Scared to Live

14

Hitchens was waiting for Cooper and Murfin in the garden of Bain House. ‘The chiefs are talking about bringing in the NCOF,’ he said.

Murfin looked puzzled.

‘The National Crime and Operations Faculty,’ Cooper told him quietly.

‘That must be at Bramshill — Acronym City.’

‘Yes.’

‘If Mr Kessen puts in a request, their regional officer will provide us with assistance. In fact, the NCOF can turn out a full team. Their own SIO, psychologist, forensic scientist, pathologist — ’

‘With respect, sir, we don’t need all that.’

Hitchens looked at Cooper and smiled. ‘That’s what I think, too. But let’s prove that we don’t need it, shall we?’

‘I don’t think it will be much use to us, sir,’ said Cooper as he followed the DI into the house, ‘but I’ve asked for footage from the Matlock Bath webcam for Saturday afternoon. They were very helpful. They’re sending me a QuickTime movie file.’

‘OK, Ben. Well done. We have to try everything.’

DCI Kessen was sitting in an armchair in the sitting room of Bain House, looking thoughtfully at the white and grey walls.

‘How do you think the victim would have spent her time, all alone in this house?’

‘Well, there are two TVs,’ said Hitchens. ‘One in the sitting room, another in the kitchen. Also a couple of radios, including a digital on the bedside table. When we turned it on, it was pre-tuned to BBC 7.’

‘Sorry, I haven’t gone digital yet. You’ll have to enlighten me.’

‘Re-runs of old BBC comedy shows and dramas. You know, Hancock’s Half Hour and Round theHorne.’

‘OK.’

‘There’s a decent stereo system, too. Nothing special — but women don’t care much about the technical details, do they? She obviously used it, because it was plugged in and switched on, just left on standby. And there was a CD in the slot — an Abba compilation.’

‘Why am I getting the impression of someone living on nostalgia?’

‘She certainly seems to have surrounded herself with sound. Or noise, at any rate.’

‘I think I’d be the same if I lived on my own. I’d need to drown out the silence somehow,’ said Murfin.

‘There’s quite a collection of CDs in the racks. She had some DVDs, too. Sleepless in Seattle. I still haven’t seen that.’

‘She must have bought those things from somewhere.’

‘Mail order, probably. They’re small enough items to go into the letter box. Unlike the package of books that Bernie Wilding tried to deliver.’

‘You know, there’s something strange about this house,’ said Cooper tentatively.

‘What do you mean?’

‘It doesn’t feel lived in.’

‘Rose Shepherd lived here.’

‘Hardly. She just seems to have existed.’

Kessen nodded at him, ‘What’s your impression, Cooper?’

‘Well, you can still detect traces of the family who lived here before her. On the other hand, Miss Shepherd has hardly left her imprint on the house at all. It’s almost as if she’d never been here.’

He looked out of the window at the garden. At least the armed officers deployed on Monday had been withdrawn, and the scene looked more peaceful again. Then he saw a tortoiseshell cat sitting under a tree, watching the house. When a SOCO walked across the lawn, the cat crouched cautiously, but didn’t move away.

‘Who searched the kitchen?’ said Cooper. ‘Did they find any cat food in the cupboards?’

Hitchens laughed. ‘I don’t think so. There was some fish in the fridge, though. Fresh salmon.’

‘That makes sense.’

‘Why, Ben?’

‘I think I’ve spotted Rose Shepherd’s means of not being alone.

’WITNESS APPEAL AFTER FOXLOW SHOOTING

Detectives are appealing for witnesses after the murder of a woman in Foxlow on Sunday.Miss Rose Shepherd, sixty-one, was killed by two shots from a high-powered rifle, fired from a field behind her house in Pinfold Lane during the early hours of the morning. Miss Shepherd had lived in the village for the past ten months, and police have yet to establish a motive for her killing.Meanwhile, officers are keen to talk to witnesses who might have seen anyone suspicious in the area during the last few days. They would particularly like to trace the owner of a blue Vauxhall Astra saloon which was seen in Foxlow around the time of the murder.The driver of the car is described as a white male, aged around thirty-five years old, about five feet ten inches tall and of medium build. He was wearing a black Parker style coat with the hood up.Anyone with information is asked to contact Edendale CID, or call the Crimestoppers line in confidence.

‘A Parker style coat?’ said Murfin when he saw the press release. ‘Will that be from the same people who make pens?’

‘Oh God,’ said Cooper. ‘That’s embarrassing.’

‘They mean “parka”, don’t they? Even I know that.’

Murfin folded the press release up and tried to create wings so that he could throw it across the CID room.

‘It’s not reading enough that does it, you know,’ said Cooper. ‘People hear “Parker” and “parka” on the TV and they sound like the same word.’

‘Now, we’ll have a load of old biddies going round looking for coats that say Parker on the label. I don’t think “parka” is even a brand name, is it?’

‘No, it’s an Inuit word. It means a coat made from a fur pelt.’

‘Well, I can see you read books all right, Ben. No one else I know would have that sort of information at their fingertips.’

‘I might even find a use for it one day.’

‘Our local pub has a quiz on Tuesday nights. Fancy going in for it some time? You can win a keg of beer.’

‘I don’t think so, Gavin. Thanks.’

‘Oh, I forgot. You’ve got better things to do in the evenings these days. Not allowed in the pub with your mates any more?’

‘You’ve got it all wrong.’

To change the subject, Cooper asked Murfin if he’d heard about the fire service dog and its identification of accelerant at the house in Darwin Street.

‘Now, me — I’m not a big fan of dogs,’ said Murfin. ‘Cats need less work to look after. And they don’t crap on your lawn just because you haven’t mowed it for a few weeks, like.’

‘Working dogs are different,’ said Cooper. ‘I’ve seen that fire service dog in action at previous incidents. She has a great time when she’s working. Absolutely loves it.’

‘Well, I have to admit, the bitch did a good job at Darwin Street.’

Cooper caught a movement from the corner of his eye, and saw Diane Fry frozen in the doorway. She was staring at Murfin, and Cooper suddenly realized that she’d heard only the very last part of their conversation.

‘Hi, Diane,’ he said. ‘We were just talking about the accelerant detection dog.’

Fry unfroze slowly. ‘Oh, yes. That bitch.’

She moved forward into the room, waving a copy of the press release. ‘Have you seen this?’ she said. ‘It’s ridiculous.’

‘Yes, we know,’ said Murfin. ‘We spotted it straightaway.’

‘Somebody should speak to Media Relations. This sort of thing makes us look stupid. I mean, what use is an appeal for information when they leave our phone number off?’

Murfin looked at the press release again. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘So they did.’

‘The DI says we have a meeting tomorrow to review progress.’

‘Another review? We never seem to do anything else.’

‘It’s better than wasting time and effort rushing off in the wrong direction,’ said Fry. ‘Regular reviews ensure the most effective use of resources.’

Cooper glanced at her. She was sounding more like a manager every day.

‘Progress? What progress?’ said Murfin.

Fry flushed. ‘All right. That’s enough.’

‘Diane, before you go,’ said Cooper. ‘How obsessed would you say the Ridgeways were with exterminating squirrels?’

‘Oh, very.’

‘Obsessed enough to drive around the village at night shooting them out of the trees in other people’s gardens?’

‘Like Rose Shepherd’s garden, for example?’

‘Well, she has grey squirrels. If Mr and Mrs Ridgeway had taken a peek over her garden fence, they might have seen she was encouraging them and even feeding them, so decided to do something about it.’

‘Without speaking to her about it?’

‘Does that seem to fit their character?’

‘Oh, yes. I can believe they’d opt for direct action. In fact, I think Mr Ridgeway probably blasts everything in sight that doesn’t fit his criteria for being allowed to survive. You’re thinking Rose Shepherd went to her bedroom window at the wrong moment and got hit by a stray shot?’

‘Something like that.’

‘In fact, there’d have to be three stray shots, wouldn’t there?’

‘True.’

‘And — I’m sorry, Ben — but Mr Ridgeway only has an air rifle.’

‘So he says.’

Fry gave it some thought. ‘I didn’t like either of the Ridgeways — as you probably gathered.’

‘You don’t always make a secret of your opinion.’

‘And it’s true that they sounded as though they were already offering some kind of justification. When they talked about alien invasions, they didn’t just mean squirrels.’

‘Can I hear a “but” coming?’

‘Well, I think they’re probably all mouth. The really dangerous ones act on their beliefs — they don’t talk about them to any police officer who happens to come calling.’

‘I see.’

‘And, unfortunately, we don’t have any evidence to justify searching their house for an automatic weapon.’

‘Ah, that is true. We could ask them to let us do it voluntarily, though.’

‘Tell you what, why don’t you suggest your idea to the DI yourself, Ben? I’m only a supernumerary on the Shepherd enquiry. I’ve got other fish to catch.’

Before he switched off his computer, Cooper checked the Matlock Bath webcam to see if it was still running, as the site claimed.

When the picture came up, he saw it was already dark in Matlock Bath. He looked at his watch. Six o’clock. He hadn’t realized it had got so late.

When he looked back at the screen, the webcam picture was reloading. Now the headlights of two cars were approaching the camera. But the only other colour in the image came from strings of lights hung along both banks of the river, and across the road. Some of the illuminations came close to the camera, mounted on the roof of Life in a Lens. Coloured lights also framed the iron girders of the Jubilee Bridge. The bridge was reflected on the surface water as a black, shapeless mass that disappeared into the trees on the other side of the river.

Across the river and into the trees. Where did that phrase come from? It must be a song, or possibly a book title. It made him think about the gunman who’d shot down a harmless middle-aged woman. If he was a professional, then there was something that no one was admitting out loud. He would be long gone from the area by now.

Never mind across the river and into the trees — their suspect could have been on the other side of the world before the clock even began to tick on the Shepherd enquiry.

Later that evening, Liz Petty sat in the upstairs room of Aitch’s Wine Bar in Bakewell and accepted a glass of Merlot.

‘Thanks, Ben.’

‘Cheers.’

Cooper sat down next to her with his bottle of beer. The remains of their dinner had been cleared away, and he was starting to wonder whether chocolate truffle cake would go all right with the plum-and-chilli sauce that had been on the char-grilled chicken.

‘Anyway, Quinton Downie was right,’ said Petty. ‘Fire can be one of the most difficult things to investigate. So many factors influence its behaviour that a scene can be very misleading.’

She took a drink of wine and gazed out of the window at Buxton Road. Liz lived just off Fly Hill, a couple of minutes’ walk from the wine bar, in a three-storey terraced cottage she rented from her uncle. The third-floor bedroom had a terrific view beyond Bakewell towards the golf club.

‘I remember something we were told on the course I did,’ said Petty. ‘It was a real incident, with photographs. A young child who’d died in a fire. It made me think of that case when I heard there were two children involved at Darwin Street. I know these two weren’t burned to death, but still …’

Cooper waited, recognizing that she needed to sort her feelings out before she put them into words. Whatever it was that she wanted to tell him, it might be the first time she’d talked about it to anyone. He’d learned when to listen and not interrupt.

‘You know that under the effects of intense heat, your brain expands?’ Petty said at last.

‘Yes, I think so.’ Cooper put down his glass. He had a feeling it was going to be worse than he’d imagined. Chocolate truffle cake was suddenly less appealing.

‘Well, a child’s skull is a lot weaker than an adult’s. The bones are very soft at first, you know. They showed us some photographs from this scene, where the young boy had died. The fire was so rapid and the temperature so high that when the child’s brain expanded, it burst the skull. The captions said skull failure and brain protrusionin a two-year-old fire victim. And I was thinking, if you came on a scene like that, your assumption would probably be that the child had died from a serious head injury before the fire.’

‘And that a fire had been started to conceal the evidence,’ said Cooper. ‘It happens.’

‘Right. But it would be a wrong assumption. Chances are, it might just have been the fire.’ Her voice dropped lower. ‘It might only have been skull failure and brain protrusion. Only that.’

Cooper heard the break in her voice, and let the silence settle. It was as if a bubble had formed around their table, insulating them from the rest of the wine bar. He felt he could almost reach out and touch that rare thing, the ability of two people to think the same thoughts and share the same emotions without having to speak them out loud.

Then Liz reached out for his hand. ‘You didn’t want dessert, did you, Ben?’

‘No, not really.’

‘Let’s pay the bill, then.’

Stella Searle looked away from the TV set in her bedroom towards the shower, where she could hear water running. Darren had bought her the TV himself. He’d do almost anything to keep her happy, except the one thing she really wanted.

‘Daz!’ she called. But she only heard him humming some tune to himself, like a cocky child, and she had to call him again. ‘Darren!’

‘What’s up?’

‘Come out here.’

‘I’m having a shower, darling.’

‘Come out here. There’s something on the telly you’ve got to see.’

‘It’ll wait. I won’t be a minute.’

‘No — now,’ she said, using the tone of voice she knew he’d recognize.

‘Oh, bloody hell.’

The water stopped, and after a moment he padded out into the bedroom with a towel wrapped round his middle, his hair wet and feet making damp marks on the floor.

‘What is it, Stell?’

She looked back at the screen, but the news-reader had moved on to another item, something about petrol prices.

‘It’s gone off now.’

‘Fuck’s sake, darling. If I don’t get finished in the shower, I’ll be late home. Fiona will throw a bloody fit.’

Stella took no notice of his mood, or his swearing. Darren was all mouth. She knew she had total control over him.

‘They were doing a bit about the woman who got shot in the village the other night.’

‘Oh, that. Yeah, I heard about it.’

He turned and began to head back towards the shower, clutching at the towel to keep it in place. His backside was too big, excess fat padding out his hips. Darren thought he was fit, but he spent too much time driving, or sitting around with his mates drinking beer.

‘It said the police are looking for a car. And a man that someone saw in the village that night.’

Darren hesitated with his hand on the door of the shower cubicle. ‘Good. They’ll get the bugger that did it, then. We can’t have blokes walking about shooting old women dead like that.’

‘She wasn’t all that old,’ said Stella. ‘Sixty-odd, they said. It’s nothing these days.’

‘If you say so.’

Darren slipped off the towel and went back into the shower. The water had started to trickle from the shower head, but she knew he heard her when she spoke again.

‘I reckon it was your car that someone saw,’ she said. ‘Daz, I think it’s you they’re looking for.’

‘Give over.’

‘I think you should go to the police,’ she said.

‘You must have got it wrong. It wasn’t anything to do with me.’

‘I’m only telling you what it said.’

‘Well, what did it say exactly?’ he snapped.

‘I can’t remember exactly. It was something about a blue Vauxhall Astra. That’s your car, isn’t it?’

‘Well, it might be,’ said Darren. ‘What else did it say?’

‘A man in a parka — that was it. Aged about thirty-five.’

‘I’m not thirty-five.’

‘You look it, though.’

He gave her an incredulous stare. ‘Thanks a lot.’

‘It was you, Darren,’ she said stubbornly. ‘Well, it sounded like you. Your car, and a man in a parka, seen in the village about the time of the incident. That’s exactly what it said. I think.’

‘And they reckon this man in the parka did the shooting? That’s ridiculous, Stell. That’s stupid.’

‘No, that wasn’t quite it.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake. Why can’t you remember anything properly? You’re so bloody thick, Stella. I don’t know why I bother with you.’

‘Piss off, Darren.’

He stamped off sulkily, but came straight back again. ‘I need to know exactly what they said, Stella. This is important.’

‘Witnesses, that was it. They said the police were looking for witnesses. And they particularly wanted to speak to the bloke in the parka, with the blue Astra.’

Darren didn’t reply. She glanced at him, and saw that he’d gone pale. He still wasn’t fully dressed, and the water was drying in patches on his arms. He shivered, like somebody had walked over his grave. She remembered him saying how much he hated being next to a graveyard, and all those dead bodies and stuff.

‘A witness, that’s what they reckon you are. Maybe the police think you might have seen something important. Did you see anything, Darren?’

Darren was silent for longer than she thought was natural. For him, anyway. He wasn’t the sort of bloke to be stuck for a word, even if it was to tell her to ‘eff off’. He was staring at the TV screen, though the news had long since finished, and there was some football match on.

‘Did you, Darren?’

‘No,’ he said finally. But he didn’t sound too sure.

Stella touched his chest, then flinched away at the coldness of it.

‘No,’ he said again. ‘I didn’t see anything.’

‘Was there anybody about in the village when you left that night?’

‘I just told you, I didn’t see anything.’

‘You might be able to help the police find who did it.’

He grabbed her arm then, and for the first time Stella felt a chill of fear. He was stronger than she thought, and he had that possibility of violence in him, after all.

‘Get it into your head right now,’ he said. ‘I didn’t see anything that night. Got it, Stell? I didn’t see a bloody thing.’

Cooper always woke automatically to the sound of sirens, even when he was in unfamiliar surroundings. He listened for a few moments, until he recognized the distinctive rasping bullhorn of a fire tender approaching a road junction somewhere to the north. So it was nothing to do with him — not for a while, at least. At this time of year, the call-out was probably to a bonfire that had been prematurely set alight. It happened every year; some people just couldn’t wait for the fifth of November. Soon there’d be fireworks, too. Night after night of explosions over the town. Complaints to the police about youths pushing bangers through pensioners’ letter boxes.

The sirens receded gradually into the distance. Cooper remembered where he was, sighed, and turned over again. He felt the comfort of a warm body beside him in the bed, the reassurance of steady breathing that meant he wasn’t alone in the middle of the night.

It made a big difference, not to be alone. And for once, it wasn’t the cat.