Текст книги "Scared to Live"

Автор книги: Stephen Booth

Соавторы: Stephen Booth
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

‘Have you thought through the employment implications, though?’

‘Ben, thanks for your interest, but if I want to discuss my employment conditions, I’ll do it with my DI or Human Resources.’

‘Fine, fine.’

Cooper went back to his desk. Like everyone else, he was aware that SOCA had been recruiting. The problem was that officers who joined the new serious crimes agency would lose their unique status. Instead of being classified as constables of the crown, guaranteed a pension and not subject to being sacked, at SOCA they would become agents – ordinary employees. As a result, the agency was struggling to persuade police officers to join.

But he could see Fry going. Promotion possibilities for her were limited in Derbyshire. There were only three DIs in the division, and seven DSs who might hope to succeed them, let alone detectives in other divisions, and uniforms who might want to transfer on their way up the ladder.

‘So where are you off to this morning?’ asked Fry as Cooper put his jacket on to leave.

‘We’re talking to the estate agent who sold Bain House to Rose Shepherd.’

‘Right.’ She watched Hitchens come out of his office and nod to Cooper. ‘You’re with the DI himself, then?’

‘Somebody has to be,’ said Cooper.

17

Peter Yates’s desk at Windsor and Ellis was modern and tidy, everything carefully arranged. When Cooper sat down in one of the chairs across from the estate agent, he found a polished silver frame facing him. It contained a photograph of a blonde woman and two young children, posing and smiling; a perfect family group.

‘Yes, I dealt with Miss Shepherd,’ said Yates. ‘But most of our business was done on the phone.’

‘What address do you have for her before she moved into Bain House?’ asked Hitchens.

Yates looked a bit troubled. ‘You’re sure it’s all right for me to give out this sort of personal information?’

‘Mr Yates, this is a murder enquiry.’

‘Yes, I was just checking. We have a reputation to keep, you know.’

Hitchens raised an eyebrow, but resisted making a comment. Estate agents generally came at the bottom of any popularity polls; neck and neck with used-car salesmen and politicians.

Yates turned to a file that had been waiting on his desk.

‘According to our records, Miss Shepherd gave the address of a hotel in London. You can have it, if it’s any use to you. I seem to recall that she travelled up by train when we had to meet. Actually, I’ve got a note here that she came up to Derbyshire only once for the viewing. She signed all the papers at her solicitor’s. That was about it, really.’

‘Wouldn’t you need a permanent address, Mr Yates?’

‘No. You might try her solicitors for that, or her bank. She was paying cash, you see.’

‘I see.’

‘The buyer’s solicitors in this case were also in London.’

‘So you just met her the one time?’

‘It seems so. I’m sorry I’m being so vague, but it was nearly a year ago. We deal with quite a number of prospective purchasers in the course of a year. Many of them we see once, or not at all. It’s the vendors we tend to remember – we see much more of them.’

‘What do you remember about Miss Shepherd? Anything, no matter how trivial …’

‘You know, I thought the notes in the file might remind me of something, but there was nothing of interest. It was a very straightforward transaction. She had no particular concerns about the property, nothing but the standard checks that her solicitors did during the conveyance. In fact, it was rather an unmemorable sale, apart from the fact that it was a substantial property on our books.’

Cooper showed him a copy of Rose Shepherd’s passport photograph. Neat grey hair and sharp blue eyes. Not the woman he remembered seeing on the floor of her bedroom.

‘Was this the person you dealt with, sir?’

‘Yes, I believe so. As far as I can recall.’

‘Do you know if Miss Shepherd had Bain House redecorated when she moved in?’

Yates looked surprised. ‘I couldn’t tell you. Why?’

‘I was in the house on Tuesday. I saw the sitting room. Off-white and charcoal grey – it seemed out of character, from what little we know of Miss Shepherd. I wouldn’t have thought she cared that much about the place to make design statements.’

‘Oh, that was the previous owners,’ said Yates. ‘They had big plans for the property, but I don’t think they got any further than the sitting room and the bathroom. They ran out of money.’

‘What a shame.’

Yates shrugged. ‘It happens.’

‘So the electric gates and security systems …?’

‘Ah, there was nothing like that. Miss Shepherd must have had it done. Very sensible, too. I would have recommended it, if she’d consulted me.’

They left through the displays of property: prestige homes in one window, compact semis in the other. ‘Image,’ said Hitchens when they were outside. ‘It’s very important to some people, Ben.’

‘Sir?’ said Cooper.

‘Did you notice the photograph of the family on Mr Yates’ desk?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Good, because you were meant to.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, he had the photograph facing towards us. We could see it, but he couldn’t. Doesn’t that tell you anything?’

Cooper thought about it. ‘If his family were really so important to him, the photo would have been facing the other way, so he could look at it. But it was aimed at his visitors – part of the office décor, designed to impress.’

‘Exactly. Mr Yates was sending out a message. He was saying “Look at me, I’m the perfect family man. You can trust me. Give me your business.” It only needs a few simple things to create a false image.’

Fry stood over the hospital bed and smiled. ‘Mr Mullen, I understand you’re about to be discharged. That’s good news.’

‘Yes, I’m not feeling too bad now. I can’t stay in this bed any longer – there are things to sort out. Henry and Moira have been brilliant, but there’s Luanne. She needs her dad.’

‘I understand. Are you going to stay with Mr and Mrs Lowther in Darley Dale?’

‘Yes, until I can get something else arranged.’

‘Well, Mr Mullen, we’ll need you to come back to Darwin Street as soon as you feel well enough.’

‘I’m not going to start sorting the place out yet. I can’t face that.’

‘No, of course not. But we’d like you to take us over the ground – you’re the only person who was familiar with the contents of your house.’

‘Contents? Like what?’

‘We’ll go into all that when we’re on site. We also have some photos for you to look at.’

Mullen looked anxious. ‘Not –?’

‘No.’ Fry shook her head. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t explain that very well. I meant photographs of items that we recovered near the seat of the fire. It’s important for us to establish if there was anything in the sitting room that shouldn’t have been there.’

‘All right. I see what you’re getting at.’

‘When do you think you could do that?’

Mullen looked at his bandaged hands. ‘As long as you don’t expect me to sign anything, I reckon I could do it now. Best to get it over with, eh?’

Fry felt like smiling at him for the first time. ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll have a word with your doctor. If I can get his agreement, we’ll do it today. OK?’

Eric Grice laid down his electric drill and blew stone dust off the wall. As he wiped a film of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, he left a small streak of dust on his temple.

‘And I suppose you’re flummoxed,’ he said.

‘Flummoxed? That’s an interesting word, Mr Grice. People usually say the police are baffled.’

‘Aye. But flummoxed is worse.’

Hitchens didn’t smile. People like Eric Grice rarely amused him. ‘We’ve been asking around the village since Tuesday for someone who had any contact with Miss Shepherd. It would have helped us if you’d come forward earlier.’

‘I don’t live in the village,’ said Grice. ‘My sister does, but she’s on her holidays this week. She’s in Jersey. Late autumn break.’

‘Where do you live yourself, sir?’

‘Matlock.’

‘It’s not a million miles away.’

‘In some ways it is.’

Cooper could smell the singed stone from the hole Grice had been drilling into the wall. It looked as though he was planning on erecting some trellis.

‘You know, it seems odd that so few people knew anything about Rose Shepherd when she was part of the village for the past year,’ he said.

‘Ah, well, she only seems to have been part of the village. As a matter of fact, Miss Shepherd might as well have been living in a separate universe from the rest of us. A different time and place altogether. That’s the impression she gave whenever I saw her, anyway.’

‘Did you see her often? She’s supposed to have been a bit of a recluse.’

‘A what?’

‘Everyone else says she didn’t go out of the house much.’

‘Oh yes, she was a right old hermit, if that’s what you mean. But there were some things she couldn’t do without.’ He shook his head. ‘You can’t live in this day and age and have no contact with another human being. It just doesn’t work.’

‘So where did you meet her?’

‘At her house, of course.’

‘Really?’

‘She sent for me to come round now and then. Whenever she needed some odd jobs doing. Not often, though. She tended to save them up – enough jobs for me to do in one visit, like. A dripping tap, a blown fuse, a few tiles off the roof. It seemed as though she could put up with a leak or the lights out for a while, and it didn’t bother her. She preferred it to having someone in her house, I reckon.’

‘You had the impression she didn’t like you being there?’

Grice fingered a set of yellow Rawlplugs, assessing the size of the hole he’d made in the wall. Then he snapped one off and held it for a moment between finger and thumb.

‘I was only ever there on tolerance – a necessary evil, you might say. It was like she had to grit her teeth before she even opened the door to let me in. Yes, a very private person, was Miss Shepherd. What name did you call that?’

‘A recluse.’

He nodded, as if filing away the word for future use. ‘A recluse. Aye.’

‘How many times did you go there?’

‘I don’t know. Five or six, I suppose. The last time was three weeks ago, to clear the guttering and sweep up dead leaves.’

‘Mr Grice, did Rose Shepherd ever talk to you while you were at her house? Did she tell you anything about herself?’

‘No, not her.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘Not a thing.’

‘Any little detail that she might have let slip could be useful to us. Why don’t you give it some thought –’

‘I don’t need to give it any thought,’ said Grice. ‘She never talked to me. She pointed out the jobs that wanted doing, then left me to it. She hid herself away somewhere, went up to her bedroom or something. I thought it was a bit odd at first. The second time I went up to see her, I tried to make conversation. Only to ask whether she wanted me to fix the loose corner of a carpet while I was there. But she didn’t want to discuss anything. In fact, she got a bit cross. She told me she’d get somebody else in, if I wanted to ask questions instead of doing the job. I reckon she meant it, too. After that, I didn’t even dare ask for a cup of tea.’

‘I assume she paid well.’

‘Aye, that was it. You do what the customer wants, especially if they’re paying over the odds.’

Hitchens was studying him carefully. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t see anything in all the time you were in Bain House, Mr Grice. From what you’ve just said, you were practically unsupervised. You must have been curious. Well, weren’t you?’

‘A bit. But I couldn’t snoop about the place. I didn’t want her to turn up suddenly and catch me at it. I’d have been out of a job definitely then.’

‘Even so, you’re an observant man, I’m sure. It would be hard to spend time at Bain House, as you did, and not notice anything.’

‘OK, there might be something that occurs to me. But I can’t imagine how it would be of any use.’

Hitchens smiled at him. ‘You’d be surprised. The smallest thing might be significant.’

‘All right. Well, like you said, I’ll give it some thought.’

‘By the way, we’ll need to take your fingerprints, sir.’

‘Why?’

‘For elimination purposes.’

‘I don’t know what that means.’

‘Well, since you visited Bain House several times, your prints will be there. We need to know which ones are yours, so we can discount them.’

‘Oh, I see. All right.’

Cooper looked at the work he was doing on the wall. ‘Did you say this house belongs to your sister?’

‘No, I just said she lives here.’

‘Who does she live with?’

Grice leaned towards him in a conspiratorial manner.

‘Can you keep a secret?’

‘Yes.’

He leaned a bit closer. ‘So can I.’

Brian Mullen hesitated for a long time outside the front door of number 32. Fry gave him space. She reminded herself that it was the first time he’d seen his home since the fire; in fact, the first time he’d seen it in daylight since he left the house for a night out with Jed Skinner.

‘Take your time, sir.’

‘I’m all right.’

Mullen seemed to regard her consideration as a spur to action. He stepped forward, and was guided into the house via the approach path, through the plastic tape marking the boundary of the crime scene. He almost stumbled in the hallway, as if he was suddenly lost and didn’t know which doorway to turn into.

Fry wondered if he even recognized the place as his own home. There was almost nothing left of the original décor now. The wallpaper was blackened, the furniture charred embers. Items that would have been familiar to Mullen had been removed completely during the forensic examination. Instead, the rooms contained these strange, colourful little displays. Crime-scene flags and disposable photo markers, dozens of white squares with reference codes written on them. The old film set was in the middle of being transformed for a new production.

One of the SOCOs went by carrying another pack of markers. Had they used a hundred in here already? Fry watched him unpack the flat, heavy-duty card, folding and locking the pieces into shape for use with the flags.

‘There were some toys and other items near the source of the fire,’ she said. ‘Could you identify them for us, sir?’

Fry showed him the photographs and the exact locations where the items had been found. They included the melted Barbie doll and the remains of the PlayStation console. Then there was the blackened Monopoly board – charred piles of fake money, and red and green blobs that had once been hotels and houses.

She knew this would be painful for him. But Mullen did as he was asked, fingering the photos as if they were mementoes of a holiday he vaguely remembered. He stood in the middle of the sitting room, balancing uneasily on the stepping plates because he’d been told not to touch anything or stand on the carpet.

‘I’ve never seen this before,’ he said.

‘What is it, sir?’

He tapped one of the photographs with a finger. ‘This thing. It looks like a kangaroo.’

Fry took it from him and checked the scene inventory.

‘It was logged in as a wooden dinosaur.’

‘It doesn’t belong here.’

‘Are you sure? It’s been damaged by the fire.’

‘A wooden dinosaur, you say?’

‘According to the crime-scene examiners, it’s made from varnished walnut, with leather ears. It would have stood about six inches tall in its original condition.’

Mullen shook his head. ‘No, the kids didn’t have anything like that. They were more into PlayStations and video games. Well, Luanne had her baby toys, too. But wooden dinosaurs? No.’

‘So where did it come from?’

‘I couldn’t tell you.’ He looked at the photos again. ‘Where would you buy this kind of thing?’

‘Who else might be in the habit of buying toys for your children?’

‘Their grandparents, of course. Or my brother-in-law, John. He and Lindsay saw a lot of each other – John might have picked the thing up somewhere, I suppose.’

Fry put the photos back in the file. The toy wasn’t important, really. Many fathers would be vague about what their children played with.

‘Let’s leave that for a moment then, sir. Just walk this way, would you? And mind where you tread. Stick to the stepping plates.’

Offering up a small piece of information seemed to have given Mullen confidence. At least he was doing something positive.

‘What do you want me to see now?’

‘The hallway, sir. The hallway is important. Although the fire started in the sitting room, it was the smoke filling the hallway and rising up the stairs that caused the real problem.’

‘I know about this. I tried to get into the house, if you remember. The smoke was so bad that I couldn’t see anything, or even breathe.’

‘Quite right. If the firefighters hadn’t pulled you back, you might well have been more seriously injured.’

‘So what do you want to know?’

‘I was wondering who left the door open from the sitting room into the hall. That was what provided enough air for the fire to get a hold. It was also what allowed the smoke to spread through the rest of the house. If the fire had been contained in the sitting room a bit longer, the alarm might have been raised soon enough for lives to be saved.’

Mullen said nothing, but stood gazing at the stairs. Behind him, his family liaison officer appeared, grimacing at Fry. But she took no notice.

‘Were the doors downstairs normally left closed at night, Mr Mullen?’

‘Which doors?’

‘From the sitting room to the kitchen, for example?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what about this door, the one into the hall?’

‘Well, maybe. But Lindsay might have left that one open. She sometimes did, if I was out. She knew I’d close it when I came home and went to bed. Only I didn’t …’

‘I know. I’m sorry if this distresses you, sir. Just one last thing. Were you aware of anyone hanging around near the house in the days before the fire? Did any of the neighbours mention someone asking questions about you and your family?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

Fry nodded at the liaison officer, who came forward and put an arm round Mullen’s shoulders.

‘I tested the smoke alarm every month,’ said Mullen, with some difficulty.

‘By pressing the button?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you realize that it only tests the sound of the alarm, not whether the detector itself is functioning?’

Mullen looked paler than ever. ‘No, I didn’t know that.’

Fry watched him for a few moments, but felt no nearer to getting inside his mind.

‘I’ll give you a lift to Darley Dale,’ she said. ‘That’s where you want to go, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, to my parents-in-law.’

When she’d got him in the car, Fry let him sit quietly for a while as they drove across Edendale. Many people would feel uncomfortable with the silence and want to make conversation. But not Brian Mullen. She left him to stew until they were out of town and heading towards the A6.

‘Tell me about the arguments you’d been having with your wife,’ she said.

‘What arguments?’ said Mullen.

‘According to your neighbours, there had been several rows between the two of you in recent weeks.’

He shook his head. ‘We had a row about the new carpet, that’s all. I didn’t think it was the most practical thing with three kids in the house. And I didn’t like the idea of Henry buying things for us all the time, either. I told Lindsay I could support my own family without his help.’

‘Yes?’

‘But she got her own way in the end. She could never say no to Daddy when he wanted to give her something. So it wasn’t much of an argument.’ Mullen twisted in his seat to look at her. ‘Is that what you meant?’

‘And the rest.’

‘No, no. We never had rows, as a rule.’

‘That’s not what I heard.’

‘Well, you’ve got it wrong.’

They entered Bakewell, and Fry had to concentrate as she negotiated the narrow streets and the busy roundabout in the middle of town. She was able to relax again as they approached the entrance to Haddon Hall. But there were only a few miles left now.

‘You told me earlier that Lindsay and her brother were very close,’ she said. ‘That can be a difficult relationship for a husband to deal with sometimes. How do you get on with John Lowther?’

‘Fine. Just fine.’

‘Not even a hint of jealousy, perhaps? If John bought presents for your children, it would be natural for a bit of resentment to creep in.’

‘Any resentment wasn’t on my side,’ said Mullen.

‘Ah. So you think your brother-in-law begrudged someone coming between him and the sister he was so close to? I can see how that might cause friction in the household. Did your arguments concern John?’

‘You’ve still got it wrong. And whoever told you that has got it wrong, too.’

And that was the last thing she got out of him. Mullen remained silent and sullen all the way to Darley Dale. Now and then, he glanced anxiously out of the window at people passing on the pavement, and once he gave a sudden start when a car pulled alongside them at the traffic lights. Fry had no idea what he was so worried about, but she didn’t think it could be her driving.

Finally, she dropped him off outside the Lowthers’ gate, and he thanked her ungraciously. Fry watched as Moira Lowther came out of the bungalow and hugged Brian near the chiminea. That was just like Mrs Lowther. Very keen on hugging people.

Instead of heading straight back to West Street, Fry decided to call at the mortuary to collect the pathologist’s report. Mrs van Doon was in her office and greeted her visitor personally.

‘Yes, all three of your victims had carboxyhaemoglobin levels over fifty per cent – which is sufficient in itself to account for death. Levels of up to ten per cent would be normal, anything more indicates inhalation of carbon monoxide. I believe there might also have been hydrogen cyanide present in the fumes from the fire. That’s a particularly potent toxin, with a rapid action.’

‘Where would that come from?’ asked Fry.

‘Hydrogen cyanide? It’s produced by materials which contain nitrogen – wool, silk. And polyurethane.’

‘Polyurethane, as in furniture foam?’

‘Yes, possibly.’

‘Which of those would explain why three people failed to escape from a house fire when they were woken by the smoke?’

‘Hypoxia resulting from high carbon monoxide levels. At the levels present in these individuals, I’d say they would certainly have been feeling ill and disorientated at the least. They might even have been unconscious.’

‘But we’re sure they died as a result of the fire?’

‘Yes. Soot particles can stain the mouth and pharynx of a person who’s already dead, but if soot is present beyond the vocal cords it means the victim was alive during the fire.’

The pathologist produced a photograph. It was meaningless to Fry, which was probably for the best.

‘All three post-mortems showed evidence of soot in the airways. The two children also had it in the oesophagus and stomach. Those black streaks on the mucus of the trachea indicate that your victims were alive at the start of the fire. Alive, but not necessarily conscious.’

The waitress from the Riber Tea Rooms had arrived at West Street to be guided through the process of producing some e-fit pictures of the people Rose Shepherd had met in Matlock Bath the day before she died. She did her best, but she wasn’t sure about the details.

‘Thank you for coming in anyway, Tina,’ Murfin was saying as Fry walked in.

‘It’s not much use, is it?’

‘You did your best.’

‘I’m really sorry. I wanted to help.’

‘Don’t worry about it. But if you happen to remember anything else, you will let us know, won’t you?’

Fry turned, and saw Cooper, watching the waitress leave.

‘Didn’t she give us much?’ she asked.

‘I’ve only just got back myself. But Gavin says we ended up with something as vague as her descriptions were: a woman in her thirties, a man who could have been any age, because she hadn’t really taken much notice of him. It was Rose Shepherd herself that Tina remembers best.’

‘Two adults – one male, one female. Who could they have been? There aren’t many possibilities cropping up in the Shepherd enquiry so far. I suppose there’s either set of next-door neighbours, the Birtlands or the Ridgeways …’

‘Frances Birtland works in Matlock Bath,’ said Cooper. ‘She has a part-time job at the Masson Mill shopping village. But she’s well past her thirties.’

‘Still, it’s a connection of a kind. How far is it from Masson Mill to the tea rooms?’

‘Half a mile or so.’

‘Close enough for her to have nipped out for an hour.’

‘Her employer would have to cover for her, in that case.’

Fry nodded. ‘True. It’s getting a bit complicated for a chat over the teacups. And we’d have to place her husband in Matlock Bath, too. According to your interview report, his health isn’t too good.’

‘There is another couple we might consider,’ said Cooper. ‘Though we’ve only had contact with one of them so far.’

‘Who do you mean?’

‘Eric Grice and his sister. She lives in Foxlow. And Grice is the one person who knew Miss Shepherd and has actually been inside Bain House.’

‘You’re right,’ said Fry. ‘We ought to ask one or both of them what they were doing on Saturday, if only so we can eliminate them.’

‘We’ll have to wait to speak to the sister. Grice says she’s in Jersey.’

‘What did you make of this handyman? Do you think he was telling the truth?’

‘Of course not. I bet he was all over that house like a rash, given half a chance. Imagine – the whole village is speculating about the mysterious occupant of Bain House, and our Eric is the only one with access to the place and the chance to talk to her. There must have been all kinds of things he noticed.’

‘He’s just not ready to tell us yet, right?’

‘But he will,’ said Cooper.

‘Do you think he could have seen something relevant to the shooting?’

Cooper hesitated. ‘Well, he might be able to point us in the direction of a motive. Or of somebody with a connection to Rose Shepherd, at least. That’s what we’re lacking right now, isn’t it?’

‘If it was any of the people from Foxlow who met Rose Shepherd in the tea rooms, it means they’ve been lying to us.’

‘Yes. But it seems more likely that it was someone else entirely. Two people that we just haven’t come across yet.’

Fry could see that Murfin was on his way back from showing the waitress out, and she needed to speak to him. But Cooper hadn’t finished yet.

‘Diane, there’s a lot of effort going into the Shepherd enquiry,’ he said. ‘But you’re not getting much support in the Mullen case, are you?’

‘I don’t need it. As long as they leave me alone and don’t throw me too many distractions.’

‘A triple death? Two of them children?’

‘These are two very different crimes, Ben. The Shepherd killing was a ruthless, professional act by a very dangerous individual, but someone who might have no direct connection to the victim. He’ll take a lot of effort to track down, and even more work to build a successful case against. But the Mullen enquiry – those killings were personal. The answer will be much closer to home. And that’s the big difference.’