Dead and Buried

6

Cooper had a message waiting for him next morning. He had to see Detective Superintendent Hazel Branagh, the head of E Division’s CID. That never boded well. But it was even worse when he had no idea what he was being summoned about.

Before he went up to the management floor, he took a couple of minutes to bring himself up to date on what had been happening overnight. His heart sank when he read about the discovery at the Light House. The incident report read like his worst nightmare. Especially when it began: Call received from DS Fry of East Midlands Major Crime Unit …

Damn, he said to himself when he’d digested the details. Better get it over with then.

The top floor at West Street was marginally more comfortable. A bit of carpet here and there, a recent paint job on the office doors. There was less of an air of desperation: no piles of evidence lying around waiting to be processed, no signs of the public intruding, let alone sweating suspects and drunks detained for a night in the cells.

Superintendent Branagh’s office was near the end of the corridor, where the quietness was itself intimidating. He knocked and was called straight in.

Whenever he looked at Branagh, Cooper couldn’t help remembering Gavin Murfin’s comment when he’d first set eyes on her: She’d look good in the front row of a scrum. It was the shoulders that did it.

‘Ah, DS Cooper,’ she said.

He knew it was serious then, just by the tone of her voice, the underlying hint of disapproval or disappointment. The super had always liked him, or so he thought. But things could change.

‘So. How did we miss a body in the pub?’ asked Branagh.

‘It was just bad luck.’

‘Worse luck that Detective Sergeant Fry made the discovery instead. One up for the Major Crime Unit. It makes us look incapable.’

‘I know,’ said Cooper. ‘Believe me, I know.’

He could have wished it was anyone else except Diane Fry. Even Gavin Murfin would have been acceptable, stumbling across the body while looking for a cup of tea. Murfin would have gloated, but it might have been bearable.

He knew Diane Fry. He anticipated that she would say nothing about it. But she would definitely look smug. Boy, would she look smug.

Branagh spread her hands on her desk, and looked at Cooper thoughtfully. They were strong hands, probably the strongest he’d ever seen on a woman. They inspired confidence in him, a feeling that he could rely on her leadership.

‘The death of the man found in the abandoned pub should be our first priority,’ she said. ‘It’s a fresh case, and we’re still in the first twenty-four hours. We’re far more likely to get a result.’

‘We haven’t even identified him yet, ma’am.’

‘Well, get on to it.’

‘There’s a briefing in half an hour,’ said Cooper. ‘DCI Mackenzie from the EMSOU.’

‘I know him,’ said Branagh. ‘Alistair Mackenzie will do a good job. But …’

‘Yes, ma’am?’

‘If you do have problems, talk to your DI, who will keep me in the loop. EMSOU need our help at the moment. We won’t let ourselves be pushed around by them.’

‘I understand.’

‘It would be nice,’ said Branagh, ‘if we could tie up the Pearson inquiry as well as the new case. David and Trisha Pearson are names that have been haunting this division for years. And not only E Division. The subject comes up regularly at meetings of the Senior Command Team. It’s never been forgotten. We hear about it often from the family.’

Cooper nodded. ‘I’ll make sure I get up to speed on the Pearson situation before the briefing starts.’

‘That’s an excellent idea.’

‘I wasn’t on duty myself at the time it happened,’ he said. ‘But I think I know someone who was.’

It was more than two years since David and Trisha Pearson had gone missing. Two visitors from Dorking in Surrey, they had been known to no one in the area until they disappeared. Now everyone had heard their names.

The Pearsons had vanished one night in December, when a snowstorm closed in suddenly as they walked back to their rented cottage. Their winter break in the Peak District had ended that night. They had been in their thirties, fit and active. But they had never been seen since.

It had been just before Christmas, too. Cooper knew what that would have been like. All over Derbyshire people would be winding down for a long break at home with their families, snatching up those last-minute presents, gathering for seasonal parties with their friends or office colleagues, going out and getting drunk on any old excuse. Well, who needed an excuse? It was nearly Christmas, after all.

That was how it had been for most people. But not for those who were obliged to work over the holiday period. There were always a few who drew the short straw. And they tended to let you know how they felt about it.

‘Yes, I was duty DC,’ said Gavin Murfin, when Cooper sat him down in a chair in the CID room. ‘Funny how I always seem to pull the Christmas rota. Anyone would think there was a conspiracy to land all the worst jobs on the local sucker. I must have a big neon sign on my head or something. Dump your unwanted shit here.’

Cooper signalled to the rest of the team, and they gathered round Murfin like a family listening to their ageing grandfather tell a favourite story. Becky Hurst sat upright with her arms folded and a sceptical expression on her face. Luke Irvine slouched casually in a swivel chair, eyes moving constantly from his computer screen to Murfin and back. Carol Villiers leaned against the wall, the light from the window behind her. Cooper perched on a desk and studied Murfin as closely as if he’d been a suspect in an interview room.

‘Did you go up to Oxlow Moor, Gavin?’ he asked.

‘Well, not at first. I was called out to the cottage where the Pearsons were staying. They were reported missing by the farmer’s wife, who’d gone to see if they needed anything after the snow stopped. That was quite late the next day, you understand.’

‘The day after they disappeared?’

‘Right.’ Murfin shivered at the memory. ‘It was damn cold up there. Snow on the ground, a wind that cut right through you like a knife. You should have heard me moaning about being dragged out of a nice warm office on a false alarm. We were having a bit of fun here, those of us who were in over Christmas. There were mince pies and everything.’

‘But it wasn’t a false alarm, was it, Gavin? Did the incident escalate quickly?’

‘I wouldn’t say it was quick. People are reported missing all the time — everyone knows that. And they were adults, after all. It wasn’t as if they were kids who’d run away from home. But given the weather conditions … well, there was a bit of concern about their welfare, like.’

Cooper could understand why Murfin sounded defensive. Decisions could seem mistaken with the benefit of hindsight. But no one wanted to call it wrong in the early stages and end up looking like a fool.

Murfin gazed round the circle of faces. ‘Well, the owners of the property had keys, so there was no problem getting inside the cottage. But we could already see the Pearsons hadn’t slept there the night before. In fact, no one had been there since before the snow started. There was a drift up against the door, and no footprints in the snow outside, except the owner’s. The cottage was cold, too.’

‘The Pearsons’ car was still there, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. A Range Rover, as I recall. Smart motor. It was covered over in snow, so it hadn’t been driven for a good twenty-four hours.’

‘That must have set alarm bells ringing.’

‘Right. People die of exposure in those conditions. But we had no idea at first where they might have been, what they’d been doing — what they were wearing, even. They might have gone to stay with friends, been picked up by a taxi. We just didn’t know. No one was keen to start making big decisions that would tie up a massive amount of resources over Christmas.’

‘What was the deciding factor in the end?’

‘We got hold of a mobile number. Either from the property owner or the agency who handled their holiday lettings. It must have been on their booking details, I think. That was David Pearson’s phone. We kept trying it and trying it, but there was no answer. It was dead.’

‘That must have been the phone we found in the peat.’

‘I guess so. Well, we started to get properly worried then. The incident went up the chain of command. And suddenly I was just an extra body in a crowd. And I’ve got to tell you, no one liked being called out at Christmas time. But they all did their bit.’

Murfin looked up suddenly. Cooper sensed a presence at his shoulder and turned, just as a new voice broke in. A voice he recognised instantly. Diane Fry.

‘And meanwhile,’ she said, ‘they were all hoping they could knock off work and get home, or to the pub, as soon as possible. Because no one wanted to start making big decisions, did they? God forbid. Especially not you, I suppose.’

One thing Cooper had never got accustomed to was the way Fry could appear unexpectedly. She was able to move almost silently when she wanted to. Most disturbing was the fact that you didn’t know how long she’d been standing there, listening.

Murfin’s face changed as he looked at her. ‘Wouldn’t you want to get home? Oh, but you don’t have a family, I forgot. Nothing for you to go home for.’

Fry’s lips tightened, but Cooper stepped in before she could respond.

‘This sort of thing doesn’t help. Diane, you’re welcome to sit in, but we need to listen. Go on, Gavin.’

Murfin waited to see if Fry took a chair. But instead she paced restlessly between the desks, her thin shoulders hunched like a prowling cat.

‘Well, it was a while before we managed to trace their movements. The Pearsons hadn’t told anyone where they were going, and of course the people at the pub where they’d been for dinner earlier that evening had no idea the couple were missing. It was a double whammy, if you like. That’s what caused the delay. Well, mostly.’

‘It could have been what caused their deaths, too,’ said Fry.

She had remained standing in the middle of the room. Of course, she no longer had a desk in this department, but Cooper felt sure she did it deliberately, to make everyone else feel uncomfortable.

‘If they died,’ replied Murfin stubbornly.

Fry raised her eyebrow. ‘You’re on the “deliberate disappearance” side of the argument then, are you?’

‘Yes, they legged it, without a doubt,’ said Murfin. ‘It’s obvious. They were about to get pulled by the fraud squad in Surrey, so they did a bunk with the cash. I reckon David Pearson planned the best time to make a break for it, when they were away from home anyway. And they set up that delay for themselves so they had time to put some distance in before anyone noticed they were gone. They played us all for idiots, as if they knew exactly what we do.’

‘And … what? David Pearson deliberately left his wallet and phone behind?’

‘Of course he did. It makes no difference.’ Murfin leaned forward, directing his comments at Fry. ‘It’s what I would do myself, if I was going to change my identity. I wouldn’t carry proof of who I really was. The Pearsons wouldn’t care if their stuff was found, not once they’d got clear. In fact, you know what? I reckon they’ve been laughing at us all this time for not finding those things sooner.’

When the impromptu meeting broke up in preparation for the full briefing, Cooper took Fry to one side.

‘Gavin could be right, you know,’ he said.

‘When did that ever happen?’

‘He has experience,’ said Cooper. ‘More experience than you or me. Doesn’t that count for anything, Diane?’

‘The actions taken in the initial stages of the inquiry were flawed,’ said Fry impatiently. ‘And the first mistake was sending DC Gavin Murfin.’

Exasperated, Cooper watched her go, walking down the corridor to greet her DCI from the Major Crime Unit. He shook his head in despair. He seemed to have spent a huge part of his life watching Diane Fry walk away.

‘But hey,’ he called. ‘Diane — what about the victim you found at the Light House?’

Fry paused just for a moment, barely breaking her stride.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Don’t you worry about that, DS Cooper. The investigation is in good hands this time.’

Cooper nodded, reluctantly forced to accept her answer, and even the tone it had been delivered in.

But it was true what he’d said. There were very few murder cases that dragged on for months, let alone years. Usually the story was an obvious one. A body turned up, and a suspect presented himself on a plate. Charges were brought and the crime went down in the files as detected.

So there was a powerful temptation to use the logic in reverse. If a case like the Pearson inquiry had gone on for years, with no sign of a body, the chances were high that it wasn’t a murder. Experience alone suggested that conclusion, and statistics backed it up.

So Gavin Murfin was far from alone in the opinion he’d formed. He might just be the only one prepared to voice it so openly right now.

DCI Alistair Mackenzie had arrived to take charge as senior investigating officer. He was a big man, over six feet tall and wide across the shoulders. A bit top-heavy perhaps, carrying too much weight above the belt to be fast on his feet. He had a shrewd stare, and a habit of tilting his head on one side when he looked at you.

Fry had begun to get used to him. She liked to know who she was dealing with, particularly if they could be influential in her career. She’d weighed him up when they’d worked together briefly after he was drafted into E Division for the Bridge End Farm inquiry. She didn’t think he’d be difficult to handle, even though he’d once accused her of being a farm girl. That impression she could dispel pretty quickly.

‘Everything all right, Diane?’ asked Mackenzie.

‘Yes, sir. Fine.’

‘It’s a bit strange to be back among your old colleagues so soon, I suppose?’

‘It’s not a problem.’

‘That’s what I like to hear.’

Fry knew he liked to hear that. She’d heard him say it before. The DCI wanted to think his officers could cope with anything. Finding yourself back among your former colleagues, the ones you’d tried so hard to escape from, was definitely nothing to worry about. It was no problem. No problem at all.

In a back street in the north of Edendale, a white Mitsubishi L200 pickup was parked at the kerb outside a semi-detached council house. People on the street passed it without comment — barely noticing it, in fact, seeing just another workmen’s vehicle. Repairs were being carried out on some of the homes on the Devonshire Estate. Vans, pickups and builder’s skips had been a common sight in the street for months.

The paintwork of the Mitsubishi was spattered with tarry black specks, as if it had been parked under a sycamore tree. But that wasn’t unusual either. The clouds of smoke drifting over the moors had been depositing sooty debris far and wide, ever since the first moorland fire had started in the Peak District six weeks ago.

So when two men appeared from one of the houses, no one took any notice of them. After they’d driven away, not a single passer-by in the street could have said what the men looked like. No one could have had a guess at the make or registration number of the pickup. A few wouldn’t even have been sure that it was white.

But that was always the way with memories. There was almost nothing you could rely on as being completely accurate.