Dying to Sin

32

A few minutes later, Cooper was getting back into his Toyota in the university car park. ‘Not within living memory.’ Where had he heard that phrase recently? Oh, yes. It had been used by PC Palfreyman, the first time that Cooper had visited him at Hollowbrook Cottage, as early as Friday morning.

That seemed a long time ago now. Palfreyman had been answering a question about whether there had been an argument between the Sutton brothers. ‘Not within living memory.’ That was exactly what he’d said.

Well, Cooper supposed that living memory resided in the older generation, people like Raymond Sutton and Mrs Dain. But it wasn’t everything, not in an area like the Peak District. When living memory died, the landscape still retained an imprint of times that had passed. The lead miners might be long gone, but their workings still shaped the contours of the hills and valleys. Their shafts and soughs survived, directly under the feet of modern visitors. Their ghosts, perhaps, still lingered where those Red Soil men had died, choking in the blackness, their lungs full of sulphurous smoke.

The flat at number eight Welbeck Street felt lonely that evening. Cooper was due to meet Liz later on, but the time he spent on his own was difficult to bear.

Thinking of PC Palfreyman made him turn to the framed picture that hung on the wall over his mantelpiece. Not within living memory? This picture was a part of his life that would stay in his memory for ever, even if it disappeared now. He was familiar with the face of every man on each of the rows, even with the pattern and texture of the wall behind them and the concrete yard their boots rested on.

Sergeant Joe Cooper, and the rest of Derbyshire Constabulary’s Edendale section, had been lined up for an official visit, back in the 1980s. Those were the days when the police dealt with criminals and victims. In twenty-first-century policing, there were only offenders and injured parties. Worse, victims had become infected with acronym disease, and were routinely referred to as IPs.

Without looking, Cooper could have described the picture in detail, the way each officer held his arms, which of them was smiling, who looked suspicious of the photographer, and who hadn’t fastened his tie properly that morning. He knew the feel of the mahogany frame, the smoothness of the edges, the slight ridge in the wood, like a necessary flaw. He could remember the scratch in the glass that was only visible when you turned the picture towards the light.

As he looked at the photograph of his father, Cooper was wondering whether, in a few years’ time, he would himself have turned into one of those police officers who wanted to go back to the old days. The officers who wanted to abandon PACE, delete the Human Rights Act from UK law, and bring in mandatory jail sentences for burglars. Wanted to, but daren’t say so.

Cooper was due to meet Liz in the market square, but he was early when he left the flat. So he took his time and walked down to the river to reach the town centre. Just before the Eyre Street bridge, he stopped at the weir to watch the ducks, a crowd of mallards fussing about in the darkness, splashing under the trees.

Above their noise, he thought he heard a familiar voice behind him.

‘Ben?’

He turned in surprise. ‘I thought you were in — ?’

And then he saw that he’d been mistaken. It was Angie Fry who stood in front of him, much as she’d once stood on his doorstep in Welbeck Street. She wore the same anorak and even carried the same battered rucksack over her shoulder.

‘Angie. Are you going somewhere?’

She didn’t answer, perhaps thinking it a stupid question. She had never seemed to have much respect for his intelligence.

‘Always the ace boy detective, Constable Cooper.’

Cooper swore at that moment that he wasn’t going to let Angie Fry use him again for her own purposes.

‘What do you want, Angie? I’m busy.’

‘Sure. Communing with the wildlife.’

Anxiously, Cooper looked over his shoulder. The lights of the market square were just ahead, only a few yards away. He could see people passing under the illuminated Christmas trees and the flickering reindeer strung across Eyre Street.

‘I won’t keep you long from your date,’ said Angie with a smirk.

‘How did you know — ?’

Angie pulled an envelope from a pocket of her anorak. ‘I need to give you this.’

‘What is it?’

‘Information. I promise you’ll find it interesting.’

‘You should give it to Diane.’

‘She’s away.’

‘Yes, in Dublin,’ said Cooper. ‘But she’ll be back tomorrow.’

Angie just looked at him, holding out the envelope. She seemed so much like her sister as she stood with her back to the light, shadows hiding the difference in her features, the anorak concealing her narrow shoulders, and the almost skeletal thinness of her arms — all the things Cooper remembered being struck by when he’d first met her.

He took her silence for communication. ‘I understand. You won’t be seeing Diane tomorrow, will you?’

‘No.’

Reluctantly, Cooper took the envelope. ‘Angie, are you going away again?’

Angie shifted the straps of her rucksack until they were more comfortable. ‘You’ll find information in that envelope about the current location of the crystal meth lab that supplies Sheffield. It’s in your area. I believe it’s operated by a group who took over supply when the lab at Rakedale closed down.’

Cooper was stunned. ‘How did you get this?’

But Angie shrugged. ‘I’ve been working with people who have this sort of information. They’ve been letting the lab continue to operate, for their own reasons, and I don’t agree with it.’

‘What people are you talking about?’

‘I’m sure you don’t expect me to answer that?’

‘Are you talking about SOCA?’ asked Cooper. ‘Serious and Organized Crime? Did they recruit you as one of their under-cover agents?’

‘Agents? I think they’re called covert human intelligence sources these days, Ben.’

‘Angie, you can’t just — ’

But she’d already turned away and was walking into the darkness along the river bank.

‘Give it to Diane, if you want,’ she called. ‘Tell her it’s my farewell gift.’

When he eventually reached the corner of the market square where Liz was waiting, Cooper realized she’d been standing close enough to have a view of the river from the Eyre Street bridge.

‘Who was that woman I saw you with?’ she asked straight away.

Cooper flinched at the unfamiliar coolness in her voice. It was the sort of tone that might be used on a suspect in the interview room, when you wanted to make it clear that you thought they were guilty and you were expecting them to lie. He wondered where Liz had learned that tone. Perhaps it just came naturally. Perhaps it came naturally to all women.

‘Were you spying on me?’ he said, trying for a smile.

‘You’re avoiding the question.’

Cooper laughed, but she wasn’t responding.

‘Look, if you really want to know — it was Diane’s sister.’

‘Oh, you mean — ?’

‘Angie, yes.’

‘I’ve never seen her before.’

‘Well, Diane doesn’t exactly bring her into work on Casual Friday,’ said Cooper.

‘OK, OK. I can see you’re defensive about it.’

‘What?’

Liz began to walk away. Stung by her unfairness, Cooper waited a moment, to make his point, before he followed her.

Garda Lenaghan insisted on celebrating that evening. Somehow, they ended up drinking Irish whiskey together in a bar in Coolock that stayed open until the early hours of the morning. Fry didn’t normally drink spirits, and by the end of the night the whiskey was starting to have a peculiar effect on her.

‘Tony, I need to get back to my B amp;B,’ she said finally. ‘I’m due to fly home tomorrow, you know.’

Lenaghan’s face was swimming in front of her, but Fry was sure he was smiling. He wasn’t as bad as she’d thought at first. He was a city man, not like the yokels back in Derbyshire.

‘I’ll call for a taxi,’ he said.

In the early hours of the morning, Cooper found himself watching a film on TV, too tired to go to bed, and with too many thoughts buzzing around in his head.

He’d lost track of the film’s plot in the first few minutes, but he noticed that it seemed to have been shot entirely in the dark. In every scene there were long camera shots, with nothing but a lit doorway or a window in the distance, and a tunnel of darkness for a character to walk through. Sometimes an actor walked towards the camera, sometimes away. But always through that darkness. Why did no one ever put the lights on? he wondered. Did the people in these stories never suspect what might be waiting for them in those shadows, when they moved beyond the rectangles of light?

But that was the whole point, wasn’t it? It was all about the vicarious fear. The thrill was in anticipating the moment when a character stepped out of the safety zone. That was what riveted him to the screen, filled his mind and kept him from sleeping. It was watching a person walk into the dark.

When his phone rang, he thought at first it was part of the film. No one called him this late, unless it was bad news. When he answered, he wasn’t surprised to find it was DI Hitchens.

‘Sorry to bother you, Ben, but I thought you should know. Raymond Sutton has tried to hang himself in his room at The Oaks.’