Dead and Buried

15

‘Well, it arrived,’ said Gavin Murfin next morning. He had his feet up on his desk, ready to soak up any attention like a basking seal.

Cooper stopped halfway into the CID room, with his leather jacket still hung over one shoulder. He really wasn’t in the mood for Murfin this morning.

‘What arrived, Gavin?’

Murfin held up a box. ‘My OBE. Special delivery by a bad-tempered bloke on a pushbike. He was disguised as our usual postman, but I reckon he must have been a royal equerry at least. I’m sure there was a corgi peeking out of his bag when he rode away.’

‘Oh, it’s your DJ medal. Damn, I haven’t got mine yet.’

That made Murfin beam. ‘Priorities, mate. Someone has to get it first. So Maj chose those of us with the longest and most distinguished service, like.’

‘That could be it, I suppose.’

‘I’ll let you have a look, though.’

‘Cheers.’

Cooper cradled the box carefully. The medal bore an image of Queen Elizabeth II on one side, looking a bit severe, with the inscription Elizabeth II Dei Gratia Regina Fid Def. On the reverse was a diamond symbol with the royal crest. It resembled a ten-pence piece in size, and carried the dates 1952–2012.

They were all due to get their medals to celebrate the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee. They were being presented to the armed forces, emergency services and prison service staff, as well as community support officers who had completed five full years of service in February.

With that thought, Cooper’s eyes were drawn across the room to where Becky Hurst sat. Not everyone in the office would receive the medal. Hurst hadn’t quite completed five years. She’d moved rapidly into CID from a spell as a response officer in C Division, which was a testament to her ability. But she missed out on the qualifying date for the Diamond Jubilee medal by a week or two. He knew that it bugged her, especially when medals were being handed out to PCSOs and even to Specials, the unpaid volunteers who turned out at weekends to help at major events.

‘Nice,’ said Cooper. ‘Take it home with you, Gavin.’

‘But I thought—’

‘No. Take it home.’

Murfin looked at him, and for once he didn’t object or make a sarcastic comment.

‘Okay, boss.’

It was going to be hard to avoid the subject altogether during the next few weeks, as other officers received their medals. Murfin was the first, but all the medals were due to be awarded in the first half of the year. The Diamond Jubilee celebrations themselves would take place at the beginning of June. They had even moved the Spring Bank Holiday from the last Monday in May to coincide with the anniversary.

Cooper took off his jacket and sat down at his desk, feeling that he was always skating on thin ice in some way, whatever he did. Here in the office, when he was at Bridge End Farm, when he was with Liz … Was this what life was going to be like from now on?

‘So tell us, Gavin,’ said Cooper, ‘what did Diane Fry do yesterday?’

‘She talked to the family of the old landlord from the Light House,’ said Murfin, seeming equally ready to change the subject.

‘Mad Maurice Wharton?’

‘Not him, but the wife and daughter. And she made a right mess of it, too, by all accounts.’

‘Oh?’

There could only have been one source for that account, since Becky Hurst had been allocated to work with Fry. Cooper couldn’t resist a small smile of satisfaction at this evidence of how little loyalty Fry had earned for herself. Then he let the smile drop. It was an ungracious thought. He had no real reason to be jealous of Fry, did he? No, of course not.

‘The wife and daughter?’ he said. ‘What about Maurice Wharton himself?’

Murfin shook his head sadly. ‘He’s in a bad way, apparently. Cancer of the pancreas.’

‘Ouch.’

‘Ouch is right.’

‘You know, on the way here I was trying to recall what he looks like,’ said Cooper.

‘Are you kidding?’ said Murfin. ‘Did you never actually see that bloke? Once seen, never forgotten. If you wanted to describe him to someone, you’d have to invent a whole new word for ugly.’

‘I think I do recall him now, though. A big guy, long hair growing over his collar at the back, and a fine set of jowls?’

‘Two fine sets of jowls,’ said Murfin. ‘I always found him a bit scary, in fact. But in a good way, if you know what I mean. Like watching a horror film to give yourself a fright when the monster appears.’

Cooper looked at the files and found a photograph of Wharton. ‘Well I’m not sure he’s that bad.’

‘No, no — that doesn’t do him justice,’ said Murfin. ‘Trust me. You’ve got to see him in the flesh to get the full effect.’

Villiers and Irvine entered the office. Cooper reminded himself that Luke had been spending all his time ploughing through the case files, reading reports, going over old witness statements. He was starting to look a bit jaded already.

‘Are you okay, Luke?’ he asked.

‘Sure.’

Cooper looked around his team. Such as it was, they were all here.

‘So what do we really make of this theory that the Pearsons skipped the country?’

‘We?’ asked Irvine, as if surprised to be asked.

‘Well, give me an overview. What has everyone been saying over these past couple of years?’

‘Oh, pretty much everything you can imagine has been said at some time,’ said Irvine, warming up as he got the chance to share what he’d learned from all those reports. ‘In the early days, there were lots of crackpot rumours springing up, as always. People reported seeing the Pearsons in New Zealand, in Guatemala, in Florida. Someone started a Facebook page called “I’ve seen David Pearson”, with faked pictures using the shots of them issued for the press appeals. Basically, they treated David like some latter-day Lord Lucan, with Trisha as a female sidekick. Stories went round that the Pearsons had bought a villa in the Algarve, an apartment in Moscow, a council house in Inverness. David was even spotted busking on the London Underground. He’d apparently learned to play the guitar, grown a beard and gained three inches in height while he’d been missing.’

Hurst laughed, but Irvine’s face didn’t change. His expression said it was only what he would expect from some people, who were pathetic.

‘Did that go on for long?’ asked Villiers.

Irvine shook his head. ‘It was a one-month wonder. People soon got tired of it and moved on to the next craze. None of it helped us, of course. We didn’t have a hope of sifting through everything, so we just concentrated on a few of the more likely sightings. And I’m using “likely” in a very relative sense, to mean the least bizarre.’

‘There was nothing else? No credit card transactions, no cash withdrawals, no record of the Pearsons passing through customs or buying air tickets?’

‘No, none of those.’

‘Well, either that was a particularly good disappearing act,’ said Villiers. ‘Or they’ve been dead all this time.’

Irvine shrugged. ‘We all know it’s possible to drop off the grid completely, if you have enough money. And the Pearsons had the money. They could have bought forged passports, new identity documents, opened bank accounts in new names. It only needs one contact to fix the whole thing.’

Cooper flicked through the file for financial details. ‘They both left money in their bank accounts. Quite substantial amounts, too.’

‘The inquiry team were aware of that. They watched those accounts closely for any signs of activity, but there were no transactions other than a few standing orders and direct debits, which kept going out until the bank put a stop on them.’

‘So they didn’t have any money?’

‘On the contrary. From the evidence of fraud and embezzlement that we and HMRC uncovered in David Pearson’s business activities, there’s a large of cash unaccounted for somewhere.’

‘How much?’

‘The best part of two million pounds.’

Villiers gave the low whistle required whenever a large amount of money was mentioned.

‘Wow.’

‘Actually, it isn’t all that much,’ said Irvine.

‘A cool two mil? Not all that much? What do you mean? Your salary must be a lot higher than I thought, Luke.’

‘No, he’s right,’ said Cooper. ‘It’s not enough. Once you’ve paid out for all the forged documents and your new identity, bought your villa in the Algarve or wherever and met all the expenses of setting up a different life from scratch … not to mention lying low for however long is needed.’

‘Yes, the money would have run out by now.’

‘I think so. They would have had to raise their heads above the parapet in some way by this time. And they would have been located.’

‘Unless …?’

‘Well, as Carol said — unless they’re dead.’

In the little office she’d been allocated across the corridor, Fry was looking at the photographs of the Pearsons again. Cooper wondered what she was thinking, why she had that faintly puzzled look. He’d studied the photographs long enough himself, and he hadn’t noticed whatever it was that Fry was seeing, the factor that she found so mystifying.

She looked up when she became aware of him standing near her.

‘Diane, would you agree to me speaking to Nancy Wharton?’ he said.

Fry considered it for a moment, and he thought at first that she was going to say no. It certainly wouldn’t have surprised him. As far as she was concerned, most of his ideas were set up to be rejected out of hand.

‘I suppose it can’t do any harm,’ she said.

‘Thank you.’

‘Why do you think all the public attention focused on David Pearson?’ she asked. ‘Trisha is quite attractive, isn’t she? The press normally go for shots of a photogenic young woman. It draws more sympathy, or something.’

Cooper had to agree. Usually that was the case.

‘But look at David again,’ he said. ‘Remember what I said about the film star?’

‘Oh. Robert Redford, was it?’

‘Yes. He has that look about him. Handsome, dashing, a bit of a rogue. He was tailor-made for the story, especially when his skill as a conman started to come out. The media loved the fact that he was on the run. He was Robert Redford in Butch Cassidy, or Steve McQueen in The Great Escape.’

Seeing Fry’s expression remain blank, he searched desperately for something she could relate to.

‘Oh, I don’t know … Leonardo DiCaprio in Catch Me if You Can.’

‘I’ve seen that,’ she said.

‘Good.’

Fry screwed up her eyes. ‘He doesn’t look anything like Leonardo DiCaprio. Wrong hair colouring altogether.’

‘That’s not the point …’ began Cooper, then gave up. ‘Oh, never mind. Some of the locals are pointing their fingers at this other group of visitors. We have descriptions of them, but no names.’

‘Is there a suggestion that they knew the Pearsons?’ asked Fry.

‘We have no indication what their conversation was about. It might just have been a bit of casual chat, if they realised they were from the same part of the country. Or fellow feeling between outsiders. We can’t say. And there’s no chance of tracing them unless we trawl through the records of every holiday cottage and guest house within twenty miles.’

‘Well, that’s something that wasn’t done at the time,’ said Fry. ‘And now it’s probably too late.’

‘Yes.’

Cooper shut the door a little too hard, just as a gesture, and strode back into the CID room, where his team looked reassuring, and less difficult to deal with.

‘Luke,’ he said, ‘can you dig out everything we have on Ian Gullick, please?’

‘A regular at the Light House?’ said Irvine. ‘I recall the name.’

‘Yes.’ Cooper consulted his notebook. ‘And an associate of his.’

‘Vince Naylor?’

‘Right.’

‘Was that from the old biddy?’ asked Irvine.

‘Surprisingly, yes.’

‘I was wondering,’ said Villiers, ‘why the Pearsons didn’t go to the Light House for an evening meal on that last night. It was closer to their holiday cottage than the George.’

‘The food wasn’t up to much at the Light House,’ said Murfin. ‘It had been rubbish for years. If the Pearsons were bothered about getting a decent meal, they would have gone anywhere else but.’

‘That’s true,’ said Cooper.

‘And in any case, the Light House always closed for a few days over Christmas. They would already have stopped serving food by then, and they never took any bookings for accommodation.’

Cooper knew that its position was what the Light House was most famous for. It vied with the Barrel Inn at Bretton to be known as the highest pub in Derbyshire. On a clear day you could see across five counties, they said. But its location was also a drawback. To find it the first time you had to programme it into your sat nav. It wasn’t a place you passed by accident.

And Murfin was right — for the last few years the food menu hadn’t competed with anywhere. It hadn’t even tried. No seasonal locally sourced produce here like the pheasant, venison and wild boar you might find at the Barrel. From a culinary point of view, the Light House had been stuck in the 1980s. And there had been nothing available at lunchtime except a packet of pork scratchings.

‘By the way,’ said Murfin. ‘Speaking of food, I’ve got a line on Maclennan, the chef. He’s working at a French restaurant in Chapel-en-le-Frith now.’

On the way to Chapel-en-le-Frith, Cooper drove through Sparrowpit, and turned up a lane by the Wanted Inn that would take him towards the A6, where it bypassed the town. He saw a board by the roadside advertising ‘Livery vacancies’. Now, that was a sign of hard times.

He crossed the national park boundary just before he reached the A6, and followed the road that ran through Chapel. He passed the turning for the high school and the railway station on Long Lane. Since he was early and had time to spare, he decided to call at the local police station.

Chapel police station was a little way out of the old part of town, on Manchester Road. It had originally been a couple of old police houses, and was also the base for a traffic policing unit for the north of the county. There was a dog unit parked in the yard outside, and a mobile police office. It had one of the best views of any police station in Derbyshire, with an outlook at the back over rolling farmland towards the National Trust site at Eccles Pike.

Half an hour later, Cooper met Niall Maclennan in the little cobbled marketplace in the oldest part of Chapel-en-le-Frith. Maclennan was sitting on a bench between the corner of the NatWest Bank and the old market cross, under a horse chestnut tree, watching the world going by on the high street below.

Although it was tiny, like all the best marketplaces it seemed to be surrounded by pubs. One of them, he noticed, had a sign outside. Pub for let. Near the traditional stocks was the Stocks Café, advertising itself as Great British Breakfast Winner 2010. Lucky Gavin Murfin wasn’t here.

Niall Maclennan had dark eyes, prominent cheekbones and designer stubble. He was trying very hard to ooze the impression of a TV celebrity chef. At one time his image might have been spoiled by the fact that he was working in Chapel-en-le-Frith, this old market town on the edge of the High Peak. But these days Chapel was claiming to be the gourmet centre of the Peak, thanks to the number of restaurants, cafés and pubs, and a reputation for locally sourced produce.

Less was said about the fifteen hundred Scottish soldiers who had been imprisoned in St Thomas Becket church and starved to death during the Civil War. That ought to be worthy of some kind of commemoration.

‘There are good jobs here,’ said Maclennan. ‘And in Buxton, too. I was just marking time at the Light House, getting a bit of experience.’

‘So you left the Whartons for a better job?’

Maclennan hesitated. ‘Not exactly. It took me a few weeks to find another position.’

‘What made you leave, then?’

Thoughtfully, Maclennan took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘The atmosphere, I suppose. Things were getting bad. Everyone knew that.’

‘Bad financially?’

‘Yes, business was down. It’s heartbreaking to put all your effort and creativity into producing an exciting menu, and then have no one turn up to get the benefit. Everybody was tetchy, especially Nancy and Maurice. I could see it would only get worse. Once you’re on that slippery slope, it takes new management to turn it round.’

‘Reputation being so important.’

‘Exactly.’

‘But it wasn’t just that, was it?’ asked Cooper.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you mentioned Nancy and Maurice getting tetchy. Running a kitchen can be quite stressful anyway. If the Whartons became difficult to work with, I can see why you might have walked out on them.’

Maclennan laughed. ‘I’m not some kind of prima donna, you know. I don’t storm out in a hissy fit every five minutes. It was a fully thought-out decision, made in the best interests of my own career.’

‘So who took over the kitchen when you left?’

‘Nancy, so far as I know. She had a couple of staff to help her, but they weren’t exactly qualified chefs, if you know what I mean. It’s hardly a surprise that the quality of the menu nosedived. I tried to be a bit adventurous, and produce quality. They went for pub grub. What a phrase. Pub grub.’

He said it with such venom and contempt that Cooper could imagine the conflicts there might have been at the Light House while Maclennan was working there. Maurice Wharton was famously irascible — in fact, he’d made it his trademark. And Nancy was no soft touch, either.

‘Do you remember the time the couple from Surrey went missing?’

‘Sure,’ said Maclennan. ‘It was on all the news programmes.’

‘You were still working at the Light House then, weren’t you?’

‘Yes — but you appreciate I was in the kitchens all the time? I didn’t see any of the customers. At least, not until we’d finished serving and cleaning down, then I might go out into the bar for a drink to wind down.’

‘Just staff in the bar by then?’

‘Well, unless Maurice had let a few regulars stay for a bit of a lock-in. You know it happens.’

‘Yes, everyone knows it happens,’ said Cooper.

‘But then it was just a few of the same old faces. I never stayed long on those nights. Not my idea of congenial company.’

The hostility in his voice sounded genuine. It was more than just the resentment of an ungrateful public that was common among people working in the hospitality and service industries. Maclennan’s tone suggested that he knew too much about these particular customers personally.

But a moment later he seemed to have second thoughts. He straightened up, took a look round, stubbed out his cigarette.

‘Well, it was a shame when they had to close the pub,’ said Maclennan. ‘I suppose they’d seen it coming for quite a while, though.’

‘The Whartons, you mean?’ asked Cooper.

‘Yes. Well, Maurice in particular. You could see him getting more and more depressed. I reckon it was weighing on his mind for years before they eventually had to pull the plug. I mean, a man wants to believe that he can support his family and run a business properly. Maurice was a proud sort of bloke. I’m not surprised it hit him so hard.’

‘You say he was getting depressed?’

‘Oh, aye. Morose, he was. He’d always been such a character. Cantankerous, you’d say. Crabby and bad-tempered maybe. But a lot of it was show. He liked to live up to his reputation.’

‘His image as Mad Maurice,’ said Cooper.

‘That’s it. He loved all that. It gave him a bit of fame. He played up to it something rotten at times, winding up the tourists and so on. Regulars who knew him thought it was hilarious. “That’s Mad Maurice for you,” they’d say. But, well … when the pub started to get into trouble, you could see it was more than that. Maurice lost heart all of a sudden. One day we all realised that he wasn’t joking any more. He really was moody. He began to drink, too. Well, when a landlord starts to drink his own booze, it’s the beginning of the end, in my view. A very slippery slope. Poor old Maurice.’

‘I dare say you know Mr Wharton’s health is very poor?’ said Cooper.

‘That’s on account of the booze, though, isn’t it? The booze and the stress. I couldn’t say which caused which. Probably a bit of both. Like a vicious cycle.’

‘Circle,’ said Cooper.

‘What?’

‘It’s a vicious circle.’

‘That’s what I said.’

Cooper found himself distracted by the sight of a couple of estate agents he wasn’t familiar with. They didn’t have offices in Edendale, so their properties were probably more on the western borders of the county.

He realised Maclennan was looking at him strangely.

‘Sorry, what were you saying?’’ asked Cooper.

‘I was saying that you might want to talk to Josh Lane, Sergeant. He was their regular barman. The Whartons had quite a few casual staff while I was there, but Josh was full time, right up to the end. He became almost like one of the family.’

‘Thank you.’

Cooper took a last look round Chapel-en-le-Frith. The men’s hairdresser’s was doing good business. Two women were chatting outside the post office, near a recruitment poster for Hope Valley Rugby Club. At a beauty parlour in the high street they were offering a fish foot spa treatment. Ten pounds for a fifteen-minute session.

‘I can’t tell you anything else,’ said Maclennan. ‘As you can see, I got out before it was too late. You might call me a rat deserting a sinking ship, I suppose. That would be fair. But if you ask me, Maurice Wharton was sinking in a sea of his own alcohol.’