Lost River

12

Examining Fry’s desk for some files he needed, Cooper came across the latest issue of Grapevine magazine, produced by the British Association of Women Police. He picked it up, feeling a bit guilty about even looking at it, since he was a man.

According to an item on the cover, West Midlands Police had been included in The Times list of the ‘Top Fifty Places Women Want to Work’ for the third year running. Well, if it was such a great organization to work for, why had Diane Fry bothered coming to Derbyshire?

But he knew the answer to that. He’d known it within a few days of meeting her, after her transfer to E Division. She’d blurted out the truth one afternoon on a hillside overlooking a Peak District village. He hadn’t known what to say to her then. He wouldn’t really know what to say now.

He wondered how she was getting on in Birmingham, whether she would call anybody in Edendale to keep them up to date. Who was there that she might call? Not him, anyway.

In Ashbourne, the Nields looked less glad to see him than they had before. Of course, they’d heard about the anonymous letter, although they didn’t get the Eden Valley Times here in Ashbourne. Cooper had found that out as soon as he phoned them. They’d been trying to get hold of him for hours, they said. Their messages were probably on his desk somewhere.

‘A disturbed person,’ said Robert Nield, when Cooper was seated in their lounge. ‘An attention seeker. It’s very sad, really.’

‘They need help,’ added Dawn, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. ‘When you find out who it is, they should see a psychiatrist.’

Cooper wondered what Mrs Nield had been busying herself with. He bet there was always something that needed doing. And if it didn’t, she would do it anyway. Keeping herself occupied.

‘That’s the trouble,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how we can go about finding who sent the letter — unless you have any ideas yourselves?’

They shook their heads in unison.

‘No idea,’ said Nield.

‘No disgruntled members of staff, perhaps? Somebody you sacked recently?’

‘I don’t often sack people. Staff members leave occasionally, but of their own accord. We’re quite a little family at Lodge’s. Any problems we have, we sort them out among ourselves.’

Quite a little family. Cooper looked around the living room, wondering what Mr Nield’s idea of a happy little family was, in terms of his staff. Well organized and hard working, no doubt. But whether they were happy — that was a different matter. None of the rooms he’d seen in this house looked as though they’d ever had children in them, other than Alex’s bedroom.

‘Who’s looking after the store at the moment?’ asked Cooper.

‘I have a good assistant manager. David Underwood. He’s perfectly capable, and he knows he can phone me at any time.’

‘That’s lucky.’

‘I believe in delegation. It’s an essential part of being a good manager.’

Dawn was turning back to the kitchen, but paused to speak to Cooper.

‘Oh, Alex said you should go up and see him again if you came back.’

‘Did he?’

‘I think you must have showed some interest in what he was doing. I’ve never understood any of it myself.’

‘He attends Queen Elizabeth’s Grammar School, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes, Alex is in Year Nine at the moment. He’s very clever, you know. He’s already decided what he wants to do next year. He’s going to study for a DiDA.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘A Diploma in Digital Applications. It’s equivalent to four GCSEs. That’s one of the reasons we wanted him to go to Queen Elizabeth’s, so he had the chance of a DiDA.’

Upstairs, Cooper looked at the closed doors on the landing. One still bore Emily’s name on a little plaque decorated with pink flowers. For a moment, he thought about opening the door to peek in, or asking the Nields if he could see their daughter’s room. But he decided that he didn’t want to see it. The sight of her clothes and toys might turn Emily into a real, living person, and the idea was unsettling.

He found Alex fidgeting expectantly, perhaps knowing that he’d arrived and was in the house talking to his parents.

Unsurprisingly, War Tribe was on the screen of his PC, the representation of a city with roofs and battlements. Looking closer, Cooper saw that there was movement in the city. A tiny flag waving on a tower, a soldier pacing up and down, a workman sawing at a bench outside a building.

‘How’s the game going?’ he asked.

‘We’re going to be in a war,’ said Alex. ‘Look.’

He clicked a link, and a map appeared, variously coloured blocks on a grid. Cooper guessed they represented other players’ cities in the neighbourhood.

‘Who are the bright red ones?’ he asked.

‘Our tribe’s enemies. Look, they’re near me, on the edge of Continent 34. Turks.’

‘Turks?’

‘Yeah.

‘You mean that’s their tribe?’

‘No, they’re Turks. Aggressive and well organized, those Turks. You can see them starting to expand already, look. They grab the biggest barbs and conquer the tribeless players. They’ll be coming for my cities soon, if they think I’m vulnerable. First there’ll be scouts to suss me out, and maybe a few raiding parties. Before you know it, they’ll be swarming all over me.’

‘You’re losing me a bit,’ said Cooper. ‘Barbs?’

‘Barbarian villages. The unoccupied ones, that don’t belong to any player. You can take those over and expand your empire.’

‘I see.’

‘If you don’t take them, someone else does. And if they get bigger than you, they’re a threat. Bigger players try to bully you.’

‘Can’t you try diplomacy?’ said Cooper, though it sounded even to him like a stab in the dark.

Alex shook his head. ‘Sometimes. But there’s never any point in trying to talk to the Turks. All you get back is gibberish. If they can’t speak English, they shouldn’t be on the UK server really, should they? That’s in the rules. English is the official War Tribe language, even if the guys who run it seem to be German, and some of the player guides are in German too. It’s a bit confusing sometimes.’

‘Yes,’ said Cooper. The boy was talking too fast now for him to follow, gabbling excitedly. He might as well be talking gibberish himself.

‘Oh, well. Everyone understands battle-axes, whatever language they speak,’ said Alex.

‘Right. Battle-axes.’

‘An army of berserkers will go through any defence. A few battering rams against the walls, and it’s rape and pillage all the way. My tribe can really kick some Turkish ass.’

Cooper felt his eyebrows gradually going up, and tried to control the expression before Alex saw it. If the boy thought he was shocked or disapproving, he would clam up. He felt sure, though, that Dawn Nield would not like to hear her clever, studious son talking enthusiastically about rape and pillage, and kicking Turkish ass. This was definitely a private world of Alex’s own that he’d been privileged to share for a few minutes.

‘If we get our act together, that is,’ said Alex. ‘We have to work together if we’re going to beat off the Turks.’

And that was what it was all about, Cooper supposed — working together. Being part of a tribe. You needed support from your tribe mates when it was your walls that the rams were hitting, your city that the axemen were pillaging. Without support from your tribe, you were dead.

Alex paused, feeling perhaps that he’d said too much.

‘Sometimes, it feels like a lot more than just a game,’ he said, with a thoughtful tone entering his voice.

Cooper nodded. ‘I actually wanted to ask you about your photography while I’m here,’ he said. ‘I hear you’re pretty good.’

‘I like playing around, that’s all. Doing stuff with the editing programs.’

‘When you were in Dovedale on Monday, did you notice the money trees in near the river?’

‘What, the ones with the coins in them?’

‘Yes. They call them money trees.’

‘I saw them.’

‘I bet you took some photographs, didn’t you?’

Alex nodded. ‘Do you want to look at some?’

‘Definitely.’

The boy minimized the War Tribe screen, and opened some photo-management software that created a slideshow of images. Shots of hillsides slid by. The sky, water, rocks — and the familiar outlines of the Twelve Apostles. They were definitely in Dovedale now. Some of the images had been digitally manipulated — the balance of light and shade altered to accentuate a shape, startling colour adjustments turning the dale into a landscape from another planet. In one striking composition, two images had been overlaid, with the knot holes of gnarled bark creating a ghostly face on a limestone cliff.

Finally, Alex paused the slideshow at a picture of a money tree.

‘Do you know why people do that?’ said Cooper. ‘Hammer the coins into the tree? It’s for luck.’

They both sat looking at the photograph. Hundreds of coins banged into the wood over decades, maybe centuries. Generations of people trekking into Dovedale and taking the trouble to add their contribution to the money tree, hoping for some improvement in their lives. Better health, the right partner, an end to some despair that was blighting their existence.

‘There’s a lot of luck in that tree,’ said Cooper.

Alex was silent for a moment. ‘Well, there should have been.’

Finally, Cooper thought he detected a sign of emotion, the slight crack in his voice that suggested his younger sister had meant something to him, that her death had been traumatic and was causing him to grieve. He wondered if the boy’s parents had thought about getting him some counselling, or even trying to get him to open up about it themselves — or whether they were too caught up in their own concerns.

Someone ought to suggest it to them. An incident like the drowning of Emily Nield could traumatize a boy of Alex’s age, and cause psychological problems months or years down the line. His behaviour could be seriously affected. Who knew what he might do at some future date, if his complex feelings were bottled up and never found a natural release?

Alex had started the slideshow again. Cooper watched more inanimate objects appear and slide by. Patterns, light and shade. Those were the things that interested Alex Nield. None of his images included people, not even his own family. Perhaps especially his own family.

Cooper looked at his watch.

‘Well, thanks a lot for your time, Alex. I’m going to have to get back to work now.’

‘Okay.’

‘I’ll see you another time, though.’

‘I guess.’

‘At least you’re easy to find here in Ashbourne. You used to live in Wetton, didn’t you?’

And Alex froze. Almost literally. His expression became a mask, all friendliness gone. His face had closed against the world, and particularly against Cooper.

All the time he’d been talking to the boy, Cooper had been aware that he might say the wrong thing at any moment. He’d felt as though he was skating on thin ice. And now he’d fallen through.

Back in the sitting room, he raised the subject of Alex with his parents. They agreed that they ought to consider Alex’s welfare and not let him sit alone in his room for hour after hour. ‘After the funeral,’ said Dawn, pronouncing the words as if she was saying After the end of the world. The inference seemed to be that nothing else mattered, or even existed, until that event had been faced up to.

‘And you haven’t any idea who might have sent the anonymous letter?’ said Cooper, looking at the line of framed photographs on the window ledge.

‘No, we haven’t.’

‘Or what the letter might have been referring to?’

‘No idea,’ said Nield, almost snapping the answer. ‘It’s just somebody with delusions.’

‘About Emily,’ said Cooper. ‘Could she be badly behaved sometimes? A troublesome child?’

‘No. What do you mean?’

‘Nothing, really.’

A school photograph of Alex was prominently displayed in the window. He was wearing his Queen Elizabeth’s uniform, a navy blue blazer and school tie. But Cooper was looking for photographs of Emily. He found a family group, with Robert and Dawn, Alex and Emily — and a teenage girl of about sixteen, with distinctive black eye make-up and a purple streak in her hair.

‘Who is the other girl in this photograph with you?’ he asked.

There was no answer from either of the Nields. Cooper became aware of one of those awkward silences that seemed to fill a room, as if he’d just broken wind. Was it the result of shock, embarrassment, shame?

He glanced up quickly to catch the expressions on the faces of the Nields. And he met only hostility.

Cooper’s return to Edendale had been delayed by a traffic accident. An HGV had toppled into a ditch on the A515 near Sudbury, causing traffic to back up all the way Ashbourne.

Back at his desk, he thought about his visits to the Nields’ home. While he’d been sitting in his car listening to traffic alerts about the HGV accident, a recollection had come to him of the Museum of Childhood, just a few miles away in Sudbury.

Among the exhibits at the museum was the Betty Cadbury Collection of Playthings Past. He remembered a three-storey doll’s house, made around the end of the nineteenth century. It had nine perfect miniature rooms, with the figure of a Victorian mother downstairs in the kitchen, and Father upstairs in the study with his pipe. There had been an odd excitement about being able to glimpse the whole life of a house in that way, to know what was going on in every room at the same time. But even then, he’d wondered where the children were, why the bedrooms on the top floor weren’t occupied, and the nursery with the toys laid out on the floor was empty. There was no one to play with the rocking horse or the building blocks, no one running in the garden or helping Mum in the kitchen.

He’d always been familiar with the expression ‘seen but not heard’ — his own grandfather had used it often enough. But children who were neither seen nor heard? That was a house where something was wrong.

‘The Nields have an older daughter,’ said Cooper when he got back to Edendale and found Gavin Murfin waiting for him. ‘Her name’s Lauren. It seems they don’t like to talk about her very much.’

‘Black sheep of the family?’

‘Well, let’s just say I don’t think she came up to Mum’s high standards. She looked the rebellious type, even in her photographs. I can imagine she might not have been able to tolerate life in that household.’

Murfin studied the photo. ‘A bit Goth, do you reckon?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Too much eye make-up. Black nail varnish. Miserable expression.’

‘All teenagers are miserable, aren’t they? Especially when they’re having their photo taken with Mum and Dad.’

‘Yeah, but there’s something different about the way a Goth looks miserable. They make it seem as though it’s some kind of artistic statement.’

‘Existential angst.’

‘If you say so.’

Cooper took the photo back. He could see what Murfin meant.

‘So how do you know about Goths, Gavin?’

‘One of our girls brings her friends home now and then. I asked her why some of them looked like rejects from a Hammer Horror film. She explained to me about Goths.’

‘There’s more to it than the look, though.’

‘Of course. They have a whole culture, if you get into it. They even have their own weekend at Whitby during the autumn.’

‘Whitby? Oh, Dracula.’

‘Right. But the look seems to be important. Mostly black, but maybe with a bit of red or purple.’

‘Lauren has purple streaks in her hair.’

‘There you go.’

‘It’s funny how things like this can make you feel old, Gavin.’

‘Imagine what it’s like being the parent of one.’

‘Is the Lowndes operation set up?’ asked Cooper.

‘All ready to go.’

As Diane Fry walked through the corridors of Lloyd House, she was sure that she could sense people turning to look at her. She was just being paranoid, she supposed — like Andy Kewley. She wasn’t used to being the centre of unwelcome attention, and she didn’t like it. The idea that people were talking about her in rooms somewhere made her skin crawl. Never mind what they said about your ears burning, this was an all over hot itch, as if she’d fallen naked into a bed of nettles. Her entire skin felt uncomfortable.

The sudden silences among members of the team were unnerving her. Blake confirmed the bad news later that morning.

‘What people don’t realize is that the conviction rate is even lower for crimes other than rape,’ he said. ‘Four per cent for burglaries, one per cent for criminal damage. The number of rape convictions has doubled in the past twenty-five years. But the number of allegations had increased dramatically. The definition of rape has been widened twice, and there’s been a push to get victims to report. Those are two good reasons why the number has increased, anyway.’

Fry noticed that Blake could hardly bear to look at her. He was avoiding the real subject.

‘The CPS used to insist on independent corroboration before they would take a case to court,’ he said. ‘But they’ve been under pressure, too. Now they don’t insist on it so much. But that means a case is more difficult to prosecute. A jury is less likely to convict when it’s a question of the complainant’s word against the defendant’s.’

‘But in this case, you have DNA,’ said Fry.

‘Right.’

Fry watched him steadily, detecting his unease.

‘You do have DNA?’

‘Well…’

‘You do have DNA evidence, don’t you?’

‘We have a bit of problem,’ he said.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘There seems to have been some procedural issues with the DNA evidence. Contamination.’ Blake raised his hands in an appeal for understanding. ‘We think the CPS are taking an overly cautious attitude, but you know what it’s like…’

‘Tell me the truth,’ said Fry. ‘What’s the strength on Shepherd and Barnes? Have we got a case?’

‘Not one the CPS will run with.’

‘What about my statement?’

‘Its evidential value is limited.’

‘Evidential value?’

‘Well, okay, Diane — the fact is, as evidence it’s practically worthless. But it does give us another lead.’

‘Does it?’

‘We won’t be abandoning the case altogether.’

‘Oh, yes? With a hundred other cold cases waiting their turn?’

Fry knew she must be only one of scores of victims waiting for justice. She practically could see Blake’s fingers twitching to stamp her file NFA — ‘No Further Action’.

‘It’s just going to take more time, that’s all,’ he said.

That’s all? No matter how many platitudes Blake and Murchison and their team spouted about support, and putting the victim first, they always fell back on the jargon. It was as if they were going through a prepared script, hiding behind a barricade of acronyms and euphemisms. It must be useful to be able to protect yourself from the nasty odours of unpleasant reality with a mask of officialdom, to swat away that irritating fly with a closed case file.

‘We can interview pub staff and customers to find out who was at the Connemara that night.’

‘So many years ago? You’re kidding.’

A splash of coffee fell on to the glass-topped table and began to spread. They both watched it widen, then stop as it lost its impetus. It would stain unless someone wiped it off.

Fry could feel the anger growing inside her now, rushing through her veins in an adrenalin surge. Her hand was shaking as she put the cup back in its saucer. Blake stared at it, responding to the rattle of china as if to the sound of gunfire. Damn cappuccino. She’d never really liked it anyway.

‘Paragraph 10.4,’ said Fry.

‘Sorry?’

‘The CPS code for the prosecution of rape cases. The Code sets out the obligations of the CPS towards victims. One of these obligations is to tell a victim if the CPS decides that there is insufficient evidence to bring a prosecution, and explain why they’ve made the decision. Normally they do it by writing a letter to the victim. But if a police officer notifies the victim, it means the decision not to charge has been during a face-to-face consultation with that officer — without a full evidential report. That’s paragraph 10.4. I expect we’ll be moving on to 10.5. A personally delivered explanatory letter.’

‘Under the CPS/ACPO Rape Protocol — ’

‘You can stop now,’ said Fry. ‘Just stop, okay?’

Everything had been done by the book. In this case, the book was the CPS/ACPO Rape Protocol. Snappy title. It could be a best seller.

Fry stood up, pushing her chair back so hard that it scraped on the floor. Blake placed both his hands on the table, as he might do if he was feeling threatened by an aggressive suspect in an interview room. He was still seated and motionless, so as not to provoke more aggression, but poised to respond if necessary.

Fry couldn’t deny that she wanted to hit him, wanted to do it so much that it was eating her up inside, needed it so badly that she could almost feel the impact run up her arm as her fist smashed into his smug face. Let him smile with a broken nose, the bastard.

‘So they’ll escape justice.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t put it like that.’

‘What way would you put it? What is the politically correct management-speak these days for letting a rapist off the hook?’

‘Diane — ’ he said.

‘Don’t say any more. Just shut up.’

‘But — ’

‘Shut up.’

The urge to commit violence was slowly passing. In its place, Fry felt a cold determination taking over her heart. Enough was enough.