Текст книги "Dead and Buried"

Автор книги: Stephen Booth

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

‘There’s one more thing,’ he said.

‘Spit it out, then. I’ve got plenty of things to do.’

‘I think you’re coming down too hard on Luke and Becky. They’re my team. You don’t have any right to talk to them the way you do.’

Fry gritted her teeth before she spoke.

‘Have you any idea how frustrating this is for me?’

‘What is?’

‘To think that I’ve finally got away from this place – and then to find I have to come back, and it’s full of all these irritating little Ben Cooper clones that I’m supposed to work with.’

Cooper found himself breathing too quickly, the surge of anger coming so fast that it frightened him.

‘Luke and Becky? They’re good kids. I can’t believe you said that.’

‘Try taking a look at yourselves from the outside, that’s all.’

She began to turn away, which angered him even more.

‘You can’t—’

‘Yes I can,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘I can do anything I like now. And there’s no way you can hold me back any more.’

DI Hitchens had his office door open, and called Cooper in when he saw him passing in the corridor. The DI still looked tired. Perhaps even more than ever. He had the air of a man battling a long, slow war of attrition. And a man who also knew he was losing.

‘We have a visitor arriving in Edendale tomorrow,’ said Hitchens.

‘Who?’

‘Mr Henry Pearson. That’s David Pearson’s father.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘He’s been campaigning for years to find out the truth about what happened to his son and daughter-in-law.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Cooper. ‘He was in the papers every week for quite some time.’

‘And on TV, making appeals to the public. Until the media eventually lost interest.’

‘As they always do.’

‘It was worse than that, though,’ said Hitchens.

‘What do you mean?’

‘There was that theory about what had happened to the Pearsons. The deliberate disappearance, you know?’

‘That was total conjecture, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, but it was picked up by the media with unholy enthusiasm. They don’t like stories where the outcome is just left hanging. Their readers get frustrated. So the suggestion that David and Trisha Pearson had planned their own disappearing act and were living abroad somewhere under false names was perfect fodder for them. They took it and ran with it for months. Even now, if you do an online search for their names, you’ll come up with page after page of stuff on the internet supporting that theory. Countries where they’re living have been suggested. People say they’ve seen evidence that they’re still alive – photos, emails, credit card purchases. You know the sort of thing.’

‘We must have pursued those leads at the time.’

Hitchens laughed. ‘Of course. Well, the ones that seemed to have any merit, anyway. You can’t just sit on your hands, no matter how much you think they’re rubbish. You’ve got to be seen to be doing something, especially these days. Otherwise you get bombarded with complaints about police inactivity and incompetence. turning a blind eye or looking the other way. Corruption even. So, yes – a lot of those reports were followed up, and none of them turned out to have any merit. It was all conspiracy theory stuff. People love it, don’t they?’

‘And Henry Pearson?’

‘He became a victim of the conspiracy theorists. Because he was so high profile, because he was so vociferous in his efforts to argue that David and Trisha had met some tragic end, he turned himself into a target. The accusations were that he was the cover-up man, that he was making as much fuss as possible to distract attention from what had actually happened. People said that all his emotional hand-wringing was just an act designed to influence the direction of the inquiry, to ensure that all our attention was focused on conducting a futile search for bodies.’

‘Did he do a lot of emotional hand-wringing?’ asked Cooper.

‘Actually, no,’ admitted Hitchens. ‘I always thought he was very calm and controlled. I was impressed with him. It seemed to me that he always put his points across powerfully, but very reasonably. There was a logic to his arguments. If you’ve had much experience of bereaved family members, you’ll appreciate how rare that is, Ben.’

‘Naturally. Very few people can keep emotion out of their reactions in a situation like that.’

Hitchens nodded. ‘Mind you, I’m not saying Mr Pearson was never emotional. He and his wife came up here when David and Trisha were first reported missing. They both went through the emotional stage. But Henry was the stronger of the two. He got himself under control pretty quickly. We found that very useful in the early days. He was able to give us all kinds of information that we asked for. In the end, though, that was one of the problems.’

‘Problems?’

‘In a sense. You see, the information Mr Pearson gave us actually supported the theory about a deliberate disappearance. Without Henry Pearson’s assistance, it would have taken us a lot longer to find out what his son had been up to.’

13

At the house in Manvers Street, on Edendale’s Devonshire Estate, the door was answered by a woman in her mid-forties, with hair in blonde streaks and a hint of hardness in her eyes. A lifetime spent in the pub business could leave some individuals jaundiced about humanity. In fact, any job where you dealt with the public all the time could do that to you, as Diane Fry knew only too well herself.

‘We’re looking for Maurice Wharton,’ said Fry.

The woman looked at him oddly, a stare with no perceivable emotion.

‘Well you’re too late,’ she said.

‘Why? Where has he gone?’

‘He’ll be up there in the cemetery soon.’

She jerked her head towards the slope that led up to Edendale’s new burial ground. Fry studied her more closely, seeking a clue to her emotional state. Grief was difficult to interpret sometimes. She might just have caught this woman at an early stage, before the shock had worn off and the barriers came down.

‘I’m very sorry. And you are Mrs Wharton?’

‘I suppose so. I still carry the name, don’t I?’

Fry glanced at Hurst, but she was too good at maintaining a neutral expression on her face to give anything away.

‘I apologise if it’s a bad time, Mrs Wharton,’ said Fry. ‘But we do need to speak to you. It’s about the Light House.’

Mrs Wharton shook her head wearily. ‘Oh, the Light House. I thought we’d buried that, too.’

She ushered Fry and Hurst into the house. A teenage girl stood in the hall, a thinner version of Nancy Wharton.

‘Are you the police?’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Kirsten Wharton, this is my mother.’

‘We’re sorry to hear about your father.’

Kirsten shook her head. ‘He’s not actually dead.’

‘What? But I thought your mother just …?’

‘Mum gets like that sometimes. I think she’s trying to get used to the idea that Dad will be gone soon.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘He has pancreatic cancer. Terminal. That’s what they call it, isn’t it? When they’re trying to tell you someone is going to die, without actually spelling it out.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Fry again.

The teenager shrugged. ‘It’s no skin off your nose, I suppose.’

They entered a cramped sitting room. The room wasn’t just small, it was stuffed with too much furniture. Fry had to squeeze past the arm of a large black leather sofa and a couple of armchairs to reach a cream rug laid in front of the fireplace. The rug covered the whole of the available floor space, except for a few glimpses of carpet in the gaps between display cabinets, standard lamps and occasional tables lining the walls. The mantelpiece and the shelves of the cabinets were packed with china and brass ornaments.

She turned and looked at the fireplace, but a large gas fire stood on the hearth in front of it. A real coal fire wouldn’t be possible here – its heat would scorch the furniture and roast the feet of anyone sitting so close to it.

Fry would have liked the chance to study the ornaments more closely, and to examine the bookshelves, if there were any. Those details could tell you a lot about the owner, more than any number of personal questions.

But that wasn’t possible here. Even if Mrs Wharton wasn’t standing looking at her expectantly, she couldn’t have reached a single display cabinet without moving the rest of the furniture out of the room first.

She recalled the deserted owner’s accommodation at the Light House. There had been far more space for the Whartons when they were living there. Two adults with two children? They could have spread themselves out as much as they wanted. Some of this furniture might even have been in the bar, or the dining area. But there was no way they could have brought everything with them to this council house in Edendale. Other items might be in storage somewhere, but a lot must have been left behind as fixtures and fittings, all part of the package for a potential buyer at the forthcoming auction.

‘About the Light House?’ said Mrs Wharton. ‘Go on, then.’

‘There’s been an incident.’

She looked unperturbed. ‘Yes, I heard there’d been a break-in.’

‘More than a break-in. One of your old regulars got himself killed there.’

Nancy looked up then, her face creased in puzzlement.

‘Killed?’

‘Haven’t you been following the news? Didn’t you know someone had been killed?’

‘No, I suppose I must have missed it.’

‘Mum has more than enough on her mind,’ put in Kirsten. ‘She doesn’t have time for worrying about what’s going on in the news.’

Fry turned to her. ‘Not even when it’s at the Light House? I thought someone would have mentioned it to you.’

‘We’ve lost touch since we moved into town. We never see anyone. Do we, Mum?’

Nancy was still looking at Fry intensely.

‘Who was it?’

‘Aidan Merritt. Do you remember him?’

‘Yes, I remember him. He drank at the pub a lot when it was open. But what was he doing there …?’

‘We don’t know. I was hoping you or Mr Wharton might be able to help.’

‘You were wrong there, then.’

‘But you must recall the Pearsons? David and Trisha?’

‘Oh, the tourists who went missing.’ Nancy sounded weary to the core now. ‘We know nothing about them. We knew nothing then, and we know nothing now. What’s the point of going over it?’

‘Is your husband well enough for us to speak to?’ asked Fry.

‘I told you, he’s dying.’

In fact she’d said that he was already dead, but Fry let it pass. She looked at Kirsten instead. She was what? Fifteen or sixteen? But she seemed very mature for her age, the way some teenagers were these days.

‘Dad is in the hospice,’ said Kirsten. ‘St Luke’s, here in Edendale. He won’t be coming out again now.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yes, you said. We didn’t believe you the first time.’

Nancy stood up. ‘There’s no way I would let you talk to Maurice, even if he was well enough. I’ll phone the hospice right now and tell them not to let you through the door. If you try to harass him, I’ll make your life hell. Give the man a bit of peace in his final days.’

It was clearly a waste of time. On her way out, Fry looked at Nancy Wharton again, noting that hint of hardness in her eyes. The result of a lifetime in the pub trade? Perhaps.

But Fry reminded herself that Nancy had gone through particular troubles of her own in the last couple of years. She’d lost the Light House after a fruitless struggle against financial difficulties, and now she had to deal with the husband’s terminal illness, which was likely to be another long, futile battle.

Betty Wheatcroft lived in an old cottage right on the outskirts of Edendale. It must have been in a village once, but the town had swallowed it up decades ago. Now the cottage, and a few others like it, was sandwiched between the clubhouse of Edendale Golf Club and a small industrial estate whose units housed an MOT test centre and a signmaker’s.

When he got out of the car, Cooper inhaled the air, detecting an all too familiar smell. Even on the edge of Edendale, a hint of acrid smoke was on the wind. He looked at the roof of a car parked outside the nearest house. Black flecks speckled the surface like the first spots of a dark, soot-filled rain.

As soon as he knocked, a woman’s face appeared round the edge of the door and scrutinised his ID.

‘Detective Sergeant Cooper, Edendale CID,’ he said. ‘Are you Mrs Wheatcroft?’

‘Come in, come in,’ said the woman. ‘Don’t stand outside. Our neighbours are like the CIA – they’ll have the binoculars and microphones trained on you already.’

Cooper thought she was joking, but she took hold of his sleeve and almost dragged him into the hall.

Betty Wheatcroft had wild grey hair, and her eyes showed a faintly manic gleam. If there had been any weapons in the room, a kitchen knife lying on the table maybe, he wouldn’t have felt entirely safe. As it was, he found himself checking his route to the door, in case he needed to make a hasty retreat. Strange, how that fixed stare could be so unsettling. He supposed it was an instinctive fear of insanity, a primal distrust of the unpredictable.

‘It’s very distressing,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been able to eat since I heard. I haven’t been out of the house.’

‘There’s no need to be afraid, Mrs Wheatcroft,’ said Cooper.

‘Are you sure?’

She looked towards the window, as if fearing a murderer stalking her street. But what threat could there be to her from the golf club or the MOT test centre?

‘Aidan,’ she said. ‘Yes, I knew poor Aidan. Shocking business. Shocking. But that’s the sort of thing that happens these days, isn’t it? It goes on all over the place. None of us is safe. We’re not safe even in this street. That’s why the so-called Neighbourhood Watch knock on my door all the time.’

‘Aidan Merritt,’ said Cooper, realising straight away that his main task would be to keep Mrs Wheatcroft on track. He was very accustomed to these visits to old people living on their own. They were often lonely, and didn’t get many visitors. The result was that they seized eagerly on any human company and the chance of a bit of conversation. It was one of the things that made them so vulnerable to distraction thefts, and attractive as prey for the smooth-talking conmen who pretended to be from the electricity company. Many elderly people had lost hundreds of pounds just because they wanted someone to talk to.

But this was his last job of the day, and he hoped the visit wouldn’t stretch out too long. Liz had plans for the evening. She’d lined up a viewing of her preferred wedding venue, and his presence there was essential.

‘I felt sorry for him, trying to teach children these days,’ said Mrs Wheatcroft. ‘It must be a thankless task. Schools are all about targets and test results. You don’t really get a chance to teach them anything. Well, that’s what I told him. And he seemed to agree with me.’

Cooper smiled as he looked round the interior of the cottage. Plenty of books and papers in haphazard piles, framed photographs of a younger Mrs Wheatcroft with groups of small children, a home-made farewell card covered in scrawled signatures.

‘Were you a teacher yourself, Mrs Wheatcroft?’ he asked.

‘Yes, how did you know?’

‘It was just a guess.’

‘I worked in local schools for thirty-five years,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen some changes, I can tell you.’

‘Aidan Merritt,’ said Cooper. ‘Who else did he talk to at the Light House?’

‘Oh, well … I suppose there was that Ian Gullick. Horrible man.’

‘Gullick?’

‘He’s a van driver, delivers motor parts to garages or something.’ She chuckled. ‘At least he does when he’s got his driving licence.’

‘Meaning?’

‘He got banned from driving.’

Mrs Wheatcroft’s look of satisfaction was unsettling. The smile was a little too smug – the contentment of a trick or spell that had worked successfully.

‘What happened?’ asked Cooper.

‘He had too much to drink at the Light House one night. Not that that was unusual. But he’d made himself particularly obnoxious that evening. Someone called the police and reported him for drink-driving. But he’d never actually tried to drive away. He was arrested while he was sleeping in his van in the pub car park. The police found the keys in his pocket, and charged him with being drunk in charge of a vehicle. Banned for twelve months.’

‘So who reported him? Who made the call?’

‘How should I know?’

Cooper was starting to get a bit irritated by the way people answered his questions with another question. Especially that one. How should I know? It was always employed to sound like a denial, but it was actually just another evasion.

‘There were a few others,’ said Mrs Wheatcroft. ‘Vince Naylor. Mmm … not many, though. Aidan was a bit of a loner, actually. You might say he was quite odd, in a way.’

Interesting. Those names had already been mentioned earlier, in the office. Ian Gullick, yes. And Vince Naylor. Cooper made a discreet note.

‘The night before the Pearsons disappeared,’ he said, ‘there was another group of visitors in the pub. They were seen talking to the Pearsons.’

‘Not local?’

‘No. Visitors.’

She ran a hand through her hair, disarranging it even more.

‘I think I remember. They were from down south somewhere.’

‘They were staying in a holiday cottage nearby too, were they?’

‘Rented, yes. Most visitors are only around for a week or two.’

Cooper gazed out of the window, and saw that the edge of the moor was just visible beyond the green at the ninth hole of the golf club.

‘If you can remember the name of those people, or where they came from in the south, that would be a big help,’ he said.

Mrs Wheatcroft looked at him with a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘Watford,’ she said. ‘They came from Watford. I can see them now, sitting in that corner near the window. I can see their matching cagoules and woollen sweaters. And I can hear him talking about the football club. They came from Watford.’

‘You went to the Light House often, didn’t you?’

‘Not that often,’ she said cautiously. ‘Not on my pension. Besides, I don’t have a car. I needed a lift to get up there. Either that or a taxi, which is too expensive for a pensioner like me.’

‘And that night?’

‘I went with my daughter. She’s divorced.’

‘And was Aidan Merritt there?’

‘Yes, of course.’ She leaned closer, with a conspiratorial half-wink. ‘But there was one night the previous week when his wife was there on her own.’

‘Mrs Merritt?’ said Cooper in surprise.

‘Samantha, that’s her name. Plain-looking girl. She ought to put in a bit more effort. But I had a bit of a joke with her.’

‘Did you, Mrs Wheatcroft?’

‘I told her that if she sat on her own in that place, she’d be pestered by men all night. But she didn’t seem to care.’

Cooper frowned. ‘Do you think Samantha might actually have been there with the intention of picking up a man?’

Mrs Wheatcroft gave a short laugh, then shook her head again. ‘No, that’s wrong. I shouldn’t laugh. We don’t know anything about other people’s lives, do we? She might have been doing that, for all I know.’

‘Did you see her talking to anyone?’

‘No, I don’t think so. There were people around her, at other tables. But she didn’t seem to be speaking to anyone.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes. Well … pretty sure.’

Mmm. Perhaps a hint of a memory there that might surface later?

‘If you do remember anything later, Mrs Wheatcroft, please give me a call. It could be important.’

‘Yes, I see that.’

‘And it was definitely Watford, was it?’ asked Cooper. ‘The town those visitors came from?’

She looked surprised. ‘Watford? No, no. Coventry – that was the place.’

Mrs Wheatcroft beamed at him, her face lighting up with a smile that suggested pride in an achievement. Cooper recognised that look. He’d seen it often in his own mother as she grew older – that delight in plucking a name from the air that had almost managed to elude her. After a while, every accurate recollection became a minor triumph.

Then she frowned.

‘Or it might have been Northampton,’ she said.

Cooper sighed. When he looked at Mrs Wheatcroft again, he realised that she was just like his mental image of the typical madwoman in the attic – the first Mrs Rochester perhaps, prone to alcoholism and fits of violence.

The impression was so strong that Cooper found himself expecting an insane laugh to follow him as he left her cottage and walked back towards the gate.

14

Cooper’s life was becoming dominated by lists. Their headings ran through his mind like a well-practised litany. Organists, choirs, cakes, cars, bells, banns, veils, vows, videos, rings, dresses, flowers, music, DJs and seating plans for the reception. Bridesmaids, bouquets, ushers, pageboys, speeches, guest lists, gift lists, hen nights and centrepieces for the tables at the wedding breakfast. Even honeymoon outfits, for heaven’s sake. If they ever made it that far.

He’d bought Liz a Kindle for Christmas. The first books she’d downloaded were The Complete Wedding Planner and The Step by Step Guide to Planning Your Wedding, closely followed by Get into Shape for your Wedding Day. Well at least she’d stopped looking at brochures for destination weddings in the Seychelles.

There was a list of potential wedding venues too, of course. The venue currently top of the list was deep in one of the wooded dales on the banks of the River Wye, not far from Bakewell. It was a former mill owner’s house, quite a fanciful piece of gothic architecture in itself, but standing in a wonderful position, with twenty acres of woodland and the most fantastic views over the river.

Liz had her eye on the floral arcade for an outdoor ceremony. It was bit optimistic, given the vagaries of the weather in this part of the world. But no bride ever expected her wedding day to be spoiled by rain. Everything was going to be perfect, including the weather.

There was always the orangery, where the reception would take place. Cooper measured the distance by eye. It wasn’t too far to run if the rain started. Well, unless you were wearing a wedding dress with a train as long as the Monsal Viaduct. He wondered if it was one of the groom’s duties to carry the bride indoors to escape a thunderstorm, as well carrying her over the threshold of their new home. That wasn’t mentioned in any of the wedding planning guides.

Nor was the fact that their new home might only be a pipe dream, its threshold purely notional as well as symbolic.

‘The orangery can seat up to ninety, if we use the room that opens into it as well,’ said Liz.

‘Ninety?’

‘Up to.’

‘Do we even know ninety people to speak to?’

‘I’ve got a big family, especially on my dad’s side. There’ll be cousins coming from all over the place.’

‘Oh yes. The Scottish Pettys. Half of Dundee will be coming down on a coach trip, I suppose.’

‘And they can stay right here, Ben. It’s perfect. There are cottages in the grounds. They can accommodate up to fifty people at a time. No one will have to drive back home afterwards if they don’t want to.’

‘So they can all get well oiled on the Glenlivet.’

‘It is a celebration,’ she said accusingly.

Immediately he began to regret sounding flippant.

‘Yes, of course it is. The Dundee Pettys can drink as much Glenlivet as they want, as far as I’m concerned. I might even check to see if the bar has any Laphroaig.’

She squeezed his arm. ‘It’s going to be wonderful, you’ll see.’

‘Just perfect. Everything will be perfect.’

‘A lovely traditional wedding.’

‘Absolutely.’

Was an outdoor ceremony in a floral arcade particularly traditional? Cooper wasn’t sure. His brother had married his sister-in-law Kate at All Saints, the parish church in Edendale, followed by a buffet and disco at a local pub. That was what he thought of as tradition, though he supposed traditions changed over time, like everything else.

Well, he knew the wedding cake would be traditional. Liz had shown him a photograph of a four-tier confection from Love Cakes of Derby, covered in little iced flowers. At least it wasn’t a cupcake tower, which was what he’d been afraid of.

‘We can do photos in the grounds, and they say we can use the main staircase too, if we want,’ said Liz.

‘The staircase? Use it for what?’

‘You know, Ben – for the photos with the dress and the train spread out over the steps, and the bridesmaids behind me. It’ll look fantastic.’

‘Oh, okay. Am I in these photos, by the way?’

‘Only if you behave yourself.’

The orangery was nice, he had to admit. It had been restored about ten years ago to its early nineteenth-century elegance. According to the brochure, the restoration had received a commendation for its design from the Council for the Preservation of Rural England.

‘Okay, the staircase. Well, that’s a selling point.’

‘And look at the views.’

‘Yes, I can’t fault the views.’

Liz looked at her list. ‘So how many stars shall I give it? Four or five?’

‘Out of how many?’

‘I don’t know.’

Sometimes he thought it would be better if he just let Liz and her family get on with organising the wedding without him. But he always hastily put the thought aside, in case it popped out of his mouth in an unguarded moment. That would definitely land him in big, big trouble.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

‘Nothing.’

Cooper knew she wouldn’t believe him, but she accepted his answer for the moment. If she pressed him, he would find it very difficult to tell her what actually was the matter. The fact was, he was feeling guilty. He was bothered by a persistent, nagging certainty that he’d made a mess of the job last night, that he ought to have been the one to find the body of Aidan Merritt, instead of leaving it to Diane Fry. All right, it might not have made a huge amount of difference. An hour or two perhaps. But those first few hours were crucial, as everyone knew.

Besides, there was a question of pride. He would never live down the fact that a body had been lying a few hundred yards away, without him being aware of it. A murder victim, no less. It would haunt him for the rest of his career.

And the reason it had happened was simple. He’d grasped the opportunity to leave the scene on Oxlow Moor early because he had an appointment to view a property that he couldn’t afford to buy. He’d compromised his professional integrity to please Liz.

And the worst of it was something he could hardly explain to himself. When he looked at Liz now, and saw how happy she was, he even felt guilty about feeling guilty.

At Bridge End Farm, Ben Cooper stopped by the stable to say hello to his two nieces. The elder, Amy, was really growing up now. She was a proper teenager, a bit gawky, yet obsessive about her appearance. Josie wasn’t far behind either – there were only a couple of years between them. Matt would really have his hands full soon.

A few weeks previously, the girls had got the horse they’d always wanted. The eight-year-old chestnut gelding belonged to Amy really, a present on her last birthday. But the two girls were very close, and it was good to see them sharing the pleasure, as well as the hard work grooming and mucking out. The arrival of the horse had been a joint project anyway. They had been nagging their father about it for the past two years.

Ben suspected that emotional blackmail had played a large part in their strategy. Crucially, their mother had been on their side too. Kate’s opinion would have been a clincher.

Matt Cooper was coming back from the hill behind the farmhouse with the old sheepdog at his heels. They had been moving the sheep between fields. Ben could smell the lanolin from their fleeces, which had impregnated Matt’s clothes and the skin of his hands where he’d been handling the ewes to check them for foot rot.

Ben was reminded of Gavin Murfin’s jibe at Diane Fry, and her response: Trust me, I’ll be happy if I don’t have to see another damn sheep ever in my life. Not much chance of that in the Peak District. They were everywhere.

Matt watched his daughters busy with their grooming equipment.

‘That blasted horse costs a fortune,’ he grumbled. ‘It eats its own weight in hay and oats every day, and doesn’t produce a thing. And hay isn’t cheap this year, as you know.’

Matt looked tired. It was a busy time of year for farmers. Not that any time of year wasn’t busy. That was what Matt would have told him, if he’d been silly enough to ask.

But Ben didn’t need telling – his childhood at Bridge End had been ruled by the seasons. Not the usual seasons known as spring, summer, autumn and winter, but lambing, shearing, harvest, ploughing and all the other jobs in the endless round of activities that a farm demanded.

‘Well, I spoke to a few of the blokes who were in the Young Farmers back then,’ said Matt. ‘They’re not quite so young as they were, of course. But then none of us are. And some of them aren’t even in farming any more.’

‘What did they say?’

‘I told them you were asking about the Pearsons. They were aware of the couple in the bar, because they were strangers. I think we were all aware of them.’

‘Who did you talk to?’

‘I’m not giving you names.’

‘This isn’t a game, Matt. I’m trying to find out what happened to two tourists who went missing near the Light House and have never been found. They might be dead. The smallest bit of information could be useful to us right now.’

‘I know, I know. I’ve heard all that before. But there’s a question of loyalty, you see. I think you’ve forgotten that.’

Ben stared at him, feeling suddenly frightened by the huge gulf that had opened up between them. It had been widening for years, but now its extent was terrifying. It was as if he’d just looked up from his feet and found that the earth had opened in front of him. A yawning chasm was staring him in the face, a gulf far too wide to cross.

Sometimes it felt as though everything had changed since the death of their mother. In the years of her illness, Isabel Cooper had been the glue holding the family together. Without her, they had fragmented and gone their different ways. Now they hardly even knew how to communicate.

‘Who did you turn to when there was that incident last year?’ said Ben coldly.

‘Me? No one. It was Kate who rang you. And it was your friend Diane Fry who got me out of a cell.’

Of course the problem was that they had never really talked about that night. Now its memory lay between them, shocking and impossible to ignore, like a pool of blood on the carpet.

‘You know they wouldn’t let me get involved,’ said Ben.

Matt nodded abruptly. ‘Yes, because they thought there would be a conflict of loyalties. Isn’t that right? Don’t they give that as the reason? You don’t really understand it, though, do you? To you, it’s just procedure, a form of words, all written down in the rule book. To me, loyalty is very real.’