One Last Breath

30

‘Who’s that at the door, Sis?’ said Angie Fry.

‘It’s Ben Cooper.’

‘Hey, how’s he doing? I’ll say hello to him.’

Diane Fry stared at her sister, who made no effort to move from the settee. ‘For God’s sake, put some knickers on, at least,’ she said.

‘Oh, sorry.’

Angie fished around in the pile of clothes on the floor, and found a white scrap of material that she pulled up her legs. Fry turned her eyes away. She was worried that she might see on her body some telltale mark of addiction that she couldn’t ignore.

Cooper came through the door of the flat hesitantly. He’d been here only a couple of times before, and the second time he couldn’t even remember what had happened. But Fry watched him carefully for signs that he disapproved of the mess.

‘Hi, Ben.’

‘Angie,’ said Cooper cautiously.

‘Good to see you.’ Angie smiled, and patted him on the chest. ‘I’d love to stop and chat, but I know I’m in the way. You two have police stuff to talk about, I bet.’

Angie walked back towards the sitting room, and Fry looked on stonily as Cooper turned to watch her. She supposed he couldn’t help it. The T-shirt Angie was wearing failed to cover her buttocks, and the knickers she’d put on did little more.

At least Cooper had the grace to look embarrassed when he met Fry’s eye and found her watching him.

‘If you’ve finished staring at my sister’s bum,’ she said, ‘we’ve got somewhere to go.’

But before she reached the door, Fry was sure she caught a glimpse of her sister peering around the corner from the sitting room, pulling a face at Cooper. That moment of secret communication between the two of them, no doubt some ridicule at her expense, made Fry flush angrily. She ran down the steps into Cavendish Road, pulling her unbuttoned coat across her chest, and left Ben Cooper to catch up with her in the rain.

They went to the Light House, a famous pub that sat on top of a hill on the Buxton road out of Edendale. It wasn’t a long drive from Fry’s flat, and the evenings were light enough at this time of year for them to enjoy the spectacular views for an hour or two. They managed to get a table on a terrace that had been converted into a conservatory, sheltered from the first drops of rain that were already falling. Cooper bought the drinks, trying to hide his surprise when Fry asked for a vodka.

‘You’ve seen the files from the Carol Proctor case, Diane,’ said Cooper. ‘What do you think? I can’t understand why there were never any serious questions about Mansell Quinn’s conviction.’

‘Well, nobody wants a successful prosecution thrown into doubt, do they?’ said Fry.

‘Nobody?’

‘Almost nobody. And especially when the convicted person has already spent a number of years in prison. It makes things a bit unpleasant all round.’

‘I’ve been trying to imagine what the effect of this might have been on Quinn. I don’t think we understand what’s going on in his mind.’

Fry snorted. ‘But I bet you think you’ve got closer to his mental processes than anybody, don’t you, Ben?’

‘At least I try,’ said Cooper.

‘And what conclusion have you come to?’

‘I think he’s a righteous killer.’

‘A what?’

‘A righteous killer.’

‘Where on earth did you get that expression from?’

‘I can’t remember,’ said Cooper. ‘I heard it somewhere, and it seems to fit.’

‘So what does it mean exactly?’

‘It means someone who thinks he’s doing right, not wrong. Someone who thinks his actions are morally justified. Maybe he even thinks he’s achieving justice.’

‘We’re the ones whose job is to achieve justice, Ben.’

‘Yes.’

But Cooper knew that wasn’t right. The job of the police wasn’t to achieve justice but to gather enough evidence to obtain a conviction. There was a big difference.

‘Ben, your empathy is legendary,’ said Fry. ‘But you’re going too far this time. Surely you can’t have fooled yourself into empathizing with Quinn? You can’t think there’s any justification for what he’s doing?’

‘That wasn’t what I was trying to say.’

The next pause in the conversation was so quiet that he could hear the ticking of his watch above the sound of the raindrops on the glass roof. To demonstrate his calmness, Cooper picked up one of the drip-mats and used it to brush the crumbs off the table. He concentrated on doing it, clearing the space around him with the air of having found a task that was as important as anything they might have been talking about. He took his time. But he could feel her watching him impatiently.

‘So what is it that’s really bothering you?’ said Fry.

‘What you might not have noticed about the Carol Proctor case was that the arresting officer was my father.’

He watched Fry open her mouth to make a smart comment, but then hesitate as she remembered that Sergeant Joe Cooper was dead — and how he had died. He didn’t know why, but he’d noticed that his father’s memory was one of the few things that had the power to soften her sharpness. He’d seen the way she handled the photograph over the mantelpiece that one time she’d visited his flat.

Now, her mouth stayed open slightly, but no comment came out. A tiny drop of vodka slid from her upper lip, like a tear.

‘So that’s why,’ she said. ‘DI Hitchens knows, of course.’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me about it, Ben.’

So he told her. He left out none of the details. Fry listened well when she wanted to, and she said nothing while Cooper talked. When he’d finished, she fetched more drinks and took a sip of her vodka. Her first question took him by surprise.

‘The other officer who attended the scene with your father, the PC …’

‘Netherton,’ said Cooper.

‘Where is he now?’

‘I don’t know.’ Cooper put down his glass and sat up straighter. ‘Damn.’

‘He’s the only other person who was there at the time,’ said Fry. ‘Apart from Mansell Quinn, obviously.’

‘Diane, that’s exactly what I need. Another brain, a second pair of eyes. You’ve put your finger on something I couldn’t even see, because I haven’t been thinking clearly.’

‘It’s because you’re personally involved, Ben. I’ve told you and told you: don’t get so personally involved. You need to take a step back — ’

‘I know, I know. But it’s difficult in this case. I think I’m getting a bit obsessed.’

‘Oh, I know all about your obsessions.’

Cooper decided to let that one pass. ‘I really can’t see what Dad did wrong — if anything. But even the slightest grey area seems to take on the worst possible interpretation. I’m sure it’s all in my mind, Diane. Why can’t I be objective, as I would if it was anyone else?’

‘What did Mr Hitchens say?’

‘He told me to keep my ideas to myself.’

Fry nodded. ‘It’s good advice, more often than not. Don’t forget that Quinn pleaded guilty at trial. Even if your father did interfere with evidence, it might be considered noble cause.’

‘Noble cause,’ repeated Cooper. It was a long time since he’d heard the expression, once used to justify the actions of police officers who ‘improved’ evidence to ensure the conviction of someone they were sure was guilty.

‘You’re not above noble causes yourself, are you, Ben?’ said Fry.

Cooper watched her take another drink. He didn’t expect any sensitive insights from her, but he hadn’t been able to think of anyone else he could explain his feelings to, outside the family. At least he’d been able to say what he wanted to. It didn’t really matter if she didn’t understand, or care.

‘You need to prove that your father wasn’t perfect, don’t you?’ she said.

‘What?’

‘That’s what everybody tells you. You must hear it endlessly. I certainly have, since I came here.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘It’s always the reaction when someone dies. Sergeant Joe Cooper has become the great hero, the ideal copper. And you can’t accept that, can you?’

‘Wait a minute. You don’t think that I hated my father — ’

‘No, that’s not what I’m saying. But, in a way, your memory of him has been taken over by this heroic image that you keep having shoved down your throat. Ben, you won’t be able to reclaim your own memory of him as your father until you’ve proved he wasn’t the paragon of perfection that everybody says he was, until you’ve shown that he was flawed. That he was human.’

‘Maybe.’

‘People must have flaws before you can love them properly,’ said Fry.

Cooper stood up a bit too quickly, knocking the drip mat on the floor.

‘I think I’d better fetch some more drinks,’ he said.

Lying on his back in the abandoned field barn, Will Thorpe rolled his neck from side to side, wincing at the pain. He had been used to pain for a long time, but this was different. This was a pain mixed with fear and shock. He knew his lip was bleeding, and the back of his head felt sore where it had hit a stone. He’d wet himself, too — he could feel a warm, damp patch in his trousers. But at least he was sitting up now, his back against the wall, the blanket pushed down to his knees to free his arms.

‘I’m sorry,’ said a voice. ‘But you mustn’t make so much noise.’

‘I did what you wanted me to do,’ said Thorpe.

‘Oh, yeah. But who else did you tell?’

‘Nobody.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘It’s true.’

‘Who did you tell, Will?’

‘I’m choking,’ said Thorpe, tugging at Quinn’s hands. ‘You’re choking me.’

‘And why shouldn’t I?’

‘Mansell, I’m a sick man. You know that.’

Thorpe knew Quinn would be able to hear the rasp of his breathing, growing louder as he became more stressed. He opened his mouth wide to let the sound escape more clearly, making full use for once of the damage to his lungs. He couldn’t see Quinn’s expression, but he felt the fingers loosen slightly on his throat.

‘I ought to kill you,’ said Quinn. ‘I ought to put you out of your misery, like an animal.’

But Thorpe was feeling more confident. He knew Mansell Quinn. And Quinn had never been a clever man, as far as he was concerned.

‘I’m your mate, Mansell,’ he said. ‘Remember?’

‘Crap. You shafted me, like everyone else.’

‘No.’

‘Mate? Some mate.’

For a moment, the fingers had tightened again. But Quinn’s grip had no conviction any more. Thorpe gasped air in and tried to force himself to relax. His hands dropped away from Quinn’s wrists as if he had lost the strength to support his arms. Quinn immediately let him go, and Thorpe fell back, gasping loudly and fingering his throat.

‘Don’t make such a fuss,’ said Quinn. ‘You’re not dead yet.’

‘It’s my chest. It’s a real mess, the doctors said. I don’t suppose I’ll live much longer.’

Quinn leaned closer. ‘If you’re lying to me, Will, you won’t live for another day. I’ll make sure of that.’

‘Yeah, OK, Mansell. OK.’

With a sudden thrust, Quinn grabbed a handful of Thorpe’s jacket and banged his head against the wall.

‘You’d better believe me,’ he said. ‘Because I mean it.’

‘OK, I said I believe you.’

Quinn sat back on his heels, and there was silence. Thorpe could hear the water dripping from Quinn’s waterproof and the faint rustling as he moved. He turned his head to the side, hoping to see the other man’s face. But all he could make out was a black shape against the faint rectangle of the doorway.

‘You told Rebecca, didn’t you, Will?’

‘That wasn’t my fault,’ said Thorpe. ‘Look, the police told me she was killed. Did you — ?’

He heard Quinn take a sharp breath, and he stopped. Perhaps he didn’t want to ask that question, after all.

‘You talk too much, Will. That’s a pity,’ said Quinn.

‘What do you mean?’

‘It comes of spending too long on your own, I suppose. You never learned to control your mouth. Remember when you came to visit me at Sudbury, and you talked to me about what it was like back home? You even told me the places you doss. That made you much too easy to find, Will.’

Thorpe tried to laugh, but the noise came out as a wheeze, and his mouth filled with bile. He wanted to spit it out, but was afraid that Quinn would take it as a deliberate insult.

‘I should have known better, shouldn’t I, Mansell? Giving away my position. What an idiot, eh?’

‘You told Rebecca, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who else did you talk to?’

Thorpe didn’t reply. Quinn shifted his position, so that the darkness of his eyes became visible for a moment inside his hood.

‘I’ve got all night, Will. And it could be a long and painful night.’

Drawing a laboured breath, Thorpe raised a hand in an appeasing gesture. ‘There’s no need to be like that, Mansell,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you what you want to know.’

Ben Cooper swirled his beer, watching the foam rise over the lip of the glass. He was aware of the pub getting busier, more and more voices raised in conversation around him as the Eden Valley landscape withdrew into the darkness.

‘So will you help me, Diane?’ he said. ‘I need your emotional detachment.’

‘My what?’

Cooper realized he might not have put that in quite the right way. ‘You know what I mean,’ he said.

Fry sat back and gazed out of the window at the rain falling over the Eden Valley.

‘This would be entirely unofficial, I suppose?’

‘Yes. Officially, I’ve had advice about the potential threat from Quinn, just like the others on the list. But that’s as far as it goes. Officially.’

‘I see. A personal favour, then?’

Cooper nodded. He was starting to feel like a small child in the head teacher’s office, asking for time off school.

‘What do you say, Diane?’

She continued to stare at the view across the valley. She’d learned to control her responses so well that Cooper sometimes wondered whether she’d heard him at all. She had a trick of waiting just the right amount of time, so he had to start working out for himself what she was thinking. Invariably, of course, he was mistaken. And so she wrong-footed him every time, just as she did now.

‘There might be a deal we can come to,’ she said.

‘A deal?’

‘I don’t suppose it occurred to you to wonder why I phoned you in the first place tonight, did it?’

‘Er …’

‘Some of us might have personal concerns of our own, you know. Despite our emotional detachment.’

‘Yes, of course, Diane. But — ’

‘It’s about Angie,’ she said.

‘Oh.’ And because Cooper thought that might sound pathetic and inadequate, he added, ‘You mean your sister?’

Fry reached a hand to take hold of her glass. It was a carefully controlled movement, but Cooper sensed that she needed something to occupy her attention. Still she kept her head turned away, with the shadow of the rain-streaked roof across her face, her eyes too dark to read their expression when she spoke.

‘You know damn well I mean my sister.’

Cooper winced at the hint of venom in the sibilants. He’d heard that tone of voice before, and the subsequent conversation had never been comfortable.

‘I’m sorry, Diane.’

‘Oh, yeah? Sorry for what?’

Cooper threw up his hands. ‘For interfering. It was none of my business. I had no right to interfere in your life. You told me that yourself, and you were right. But I just went blundering on. All I can say is that I thought I was doing the right thing. The right thing for you, I mean.’

‘And I’m supposed to say “thank you”?’

‘Of course not. You’re angry with me. And you have every right to be.’

Fry raised her shoulders and took a deep breath. Cooper braced himself for the anger that he thought was about to come. He’d given her the cue, after all. And it would be better once it was all out, once the storm was over. The air would be left clear, and they might be able to carry on with whatever relationship they had before, instead of the constant nervous uncertainty, the treading on eggshells in case he said the wrong thing.

But the outburst didn’t come. Fry let out the breath. Her shoulders slumped. She took a drink of her vodka and watched four people get out of a Volvo in the car park and walk towards the terrace.

If they’d been able to sit outside, at least there would have been a bit of breeze — a breath of air to ease the humidity. Cooper could use it now. His neck and forehead prickled uncomfortably. Diane Fry’s intense concentration on him had always made him sweat and feel claustrophobic. He was worried she’d judge his responses disappointing, his manner lacking in signs of enthusiasm or understanding, or whatever else it might be that she was expecting of him.

But Fry seemed to have made a decision and she wasn’t going to allow anything to distract her from her purpose, however distasteful the task she had in mind.

‘What do you know about her?’ she said.

‘About Angie?’

‘Yes. You remember — my sister.’

‘Not very much.’

‘But you know something about her. She talked to you. She came to your flat.’

‘Yes, she did.’

‘She stayed the night.’

‘Yes. But Diane — I did it for you.’

‘And what do you mean by that, Ben?’ she said.

‘Just …’ Cooper raised his shoulders, flapped his arms helplessly. He couldn’t say to her that she ought to understand the importance of relationships and family and friendship — she, who had been so cruelly deprived of it. Shouldn’t her past experiences have made her more understanding, more aware of what she had missed?

Somehow Cooper’s hopeless gestures seemed to communicate more clearly what he meant than any amount of embarrassing sentences. She could have tuned out his words, refused to listen, cut him short with a few painful expletives and left him floundering. But she couldn’t defend herself against the sudden jolt of comprehension that leaped between them, like a charge of electricity from a badly earthed connection. Her eyes widened, a faint flush crept along her injured cheek. Cooper saw that she knew what he meant, after all. She’d read it in his mind, translated it from his eyes without the need for words.

But he didn’t expect Diane Fry to respond. He expected her to do exactly what she did next: to turn away, unable to meet his eyes. There was nothing else she needed to say.

‘Diane, I’ve said I’m sorry. I don’t know what else I can do.’

Fry leaned across the table towards him. Her face was pale, as if she had been living out the summer in the darkness of the caves below Castleton instead of in the open air.

‘Ben, how much does it cost to get a private detox?’

Cooper looked startled. ‘I don’t know.’

‘About two grand, would you say?’

‘Thereabouts. What is it you want from me?’

‘I want you to find out more about her,’ she said. ‘I want to know what she’s been doing these last fifteen years. I need to know who she was mixed up with in Sheffield. I need to know what she’s doing now.’

Cooper sat back in his chair. The movement was partly to give himself a little more distance from Fry’s fixed stare, which he found unnerving. But it was also to provide a moment to think. He already knew more about Angie Fry than he’d told Diane. He supposed he’d tried to push the information to the back of his mind, in the hope that he would never have to tell her.

‘I don’t understand, Diane. She’s your sister. You haven’t seen her for fifteen years. You must have talked to each other since you met up again — ’

‘We’ve hardly done anything else but talk. I’ve told Angie everything about myself, everything that’s happened to me since Warley. And she’s told me a lot about herself, too.’

Cooper shook his head, puzzled. ‘So what’s the problem?’

‘I don’t believe her.’

‘What?’

Fry seemed to have trouble getting the words out a second time, as if her lips had gone numb.

‘I don’t believe her. I think she’s lying to me.’

She took another drink, then held her glass up to the light. It was empty. A bluebottle buzzed closer, attracted by the smell, and Fry swatted at it with a vicious side-swipe of her hand.

‘Why would she do that?’ said Cooper, trying to put conviction into his voice.

‘I don’t know. That’s what I’d like to find out.’

‘Have you told her you don’t think she’s telling you the truth?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Why not?’

Fry sighed. ‘You don’t understand. I’ve just found her after all these years. Or you found her for me …’ She paused and looked at Cooper, who tried to meet her gaze, but failed and dropped his eyes. ‘I might be wrong, and I can’t risk ruining it now. She’s my sister, and I love her very much. I don’t want to lose her again. But I need to know. I need to know the truth. Do you understand that, Ben?’

‘I think so.’

‘I could be wrong,’ said Fry. ‘But I don’t think I am.’

Cooper was aware of a fly in the ointment here. His best bet was to say ‘no’ to what Fry wanted him to do and hope that he could keep out of the situation entirely.

‘If you’re worried, you could make enquiries yourself,’ he said.

Fry shook her head. ‘There’s a big risk of her finding out that I’m checking up on her. I’m frightened she’d just walk away again. I get the feeling she’s on a knife edge, that she hasn’t quite decided whether to stay or leave. She might just disappear from my life again. I couldn’t stand that.’

‘No.’

‘But you — I don’t think she’d be surprised if she found out that you’d been checking up on her. It would only confirm her opinion of you.’

‘I see. Basically, you want me to be the fall guy if anything goes wrong?’

‘Basically, yes.’

Cooper began to shake his head. But Fry fixed him with her direct stare again.

‘I think you owe me this, Ben,’ she said. ‘You owe me this, at least.’

He dropped his eyes. He’d always found it difficult to meet her stare.

‘Believe me,’ she said, ‘if there was anyone else I could trust …’

Cooper hesitated a moment longer. Perhaps it was a moment too long.

‘I’m sorry, Diane. I don’t think I can do that. I’ve already interfered enough, as you said yourself just now. My getting more involved wouldn’t do either of us any good.’

For the last few minutes Fry had been sliding her glass backwards and forwards across the polished surface of the table, as if intrigued by the sound it made against the wood, or the patterns formed by the streaks of condensation. But now, her hand became still.

‘I knew this would happen,’ she said. ‘It’s been like this all my life. No matter what you think you want, it turns out to be a disappointment when you finally get it.’

She looked at her glass as she spoke, addressing the remaining mouthfuls of vodka as if it were the spirit that had disappointed her, as if its taste was just one more thing that hadn’t come up to her expectations.

Will Thorpe heard the sound of a car engine on the road outside, climbing slowly up the hill above the cement works from Pindale. Quinn heard it, too. He let go of Thorpe’s jacket and straightened up. Thorpe watched him stoop under the connecting doorway and slip into the shadows near the entrance to wait for the car to pass. He suspected Quinn wouldn’t have a car of his own, and wouldn’t want to risk walking along the road, where he’d be seen too easily. He would be intending to navigate his way across the fields back to Edendale or Castleton, or wherever he was heading next.

Thorpe smiled in the darkness. Quinn hadn’t taken the trouble to check what he had in the pack under his blanket. He hadn’t considered his old friend a threat.

As quietly as he could, Thorpe slipped the carrying case out of the pack. The zip made a noise that sounded loud to him. But a few feet away, Quinn didn’t react. His concentration was entirely on the vehicle approaching up the hill.

Thorpe knew he couldn’t risk Quinn wandering around loose any longer. While Quinn was around, he would always be in danger. He’d never be able to sleep safely again for the rest of his life.

With a surge of excitement and fear that gripped his chest and made him gasp, Thorpe slid the crossbow slowly out of his pack. He had already snapped out the arms and unfolded the stock, and he was thankful that he’d left the weapon cocked before he went to sleep, with the automatic safety on. But when the string was pulled back and locked into the trigger, it made an audible click that even the sound of the car engine wouldn’t have covered. Quinn could have heard that.

Now Thorpe’s hand shook as he fumbled for one of the eighteen-inch bolts he’d taken from Ray Proctor’s house. It was a long time since he’d handled a crossbow, and he prayed his aim would be good. Relying almost entirely on his sense of touch in the darkness, he placed the bolt under the front sight bracket and on to the track unit, then felt for its fletches and turned one down into the track groove. Lastly, he slid the bolt back under the retainer and into the trigger mechanism.

The car passed by. Its headlights swung briefly across the front of the building, and Thorpe could see Quinn for a moment as a blacker shape in the darkness of the barn, a momentary glitter of rainwater on his smock picking him out as a target.

Quinn raised his head only when he heard the safety button released on the side of the trigger. The noise was distinctive, and Thorpe could picture the puzzled frown on his face, perhaps even the first hint of fear.

Thorpe sighted into the darkness towards the low doorway, holding his breath and feeling for the trigger a little more quickly than he should have.

‘Mansell,’ he called. ‘I believe you.’

And Thorpe waited one second for Quinn to start turning, before he shot him.