she said, ‘they were all hoping they could knock off work and get home, or to the pub, as soon as possible. Because no one wanted to start making big decisions, did they? God forbid. Especially not you, I suppose.’

One thing Cooper had never got accustomed to was the way Fry could appear unexpectedly. She was able to move almost silently when she wanted to. Most disturbing was the fact that you didn’t know how long she’d been standing there, listening.

Murfin’s face changed as he looked at her. ‘Wouldn’t you want to get home? Oh, but you don’t have a family, I forgot. Nothing for you to go home for.’

Fry’s lips tightened, but Cooper stepped in before she could respond.

‘This sort of thing doesn’t help. Diane, you’re welcome to sit in, but we need to listen. Go on, Gavin.’

Murfin waited to see if Fry took a chair. But instead she paced restlessly between the desks, her thin shoulders hunched like a prowling cat.

‘Well, it was a while before we managed to trace their movements. The Pearsons hadn’t told anyone where they were going, and of course the people at the pub where they’d been for dinner earlier that evening had no idea the couple were missing. It was a double whammy, if you like. That’s what caused the delay. Well, mostly.’

‘It could have been what caused their deaths, too,’ said Fry.

She had remained standing in the middle of the room. Of course, she no longer had a desk in this department, but Cooper felt sure she did it deliberately, to make everyone else feel uncomfortable.

‘If they died,’ replied Murfin stubbornly.

Fry raised her eyebrow. ‘You’re on the “deliberate disappearance” side of the argument then, are you?’

‘Yes, they legged it, without a doubt,’ said Murfin. ‘It’s obvious. They were about to get pulled by the fraud squad in Surrey, so they did a bunk with the cash. I reckon David Pearson planned the best time to make a break for it, when they were away from home anyway. And they set up that delay for themselves so they had time to put some distance in before anyone noticed they were gone. They played us all for idiots, as if they knew exactly what we do.’

‘And … what? David Pearson deliberately left his wallet and phone behind?’

‘Of course he did. It makes no difference.’ Murfin leaned forward, directing his comments at Fry. ‘It’s what I would do myself, if I was going to change my identity. I wouldn’t carry proof of who I really was. The Pearsons wouldn’t care if their stuff was found, not once they’d got clear. In fact, you know what? I reckon they’ve been laughing at us all this time for not finding those things sooner.’

When the impromptu meeting broke up in preparation for the full briefing, Cooper took Fry to one side.

‘Gavin could be right, you know,’ he said.

‘When did that ever happen?’

‘He has experience,’ said Cooper. ‘More experience than you or me. Doesn’t that count for anything, Diane?’

‘The actions taken in the initial stages of the inquiry were flawed,’ said Fry impatiently. ‘And the first mistake was sending DC Gavin Murfin.’

Exasperated, Cooper watched her go, walking down the corridor to greet her DCI from the Major Crime Unit. He shook his head in despair. He seemed to have spent a huge part of his life watching Diane Fry walk away.

‘But hey,’ he called. ‘Diane – what about the victim you found at the Light House?’

Fry paused just for a moment, barely breaking her stride.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Don’t you worry about that, DS Cooper. The investigation is in good hands this time.’

Cooper nodded, reluctantly forced to accept her answer, and even the tone it had been delivered in.

But it was true what he’d said. There were very few murder cases that dragged on for months, let alone years. Usually the story was an obvious one. A body turned up, and a suspect presented himself on a plate. Charges were brought and the crime went down in the files as detected.

So there was a powerful temptation to use the logic in reverse. If a case like the Pearson inquiry had gone on for years, with no sign of a body, the chances were high that it wasn’t a murder. Experience alone suggested that conclusion, and statistics backed it up.

So Gavin Murfin was far from alone in the opinion he’d formed. He might just be the only one prepared to voice it so openly right now.

DCI Alistair Mackenzie had arrived to take charge as senior investigating officer. He was a big man, over six feet tall and wide across the shoulders. A bit top-heavy perhaps, carrying too much weight above the belt to be fast on his feet. He had a shrewd stare, and a habit of tilting his head on one side when he looked at you.

Fry had begun to get used to him. She liked to know who she was dealing with, particularly if they could be influential in her career. She’d weighed him up when they’d worked together briefly after he was drafted into E Division for the Bridge End Farm inquiry. She didn’t think he’d be difficult to handle, even though he’d once accused her of being a farm girl. That impression she could dispel pretty quickly.

‘Everything all right, Diane?’ asked Mackenzie.

‘Yes, sir. Fine.’

‘It’s a bit strange to be back among your old colleagues so soon, I suppose?’

‘It’s not a problem.’

‘That’s what I like to hear.’

Fry knew he liked to hear that. She’d heard him say it before. The DCI wanted to think his officers could cope with anything. Finding yourself back among your former colleagues, the ones you’d tried so hard to escape from, was definitely nothing to worry about. It was no problem. No problem at all.

In a back street in the north of Edendale, a white Mitsubishi L200 pickup was parked at the kerb outside a semi-detached council house. People on the street passed it without comment – barely noticing it, in fact, seeing just another workmen’s vehicle. Repairs were being carried out on some of the homes on the Devonshire Estate. Vans, pickups and builder’s skips had been a common sight in the street for months.

The paintwork of the Mitsubishi was spattered with tarry black specks, as if it had been parked under a sycamore tree. But that wasn’t unusual either. The clouds of smoke drifting over the moors had been depositing sooty debris far and wide, ever since the first moorland fire had started in the Peak District six weeks ago.

So when two men appeared from one of the houses, no one took any notice of them. After they’d driven away, not a single passer-by in the street could have said what the men looked like. No one could have had a guess at the make or registration number of the pickup. A few wouldn’t even have been sure that it was white.

But that was always the way with memories. There was almost nothing you could rely on as being completely accurate.