Stephen Booth – One Last Breath (страница 14)

He turned to Fry again.

‘When did we get the call-out?’

‘Eleven thirty-eight.’

‘I was long since out of Peak Cavern by then. You should have got through to me.’

‘No, it was earlier that I tried to phone you.’

‘Earlier? But –’

‘Not now, Ben.’

And then she was away, striding across the edge of the garden towards a bustle of activity around the crime scene van. Cooper watched her, puzzled. But then, he was always puzzled by Diane Fry.

DC Gavin Murfin appeared at Cooper’s elbow. A faint aroma of warm pastry drifted from Murfin’s clothes, and Cooper imagined the pockets of his coat stuffed with pies. Or perhaps the smell was simply impregnated into the fabric by now. No wonder Murfin was hungry all the time. There was no scent better guaranteed to make the saliva run.

Murfin nudged Cooper and nodded his head at Fry as she reached the van and was immediately in conference with some of the senior officers.

‘Hey, Ben, is it true what they’re saying – her sister’s moved in with her?’

‘Who’s saying that, Gavin?’

Murfin shrugged. ‘Everybody. You know what it’s like.’

‘I don’t understand how anyone can possibly know that. Diane doesn’t talk about her private life at all.’

‘Except to you, maybe,’ said Murfin, raising an eyebrow. ‘Or so they say.’

Cooper shuffled uneasily but said nothing.

‘In fact, I heard that the sister turning up was no coincidence,’ said Murfin. ‘They say you had a bit of a hand in it – arranged the meeting and everything, behind Miss’s back. Can’t be true, can it?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so. It’s a bit of a long story, though. And a bit, well … complicated.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you any more, Gavin. It’s personal. For Diane, I mean.’

‘No, no. Do spare me the sordid details. But what I don’t understand, Ben, is why you got involved in the first place. I mean, it’s a bit like poking a bad-tempered grizzly bear with a sharp stick, if you ask me.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Cooper. ‘It seemed the right thing to do at the time.’

‘Famous last words, mate. You’ll be uttering them as they cart your body away to the mortuary.’

‘It’s too late now, anyway.’

‘Mmm? If it were me, I’d be making sure I got a transfer damn quick, before Miss decides how she’s going to get her revenge. Preferably somewhere far away. I believe the Shetland Islands can be nice. They even get a bit of daylight at this time of year.’

Cooper sighed. Why had he got involved? It was the question he’d been asking himself for weeks. But if he could go back and have the time again, would he do things differently? He supposed he ought to have turned Angie Fry away the night she turned up on his doorstep. But Diane had wanted to find her sister, hadn’t she? How could he have sent Angie away, knowing that? Somewhere along the route he’d followed, there might have been a moment when he could have found a better, more sensible thing to do. But there was no guarantee he’d have taken the chance just because it was the sensible thing.

‘Anyway, what do you reckon about this job?’ said Murfin, indicating Parson’s Croft with a more vigorous nod of his head. ‘Any overtime in it for us? Only, my credit-card bill is up to its limit this month. I’ll be paying off that holiday in Turkey for the next ten years.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Cooper. ‘We’ll have to wait and see what they come up with from the video recording.’

‘No doubt Miss will have her own ideas.’

‘She’s right a lot of the time,’ said Cooper.

Murfin looked at him suspiciously.

‘Ben, you don’t actually like her, do you?’

‘Well … no.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘I knew it! What on earth do you find to like about her?’

‘Gavin, I haven’t said that I do.’

‘I can tell when somebody is avoiding the question, you know. I’ve watched Jeremy Paxman in action. So, answer the question, Minister. What do you like about her?’

‘Look, I just think Diane Fry is a bit misunderstood by most people around here.’

‘Oh, my God.’ Murfin raised his eyes to the sky in horror. ‘You’re not going to make her into one of your causes? You’re going to start a “Let’s All Love DS Fry” campaign, aren’t you?’

‘Give over, Gavin.’

‘Well, she’s not my cup of poison. And I know about poisons. You’ve met my wife, have you?’

Diane Fry had seen DI Hitchens arriving at the scene. He had to park his car outside in the lane because the driveway was already full of vehicles. As Hitchens headed towards the crime scene van, he looked worried. But he noticed Fry and signalled her over. Then Mr Kessen climbed stiffly out of the van.

‘What is it, Paul?’

‘I think we have a suspect, sir,’ said Hitchens.

‘Already? How come?’

Fry watched the DI run a hand across his face. Tonight he was looking tired, even before the enquiry had got properly under way.

‘You know Mansell Quinn is out,’ said Hitchens. ‘He was serving a life sentence for a murder in Castleton back in 1990, but he reached his automatic release date and left Sudbury Prison this morning.’

‘Yes. So?’ said Kessen.

‘He hasn’t turned up at his accommodation, and he missed an appointment with his local probation officer this morning.’

‘So he’s broken his licence,’ said Kessen. ‘It’s a stupid thing to do, but so what? A domestic killing fourteen years ago doesn’t put him in the frame for anything that’s going off in a fifty-mile radius.’

‘No. That’s not it, exactly.’

‘You’d better explain.’

Hitchens took a deep breath and looked at the house across the garden. The helicopter support unit were just beginning a sweep to the north, their thirty-million candlepower searchlight probing the open ground behind Aston. It wouldn’t achieve much, except to annoy the residents.

‘The victim here – Rebecca Lowe,’ said Hitchens. ‘She’s the former Rebecca Quinn. At the time of the Proctor killing in 1990, she was married to Mansell Quinn.’

8

In Hathersage, it was Gala Week. The village’s main street was decorated with bunting, and a caravan parked on the pavement had been covered in posters advertising the week’s events. Cooper quite liked village galas. He saw that they’d missed the brass band concert, but if they waited until Saturday they could go to a ceilidh and watch the fell racing.

‘We’re looking for Moorland Avenue,’ said Diane Fry from the back seat of the car. ‘I thought you knew your way around every town and village in this area, Ben.’

‘If we can pull in somewhere, I’ll check the map.’

For some reason, Gavin Murfin was driving this morning. He wasn’t the best driver in the world, having a tendency to brake suddenly whenever he saw a chip shop. But maybe it was Fry’s strategy to stop him eating in the car while they travelled.

Murfin drew the car into the kerb. A few yards away, dozens of white-haired ladies were getting off a coach opposite the George Hotel. Hathersage was mostly a tourist stop on the way up the Hope Valley these days, and the village centre seemed to consist mostly of outdoor sports specialists, tea rooms and craft shops. Cooper wound down the window to get some air, only to let in the scent of candles and aromatherapy oils. And, strangely, the smell of fish.

‘Remember, when we see old Mrs Quinn, she’ll probably need sensitive handling,’ said Fry. ‘Every mother thinks her beloved son can do no wrong.’

‘In this case, her beloved son is a convicted killer,’ said Murfin, tilting his head to see her in the rear-view mirror.

‘It makes no difference, Gavin. She’ll be the only person in the world who thinks the bastard’s innocent.’

Looking around for the road they needed, Cooper noticed various forms of what he supposed would be called community art. A bus shelter had been converted into the ‘Hathersage Travel Machine’, decorated with wheels and photographs of exotic locations. Across the road, cut-out figures had been lined up against a garden wall. They made him think of targets at the police shooting range. Then he saw that some of the people near the bus shelter were actually queuing at a fish van. A bowl under its tailgate was catching the run-off from thawing ice that had kept the fish fresh on its way from the East Coast docks at Grimsby.