Already Dead

22

The western part of Wirksworth was where the old lead miners and quarrymen used to live, a jumble of small cottages built mostly of random stone from the nearby quarries. In the area between the abandoned Dale and Middle Peak quarries, the cottages were linked by a maze of alleys and ginnels. There was no room for vehicle access, and the numbering of the houses seemed haphazard. It must be a nightmare for a new postman.

Ben Cooper knew a bit about this town, thanks to Liz. When they were property hunting, they’d come here to look at a Grade II listed cottage on St John’s Street. It had gas central heating and a wonderful vaulted cellar that he could think of all kinds of uses for. As they passed through the town now, he saw from the estate agent’s sign that the cottage was still for sale.

Liz had liked the idea of living right in the centre of Wirksworth. She’d loved the range of shops and businesses on St John’s Street. There was an old-fashioned chemist and druggist with bow-fronted windows and a double entrance door. Founded in 1756, according to the sign over the doorway. A veterinary surgery, a couple of antiques shops. The Blacks Head pub, tucked away in a corner near the market. There were glimpses of the surrounding hills from every street and alley in the town.

After viewing the cottage, they’d stopped for lunch at a little bistro, Le Mistral. They’d eaten vegetarian soup, salmon fishcakes, Provençale vegetable and goat’s cheese salad, an olive and houmous platter. Every dish was imprinted on his memory. He could taste the fishcakes now.

Cooper wondered why he’d starting thinking so much about food. Perhaps it was because he couldn’t remember anything he’d eaten during the last couple of months. Had he lost weight, he wondered? Perhaps he could ask Villiers. Or would it make him seem even odder if he revealed that he didn’t know?

He left his Toyota in the Barmote Croft car park, where the ticket machine still wasn’t working, and climbed into Carol Villiers’ VW Golf. It was very tidy inside, no CDs or empty water bottles lying around, as there were in his own car. It even smelled of air freshener. Pine or meadow flowers, something of that kind.

‘You’re strictly not here,’ said Villiers. ‘If anyone asks.’

‘Of course. I’m just a member of the public getting a ride-along.’

‘I don’t know whether we’re insured for that. Did you sign a disclaimer?’

‘As long as you don’t crash, we’ll be fine.’

Villiers drove out of the car park on to Coldwell Street. ‘I’ll do my best.’

Even on a wet Friday, the centre of Wirksworth was busy. Liz had discovered the story of this little town from a few minutes at the heritage centre in Crown Yard. History said that it was Henry VIII who’d granted a charter to hold a miners’ court in the town, the Bar Moot. The present court building still contained a brass dish for measuring the levy due to the Crown. As recently as the twentieth century, a thief who stole from a lead mine would be punished by having his hand nailed to the winch marking the mineshaft. He then had the option of either ripping the nail through his hand or starving to death. Sessions were still held at the Moot Hall on Chapel Lane. It was the oldest industrial court in the world, with its own terminology, and regulations dating from Saxon times.

As far as Cooper knew, there was no more nailing of thieves’ hands to winches. But you never knew in Derbyshire. Anything was possible.

Ingrid Turner’s cottage on St John’s Street was the first port of call. Cooper loved the house as soon as he saw it. This was exactly the sort of place Liz would have wanted to live. He knew her tastes so well that he could almost see the furniture she would have bought for the sitting room, the colour schemes she would have devised for these walls. He could practically feel the carpet underfoot.

‘Someone else has just been here,’ said Mrs Turner when they went in. ‘The sergeant.’

‘DS Fry?’ said Villiers.

Cooper looked over his shoulder. There had been no sign of Diane Fry or her car when they arrived. That had been a narrow escape.

‘Yes, that’s her.’

‘Well, we’ve got several lines of inquiry we’re following up,’ said Villiers. ‘So there are likely to be more questions yet.’

‘I know. I suppose it’ll never end.’

Cooper turned back to her. ‘Oh, I’m sure it will,’ he said.

Mrs Turner smiled at him. Then she frowned, as if puzzled by something that wasn’t quite right. He’d become used to that look. He expected it, because he knew himself that something wasn’t quite right. He was sure it must show on the outside too. It was why he felt so reluctant to meet people face to face, strangers and familiar acquaintances alike. Being with Villiers made it different, just as he’d hoped it would. In a way, he felt he’d be able to hide behind her, so that people would see her and not him. She was the only one who could have made that work.

Cooper stayed silent while Villiers ran through her questions. He could tell from Mrs Turner’s reaction that she’d answered them all before. Had her son mentioned that he was planning to go anywhere or meet anyone on Tuesday evening? Had he been having any problems? Money troubles, a girlfriend? Could she suggest anyone else they might talk to about him?

They were questions that were always worth asking a second time, or even a third. People recollected details that hadn’t occurred to them the first time round. Something popped into their head when they weren’t thinking about it, and they forgot it again until they were prompted. Sometimes it seemed heartless to be questioning a bereaved relative over and over. But there was no doubt it could achieve results, and that was the objective.

‘Thank you, Mrs Turner,’ said Villiers finally.

‘Anything I can do,’ she said.

Back in the centre of Wirksworth, there were uneven stone setts on the narrow footways in front of some of the houses on Green Hill. Today they were acting like drainage channels for the water running downhill, which might have been their original purpose.

‘What next, Carol?’ asked Cooper.

‘Diane wants me to visit Ralph Edge,’ said Villiers.

‘And who is he?’

‘Glen Turner’s colleague at Prospectus Assurance. He’s the one who told us about the paintballing.’

‘Paintballing?’ said Cooper.

‘Oh, you don’t know.’

‘Not unless you tell me, Carol.’

Cooper listened quietly while Villiers told him the story of the team building weekend and Glen Turner’s paintballing injuries.

‘Of course, I only picked this up myself today, since I came back from Chesterfield just this morning.’

‘You seem to be on top of things,’ said Cooper.

‘I try. It’s not easy sometimes.’

‘Oh, tell me about it.’

‘You’re feeling out of the loop, I suppose, Ben?’

‘Yes.’ Cooper hesitated. ‘Carol, can I ask you a favour?’

‘Of course. Well … what?’

‘I’d like you to keep me up to date with anything concerning Eliot Wharton and Josh Lane. You know — dates of hearings, pleas, bail conditions.’

‘I suppose I could do that,’ said Villiers. ‘Though there are systems…’

‘They take forever.’

‘All right, then.’

‘And any new evidence that might turn up,’ said Cooper quickly.

‘I don’t know, Ben.’

‘Just do what you can. Okay?’

She sucked in a breath, and he could see that she was torn. He shouldn’t push her loyalty too far.

‘And in the meantime can you keep me up to date with this murder inquiry?’ he said. ‘I’m really interested.’

Villiers let out her breath in relief. ‘Well, that’s better,’ she said.

Ralph Edge lived a few miles outside Wirksworth, in Carsington village. His house was just past the Miners Arms pub. The opening of the reservoir in the 1990s had transformed Carsington. A bypass had been built to take construction traffic, new homes had appeared, and some of the barns were converted to residential use. There were no farms left in the village now, and of course the post office had closed years ago. Yet some of the older cottages were said to be built right over mineshafts. One was supposed to have tunnels still underneath it.

A tiny Gothic-style church was hidden among yew trees on the lower slopes of Carsington Pasture. It had neither tower nor spire, just a small bellcote on the western gable. Cooper was struck by the sight of a new grave standing ready in the churchyard, the hole covered by a couple of planks, and a heap of soil piled next to it.

The Edges’ property was about twenty years old, built from local limestone with dressed stone quoins. Inside, the dining room was set out with a large pine table and eight dining chairs, as if the Edges held regular dinner parties. Garden furniture stood out in the rain, the chairs tilted forward against the table to allow the water to run off. He wondered if the Edges had a dinner party planned this week. If so, it would certainly be held indoors.

‘No, it means nothing to me,’ said Edge, when Villiers described the stranger seen by Charlie Dean and Sheena Sullivan. ‘I mean, that could be absolutely anybody.’

‘What sort of car do you drive yourself, sir?’ asked Villiers.

‘A Mercedes saloon. It’s not brand new, by the way. And it’s definitely not four-wheel drive. In this weather, I sometimes wish it was.’

‘I’m sorry to have to ask you these things.’

‘I expect it,’ said Edge. ‘I’ve dealt with police officers before.’

Cooper was pleased to see that Villiers was looking round the house, taking in details.

‘Do you have family, sir?’ she asked.

‘I’m not married, but my parents live here with me. They’re quite elderly.’

Cooper tilted his head on one side as he looked at the man. Glen Turner had lived in his parents’ house, but Edge had brought his parents to live with him. There was a distinct difference.

‘Could we speak to them? Just routine. I’m sure you understand.’

‘Well, if you must.’

Ralph Edge’s parents were actually quite excited about the idea of talking to the police. They were a pair of tiny, bird-like people. Not all that elderly perhaps, but frail looking. Mr Edge senior in particular looked as though a strong wind blowing off Carsington Pasture would carry him away. Glancing from the old couple to their son and back again, Cooper found himself thinking of the cuckoo, which left its egg in the nest of a bird from another species, and a chick hatched which vastly outgrew its surrogate parents.

But the Edges had never even met Glen Turner. From what Villiers had told him in the car, that hardly came as a surprise at this stage in the inquiry. Turner was the proverbial man who kept himself to himself.

Cooper turned back to Ralph again.

‘You work at Prospectus Assurance,’ he said. ‘What is your job?’

Edge had been polite until now, but he looked Cooper up and down with a faint hint of contempt.

‘A fraud analyst,’ he said tersely. ‘Your colleagues know all about me.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Cooper.

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

Villiers almost physically interposed herself between them.

‘That will be all for now. Thank you, sir,’ she said. ‘We’ll be in touch if we need anything else from you.’

‘Why are you at home?’ asked Cooper. ‘It’s Friday afternoon. Shouldn’t you still be at work?’

Edge stared at him with undisguised animosity. ‘I don’t know what it has to do with you,’ he said. ‘But we’re allowed to work flexitime at Prospectus. It means we can look after our families better. As long as the hours are put in and the job gets done, I can take Friday afternoon off, if I want to.’

Villiers put her hand on Cooper’s arm, and he let her steer him towards the door.

‘Just one more thing, sir,’ said Cooper. ‘What do you know about A.J. Morton and Sons?’

Edge opened his mouth as if he was about to answer, then hesitated and frowned.

‘A.J…?’

‘Morton. They’re based near here. A quarry supplies company.’

Ralph Edge shook his head vigorously. ‘Never heard of them. What do they have to do with anything?’

‘Nothing, sir, I’m sure,’ said Villiers hastily. ‘Thank you for your time.’

When they were outside, Villiers looked at him oddly. ‘Ben,’ she said. ‘Focus.’

‘That’s what I’m doing.’

‘A.J. Morton and Sons? I don’t know who they are, but it‘s nothing to do with Mr Edge.’

‘So he said.’

Cooper felt sure Edge had been lying, but he didn’t know why. But then, who knew why people told lies? There could be all kinds of reasons. Sometimes they just wanted to present themselves in a better light, and that was all. Some individuals felt a desperate need to be seen as braver, cleverer or more successful than they really were. And the further they strayed from the truth, the more they had to carry on lying. So dishonesty became a part of their daily camouflage, a central theme in the narrative of their lives. Cooper had met people who hardly seemed to be aware that they were lying. For them, deception took less effort than telling the truth.

‘I think I’d better take you back to your car,’ said Villiers.

‘Just drop me in the Market Place.’

She drove back down into the centre of Wirksworth. Cooper expected her to be angry with him, or demand to know why he’d asked those questions. But she drove in silence for a while.

‘So, Ralph Edge and Glen Turner,’ said Villiers finally. ‘Two loners together there?’

‘And that’s the trouble,’ said Cooper.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, they were both loners. Oh, they might have had a few things in common, but a loner is still a loner. I bet they hardly knew anything about each other. Edge didn’t even know exactly where Turner lived. He wasn’t really interested, either. That’s hardly what you’d call a friend.’

‘No, you’re right.’

‘I usually am,’ said Cooper confidently, as he got out of the car. ‘About other people, anyway.’

A few yards away, Diane Fry stopped abruptly on the pavement in St John’s Street. A figure was moving ahead of her towards the corner by the town hall.

She stared at the figure, her hand in her pocket reaching for her radio and cuffs, even as she was overcome with the feeling of familiarity. For some reason, that feeling churned her stomach with dread. She felt like a ghost hunter finally facing the moment she’d dreamed of, yet afraid to look the phantom in the face. She was terrified of what she’d see. Yet she couldn’t hold back from looking.

‘Ben?’ she said.

The shoulders of the figure stiffened. It might, or might not, be him. Even as she told herself this, she was moving forward in complete certainty, her physical instincts sure of what her mind still doubted. It was that stiffening of the shoulders to the sound of her voice. She’d seen the reaction before, so many times. Too often to mistake it.

‘Ben?’ she said again. ‘It’s Diane. Diane Fry.’

At last he answered. ‘Oh. Hi.’

He sounded distracted and vague, as if he wasn’t quite sure who she was at first. Fry had to repeat her name.

‘It’s a bit of a surprise seeing you here,’ she said.

‘Why here?’

‘Well … anywhere, I suppose.’

Cooper just looked at her. Fry began to feel uncomfortable. She felt like a child, finding herself unexpectedly thrust into a social situation with an adult, and having no idea what she was supposed to say. None of the conventional small talk seemed appropriate.

‘You know, we’ve all been worried about you, Ben,’ she said.

He raised an eyebrow, the first sign of animation in his face.

‘Have you? All of you?’

Fry bit her lip, tried not to look guilty. ‘Everyone in the office has been asking how you are. But we haven’t been able to make contact with you. Why do you never answer your phone?’

She realised she was already starting to sound accusatory. Hearing her voice rising an octave towards shrillness, she fought to control it.

‘Well, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I just wanted a bit of time on my own, without having to explain myself over and over again. I know everyone means well. But it gets too much. You can’t imagine what it’s like.’

Having delivered these words, he gave her a kind of curt nod. Fry thought he was about to walk off, and she couldn’t help blurting out the first thing that came into her head.

‘I do understand, you know,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘I know all about it. Of course I do.’

‘Knowing about it and understanding are two totally different things,’ said Cooper. ‘Did you never grasp that? You have to experience something to understand it properly.’

‘Okay, okay. Explain it to me, then.’

‘Explain it?’

‘Yes.’

‘You want me to explain it.’

He looked as if she was asking him to do the impossible. Well, perhaps she was. She had no idea, really.

‘It’s like … it’s like having a huge build-up of pressure inside you,’ said Cooper. ‘Talking about it achieves nothing. But you know that one day the dam is going to burst, that the whole massive weight will explode and take you with it. Isn’t it better to do something about it before that happens?’

‘You can’t do that,’ said Fry.

‘Do what?’

‘Whatever it is you’re planning, Ben.’

Cooper shrugged. ‘I’m not planning anything. I’m just coping day by day, you know.’

Fry was unconvinced. She gazed at him, wishing she could see into his mind. She used to be able to guess his thoughts more or less accurately but now he was too distant, too detached. It was as if he’d severed the connection between them, cut the line and drifted away. He’d got caught up in an unpredictable current that might lead him anywhere. Danger could lurk downstream when you allowed yourself to drift like that.

‘Ben, I don’t know what’s on your mind,’ she admitted.

‘Well, then. Maybe there really isn’t anything on my mind at all.’

But something about the way he spoke made Fry’s creeping feeling of unease return. She’d heard a similar tone too often from people she knew were lying but who needed to keep up a facade, an official assertion of innocence for the records. Fry reminded herself that she couldn’t know what it was like to be in Cooper’s position. She had no inkling of how his mind might be working right now, what emotions would be flooding through him, potent and uncontrollable. Her insights were lacking, just at the moment she needed them most.

Yes, she was ignorant, and incapable of guessing his real intentions. But still she couldn’t resist her conviction — that something dark and bad was in his heart.

Cooper broke eye contact and pulled his old waxed coat round his shoulders as he began to move away.

‘Ben,’ she blurted, ‘remember, won’t you…?’

‘What?’

‘Remember — whatever happens, we’re still the good guys.’

Cooper stared at her, his mouth twisted oddly as if he was about to break into a laugh.

‘No, Diane,’ he said. ‘You’re wrong. I don’t think we were ever that.’

‘But what are you going to do, Ben? Surely there’s nothing you can do.’

But Cooper didn’t reply. He turned and walked away without another word.

And, in the end, that was what bothered Fry most of all.

After the unexpected meeting with Diane Fry, Cooper walked for a while in the rain, until he was so wet that he felt washed clean. It was lucky he knew how to pull himself together and make an effort when he encountered other people. He didn’t want anyone thinking he’d gone completely off the rails. He could always make sure he was properly dressed, clean shaven, attentive and capable of making intelligent conversation.

It was important to keep up the facade, though he wasn’t sure why. He just knew that if he’d started to doubt the reasons for it he would have given up entirely by now, and that he couldn’t do.

So he’d made sure Diane Fry (and Carol Villiers) saw him just as he’d always been, a Ben Cooper no different for the experience he’d gone through, just someone recovering slowly from a physical injury, dealing day by day with grief, the trauma of loss. They had to believe that he was getting over it. He’d be back to normal soon.

When Cooper had gone, Fry looked round and saw Carol Villiers. Fry didn’t want to be the one to speak first, so she waited, wondering whether Villiers could bring herself to be disloyal to her old friend and DS. It was a difficult judgement to make, but there could only be one conclusion, even if you didn’t admit it out loud.

Finally, Villiers shook her head. ‘Poor Ben,’ she said. ‘He’s lost it.’

‘I’ve never seen him like that before,’ said Fry, relieved.

‘Nor me. What can we do?’

‘Perhaps he just needs time.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Well, he’s had the counselling, the medical attention,’ said Fry. ‘He’s on extended leave. Some people just take longer to get over these things.’

There was a small silence, which stretched out just long enough for Fry to start feeling uncomfortable.

‘Perhaps,’ said Villiers again.

As she left St John’s Street, Fry noticed there was a call on her phone, and saw from the display that it was Becky Hurst. She opened her car door and got in out of the rain before she answered it.

‘I went to check out the paintballing centre,’ said Hurst. ‘They remembered Glen Turner pretty well.’

‘Why?’ asked Fry. ‘Because of his injuries?’

‘Well, sort of. His injuries were where it all started. But they remember him most of all because he was planning to sue them.’