Текст книги "Scared to Live"

Автор книги: Stephen Booth

Соавторы: Stephen Booth
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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

35

Saturday, 29 October

When the Lowthers arrived at West Street next day, Fry showed them into the DI’s office, where they sat in an uncomfortable silence. Hitchens swivelled his chair once, then stopped when he heard the squeal and looked embarrassed.

Fry found a seat to one side, out of the Lowthers’ immediate view. But it was her that Moira Lowther was looking at when she spoke. ‘You weren’t listening, were you? I told you John wasn’t a danger to anyone but himself. He was psychotic, not a psychopath. I told you, but you didn’t listen.’

Fry didn’t know how to answer her. According to Cooper, Dr Sinclair had said the same thing. And it seemed they had both been right.

‘Our officers did their best to save your son’s life,’ said Hitchens with a placatory gesture. ‘It was a very difficult situation.’

‘You were pursuing him.’

‘No, Mrs Lowther.’

‘She was.’

The jerk of the head was insulting, but Fry stayed calm.

‘DS Fry wasn’t even at the scene when the incident happened,’ said Hitchens.

‘What about the officers who were there? Why can’t we speak to them?’

‘There’ll be a full enquiry into the circumstances, I assure you.’

Fry and Hitchens exchanged glances. The enquiry wouldn’t be comfortable, and these things often left a sour taste – personal grievances, doubts about where loyalties lay, and whether officers could depend on the support of their chiefs. But it all had to be done properly and above board.

‘We’ll keep you to that promise,’ said Mrs Lowther.

‘Of course.’

Fry could still feel herself being glared at. ‘We questioned John as part of the investigation into your daughter’s death,’ she said. ‘We were trying to cover every possibility, that’s all.’

‘It’s ridiculous. John would never do anything like that. They were so close. As close as a brother and sister could be.’ Mrs Lowther choked on the last word. ‘And now we’ve lost both of them.’

Cringing at the onset of tears and the threat of full-blown hysterics lurking below the surface, Fry looked at Hitchens for support. In a storm, you clutched at any straw.

‘Mr and Mrs Lowther, I can’t tell you how sorry we are,’ he said. ‘Believe me, if there’s anything at all we can do –’

Henry Lowther had been sitting rigid and furious, his tension showing only in the trembling of his hands and the throbbing of a small vein in his temple.

‘Anything you can do?’ he said, his voice an ominous whisper. ‘Don’t you think you’ve done enough to us already?’

Cooper couldn’t help looking for the Lowthers’ Rover in the visitors’ car park that morning. Sure enough, they’d already arrived. He could see their car in front of the main entrance as he pulled up to the gates of the compound.

It was impossible to imagine how Henry and Moira Lowther would be feeling now. Cooper wondered if he ought to offer to talk to them, and whether it would do any good.

As he locked up the Toyota and walked towards the building, he tried to analyse his own feeling, too. That was difficult enough, God knew. One part of him wanted to talk to the Lowthers in the hope that it might make some sense of their son’s death. But another part of him was afraid – afraid of what too much emotion could do. That was the shallower side of his character, he supposed; the scared and defensive side.

In the CID room, he found Gavin Murfin already at his desk. That was unusual in itself. Gavin never arrived at work before him, especially on a Saturday.

‘You know that the what’s-their-names are here?’ said Murfin when he saw Cooper. ‘The Lowthers.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘They’re in with Diane and the DI.’

‘There haven’t been any messages then?’

‘Not yet. If I were you, Ben, I’d find a reason to get out of the office as soon as possible. The DI can deal with it.’

‘Maybe.’

But Cooper took off his jacket and sat at his desk to see what he had to catch up with. There was nothing from Scenes of Crime, so no new information on the gun. But there was a copy of the full post-mortem report on Simon Nichols, alias Simcho Nikolov, complete with a set of photographs. He hadn’t really looked at Nichols too closely before, but guessed that he hadn’t been much prettier in life than he was in death. Not for the past few years, anyway. The marks left by the man’s lifestyle were etched deep into his face, just as surely as they’d ruined the interior of the caravan. Too much alcohol and not enough food. Too many cigarettes and not enough attention to hygiene.

Yet, when he studied Nichols’ face, Cooper could see that there was still a vestige of the man he’d once been. The bone structure was still there, broad and well-proportioned. A Bulgarian face, of course. He was Nikolov, not Nichols.

Cooper remembered the red phone box on the roadside in Bonsall Dale. It seemed likely that Nikolov had phoned Rose Shepherd from there. And then there had been that final phone call, made from an assassin’s mobile to lead her into his sights. So, in a way, John Lowther wasn’t the only one who’d heard voices. Miss Shepherd had been hearing them, too – voices that had led her to her death.

Suddenly aware of someone standing at his desk, Cooper gave a start and looked up guiltily, not knowing who to expect. But it was Gavin Murfin.

‘I brought you a cup of coffee,’ he said. ‘Since you’re obviously not going to take my advice.’

‘Thanks, Gavin.’

‘No worries. You look as though you could use it.’

At the sound of voices and footsteps, they both turned towards the door. But the voices went further away, down the corridor somewhere. After a minute or two, footsteps returned and the DI’s door closed again.

‘I think they’ve gone,’ said Murfin.

Cooper nodded. ‘But Diane is still in there.’

‘Looks like it. I suppose we’ll find out what’s going on eventually.’ Then Murfin sighed deeply. ‘Or maybe not.’

The squeak of the chair in the DI’s office was really starting to get on Fry’s nerves now. Yet the noise seemed to give Hitchens some perverse pleasure, especially as he’d physically prevented a maintenance man from oiling the thing when she’d suggested it.

‘So do you have any evidence that Luanne Mullen is in imminent danger, Diane?’ he asked when she put her proposal to him after the departure of the Lowthers.

‘Well, no.’

‘Has she ever been mistreated by her father? Has he ever threatened to harm her?’

‘Not that we know of.’

‘What about Brian Mullen himself? A few days ago, you were convinced he was responsible for the fire that killed his family. Have you managed to substantiate a case against him?’

‘No.’

‘So we’ve no cause to arrest him, have we?’

‘No.’

‘And we don’t actually have the slightest bit of proof that he’s done anything wrong.’

‘No. But we should also consider Georgi Kotsev’s theory that Luanne Mullen’s natural father is trying to get her back’

‘Yes, we’d have to take that seriously, if there was evidence,’ said Hitchens. ‘Is there evidence, Diane?’

‘I can’t produce any right now.’

‘You see the problem. No evidence. It’s all supposition.’

‘That might be true, sir. But the fact that Brian Mullen has gone AWOL with the surviving child looks very suspicious to me.’

‘Sadly, he’s not legally obliged to keep us informed of his whereabouts. If he’s taken the child for a trip somewhere, then there’s nothing we can do about it. Nothing at all.’

‘But the Lowthers are being equally secretive. I’m sure they know where Brian is.’

‘Have you asked them?’

‘Of course.’

‘And what do they say?’

‘They say their son-in-law is distressed and needs some time away from being hassled by us.’

Hitchens smiled. ‘I suppose that could be true, too, couldn’t it?’

Fry wasn’t amused. ‘I assure you, sir, I don’t hassle members of the public.’

‘Of course not, Diane. You’re a model of respect and discretion.’

She felt her jaw tighten, and tried to relax her muscles in case she looked too tense or aggressive.

‘But it’s hardly surprising the family feel that way, is it?’ said Hitchens. ‘Let’s not forget that they’ve lost both their children and two of their grandchildren in the course of a week. And now you want to hunt down their son-in-law and their remaining grandchild.’

‘It’s not like that at all.’

‘But that’s the way it’s going to seem to the Lowthers. Let me tell you, I never want to experience as uncomfortable a half hour as I spent with those two people this morning.’

‘I’m certain Brian Mullen is going to turn up at the Matlock Bath illuminations tonight,’ said Fry. ‘As certain as I can be.’

‘Your grounds for that belief seem to be very tenuous, to say the least. Why would he risk taking the child to Matlock Bath?’

‘It was something he’d promised the family. Even with only Luanne left, I think he’ll follow through on the promise. Especially with only Luanne left.’

‘I see.’

‘There’s more. I’m concerned that this visit could be the prelude to a significant act on his part. I think Mr Mullen is planning to do something rash and desperate.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘My feeling is that, unless we find him tonight, it could be too late.’

The DI swivelled his chair again, making Fry grind her teeth with frustration.

‘It’s not like you to base your reactions entirely on gut instinct, Diane. Have you got a personal problem with this case?’

‘No, sir.’

Hitchens watched her, waiting to hear more, perhaps hoping she could give him some solid justification. But Fry had already exhausted what she had to say, and stayed silent.

The DI looked disappointed. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t authorize an operation to apprehend Mr Mullen at this event in Matlock Bath tonight. I’ve heard nothing to justify the use of resources for such a wild-goose chase. Let alone the effect on the family, which you don’t seem to be taking into consideration. You could land us with an even bigger public relations disaster than we already have.’

Fry stood up to leave. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Hitchens held up a hand to keep her back. ‘You haven’t asked me about Tony Donnelly.’

‘Is there any point?’

‘I re-interviewed him this morning.’

‘How many “no comments” did you get?’

‘A few,’ admitted Hitchens. ‘We’re going to have to put some effort in on Donnelly, interviewing his family, friends, neighbours. His background will have to be looked at, his whereabouts checked, alibis pursued …’

This time, nothing would keep Fry from leaving the DI’s office.

‘Are you sure there’s nothing else you want to talk about, Diane?’ he said.

‘Yes, thank you. Quite sure.’

Cooper saw that he’d been right. There were so many visitors trying to get into Matlock Bath that by five o’clock all the car parks in the village were full. Police officers in yellow jackets were directing long queues of motorists to a park-and-ride facility at the rugby club a mile down the road. The pavements were packed with people queuing at the fish-and-chip shops or eating out of paper packages as they leaned over the railings to gaze at the river, throwing their last few chips to the ducks. Many of the crowd were family groups, young children sitting in pushchairs or strapped to the parents in carriers.

It had already been gloomy enough by half past four to use sidelights as they drove down from Edendale. On the way here, the mood had been sombre. Dead leaves had filled the lay-bys like a yellow tide.

‘I have to remind you that we’re here unofficially,’ said Fry. ‘Strictly speaking, you’re off duty.’

Cooper nodded. ‘We understand that, Diane.’

‘No overtime, then?’ said Murfin.

‘No overtime, Gavin. Sorry.’

Murfin shrugged. ‘It gets me out of the house. And it means you can’t tell me not to eat fish and chips while I’m working, right?’

‘Right.’ Fry looked at Kotsev. ‘Georgi? There’s no obligation on you to be here at all.’

‘What else would I be doing? Sitting in my hotel watching English television? I wish to be part of the team.’

‘Thanks, Georgi.’

‘And I’m not to beat up any suspects, OK?’

Fry glanced at him, seemed to recognize that he was joking, and let it pass.

‘I’ve told the inspector in charge of the uniformed operation that we’re here, but I didn’t give him any more details than he needs to know. He’s far too busy to bother about us, anyway. He’s expecting a crowd of six thousand people and a lot of traffic problems. All he’s got to handle it are a dozen bobbies and a few CSOs.’

‘So what are we looking for exactly?’ said Murfin.

‘Brian Mullen. And, I hope, Luanne.’

Cooper coughed uneasily. ‘Diane, if your theory about Brian Mullen is right, what will happen to the child? Will she be sent back to Bulgaria? Surely she wouldn’t have to go back to her real father after all?’

But Fry’s face was hard, giving nothing away. ‘That won’t be our decision to make. All we have to do is find them.’

‘So our responsibility stops there, does it?’

‘Ben, I hope you’re not going all social worker on me again.’

‘But don’t you sometimes wonder what happens to people afterwards – I mean, when we’ve done our job and the courts have done theirs? Don’t you worry that all you’ve done is make a whole lot of people’s lives even worse? Do you always sleep properly at night, Diane?’

‘Yes, like a log.’

‘I’m not sure I believe you.’

Fry looked at Cooper more closely. ‘Are you all right, Ben? Look, don’t worry too much about John Lowther’s death. You did your best to help him. It was the system that let him down, not you.’

‘There’ll be an enquiry. It might decide that I did the wrong thing. There’s only my word for what happened.’

‘You have a witness,’ said Fry. ‘Georgi was there.’

‘No, he didn’t see what happened,’ said Cooper. ‘I told him to stay back on the stairs.’

Fry looked at Kotsev, who gazed back at her impassively.

‘On the contrary,’ he said. ‘I saw everything.’

‘You can’t have done,’ said Cooper. ‘Georgi, there’s no need –’

‘I will tell the story, if I’m called upon. Ben acted well. He was a hero.’

Cooper flushed, uncomfortable with both the sentiment and what seemed to be Kotsev’s misguided loyalty.

‘Let’s get on with it, shall we?’ he said.

He couldn’t help being sceptical about what Fry hoped to achieve in Matlock Bath tonight. A suspect loose among the crowds, strolling through Derwent Gardens with all these families? It didn’t bear thinking about. The risk to the public represented an operational nightmare.

DI Hitchens had made the right decision, in Cooper’s view. No responsible senior officer would authorize an attempt to carry out an arrest in these circumstances. The most they could do safely was to keep Mullen under surveillance – and even then it would be at a distance. So no heroics. Follow him until he was in a location where the situation could be safely contained. Oh, yes. And pray he didn’t get away again.

‘Oh, and make sure you all stay in touch,’ said Fry. ‘That’s what the radios are for.’

‘Yes, how come you manage to get these radios and ear pieces issued, if we’re here unofficially?’ asked Murfin.

‘Gavin, haven’t you learned when not to ask questions?’

They started from the northern end of the village and separated, taking the riverside walk and the parade of shops in pairs. The village really was getting packed. This was the last night of the illuminations, and the night would climax with a fireworks display from the top of High Tor.

Tomorrow, the Heights of Abraham would close for the winter. The cable cars would stop running, the gift shops would shut, and the terraces of the Hi Café and Summit Bar would be left empty. The clocks went back an hour in the morning, and winter would have arrived.

Actually, Cooper knew he should be glad of something to do tonight. He needed to occupy his mind. Ever since the incident on the tower, he’d been aware of a deep ache that he was reluctant to explore, a doubt that he’d never have the answer to. Could he have done more to save John Lowther? If he’d acted differently, if he’d stayed back, if he’d made a grab for the man sooner … Despite telling his story three or four times since the tragedy had happened, he didn’t know whether he’d done the right thing or not. He supposed it would be for other people to judge him.

‘This is more like home,’ said Kotsev, watching the crowds.

‘What?’

‘A big party in the street. People having fun. Give me a few stalls selling sunflower seeds, and I would be happy.’

‘You’ll have to make do with fish and chips.’

Kotsev laughed. ‘Mnogo vkusno. Delicious.’

They walked slowly through the beer garden behind the Midland Hotel, overlooking the river. Clusters of people were gathered at the Bikers’ Well near the war memorial. Here, the shallow river was bordered by horse chestnuts, branches skimming the surface of the water. Disused, ivy-covered steps led down to the water’s edge. Tilted beds of rock formed multi-coloured cliffs on the opposite bank. An old ceramic drainage pipe lay embedded in the mud near a scattering of shingle.

The illuminated boats were due to parade from New Bridge at the southern end of the village as far as the Pavilion, passing along the length of Derwent Gardens. On a map showing the start and finish, some comedian had drawn in a black shape halfway along the route and marked it ‘Bermuda Triangle’.

Cooper looked across the road. Fry and Murfin were standing in front of the chop house at the bottom of Holme Road, watching the crowds using a pedestrian crossing opposite the Thyme Restaurant.

Behind the Riverside Fish Restaurant was a boating jetty, then a row of shops leading to the Pavilion. Hulley’s buses were ferrying people from the park-and-ride area to the Pavilion car park, which had been reserved for emergency vehicles. Scores of motorbikes now lined the kerb on South Parade, all the way from the ice-cream parlour up to the aquarium. A girl was selling ice cream and slush puppies from a kiosk. A pair of mallard ducks stood hopefully on the pavement outside a fish shop.

There was no sign of Brian Mullen, and Derwent Gardens weren’t open to the crowds yet. Cooper crossed the road to the corner of Temple Road. The car park here was full, too. He and Kotsev walked along the rows of cars, looking for Mullen’s red Citroën without success.

Cooper turned at the end of a row, and Kotsev touched his arm.

‘Ben, it’s OK.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You shouldn’t worry about such things. About such people.’

For a moment, Cooper thought he was going to lose control. He felt as though he might let all the stress out in a burst of anger against the wrong person.

‘Look, just give me a minute, Georgi.’

Just below the car park, he found a pond. It lay in a circular hollow near the road, overhung by bay trees. In the middle of the water, a fountain sprayed over a column of tufa. Dozens of the black beetles called waterboatmen sculled on the surface among floating lilies, perhaps fooled by the strings of coloured lights into thinking it was still daytime. In fact, the column looked to be more moss than tufa. But on the bank behind it were patches already turning to stone. The vegetation looked normal from a distance, except for its colour. But it was already dead and hard, retaining only the appearance of life.

‘It looks as though the gardens are being opened up,’ said Fry through his ear piece. ‘The crowds are starting to move that way.’

‘Well, at least they’ll all be in one place. There are thousands of them. And they’re still coming in. There’s another busload arriving now.’

‘I’ve asked for a car to cruise through the rugby ground to see if they can spot Mullen’s car at the park-and-ride.’

‘Good idea.’

Kotsev was waiting for him on the pavement. Most of the police officers deployed in Matlock Bath tonight were on traffic duty, keeping the lines of cars moving. Across the road, the gardens themselves were being patrolled by security staff and stewards in yellow jackets. As soon as the fairground and fast-food stalls had set up, the barriers were taken down and people began to filter past the volunteers standing by with buckets for donations.

‘There are so many people,’ said Cooper. ‘We’d better split up from here. You know what Brian Mullen looks like, Georgi?’

‘I have the photograph. And there’s the child with him –’

‘Yes, probably.’

Cooper worked his way past the St John Ambulance, the Venetian Boat Builders Association, stalls for the Cats Protection League and a Chernobyl children’s charity. A woman who looked like a gypsy pulled a scarf across her face and turned away from the light. A fortune teller, or perhaps a pickpocket. Well, it wasn’t his business tonight.

It was dark now, and all the children were carrying rainbow spinners, yellow light sticks or flashing fish. One by one, they stopped and pointed at the illuminated butterflies and dragons in the trees. Cooper came to a central area lined with fast-food vans. The local radio station, Peak FM, had set up its roadshow in the bandstand, where an ageing Elvis in a black outfit was belting out songs from a cloud of green artificial smoke.

Further on was the fairground. An old-fashioned ferris wheel, a mini waltzer, a set of dodgem cars and a train ride. Down at this end of the gardens, the mixture of smells was enough to make your head swim: diesel fumes from the generator running the dodgems, chemicals from a row of portaloos, hot dogs and onions from a fast-food van.

He stood between the boom of rap music blasting across the dodgems circuit and the sound of a teenage rock band performing ‘Layla’ in a cloud of green smoke at the Peak FM roadshow. Around him were the screams of children on the pirate boat, the constant clang of a bell on the train ride. A would-be Eric Clapton launched into a dramatic guitar solo.

‘Even if they’re here, there’s no way we’ll spot them in this crush. We don’t stand a chance.’

‘Stay near the front of the crowd. He won’t have Luanne at the back, if he wants her to see the boats.’

‘OK.’

The strings of coloured lights were reflected and elongated in the water, and across the river the trees on the hillside were lit by patches of brilliant colour – blue, green, red. Seven thirty came and went. By the time announcements over the PA system warned of the impending boat parade, people were already jostling for the best positions along both banks of the river and on the new bridge. Above the gardens, a bus passed behind the illuminated trees. In the distance, Upper Towers was lit up on the Heights of Abraham. It floated in the sky like some airborne castle.

‘There are people standing three deep on the bridge. I don’t know how it can take the weight.’

‘That’s nothing. They’re about five deep this side of the river. It looks pretty much the same across the other side.’

‘At least they’re standing in one place now, instead of moving about. Let’s try and get round the crowd while the boats keep their attention.’

The commentary was almost impossible to make out from here. It was a loud blare, an indistinguishable voice echoing among the trees, only the occasional word emerging from the babble. The announcer seemed to be telling the crowd that the winning boat was called American Express.

The boats drifted out one at a time from the boat jetty until they were in the middle of the current. When they were midstream, each one lit up suddenly, to a cheer from the children on the bank. So the Empire State Building and the White House appeared all at once in the darkness, drifting above the water, glittering in multi-coloured lights that reflected on the surface.

The winner was followed by more boats. A steam engine rode magically on the river, a miniature paddle steamer floated in a pool of its own light. There was a vintage car, a carousel, a biplane, a Viking longboat. As they came by, it was impossible to distinguish the boats from their reflections, red cascades bursting and rippling across the surface in the splash of oars.

‘It’s hopeless, Diane.’

‘Keep trying.’

Cooper worked his way through the crowds on the bank. People were so tightly packed that it was impossible to walk normally. He found it uncomfortable to move with such short steps, squeezing his way between the backs of strangers. Some of the faces were too close to make out. People were standing on the slopes to see over the crowd. Some were under the lights, and some were in darkness. Underfoot, it was impossible to see if you were treading in mud or a puddle. A light drizzle had begun to fall, adding a mist to the blur of coloured lights above the heads of the crowd.

Soon after eight o’clock, people began to drift out of the gardens again, and Cooper made his way back across the bridge. The raised areas of grass had been trodden into mud and people slipped on damp tree roots. Fast-food cartons crunched underfoot. The rock band was still playing, but had moved on to ‘Sweet Child of Mine’.

‘Where are you, Ben?’

‘I’m near the bandstand. Look for the Dinky Donuts van. You can’t miss it – there’s a big pink thing on the roof, like an inflated condom.’

‘OK, I see it.’

Cooper waited, the crowds separating around him, music blasting his ears. Teenagers walked by with their mobile phones held out in front of them to take photographs of each other. He thought he caught a glimpse of the gypsy woman again, a blue scarf flashing briefly in the lights. When the band finished playing, the announcer started trying to persuade everyone to move across to the west bank of the river for the fireworks display.

‘I’m still here, Diane. I can’t see you yet.’

His ear piece was silent. And for a moment, Cooper remembered that you didn’t have to be a recluse to be alone. It was possible to feel desperately alone even in the middle of the biggest crowd.