The Corpse Bridge

12

Saturday 2 November

It was so hard to get used to the change from British Summer Time. The clocks had gone back the previous weekend and suddenly the sun was setting before he managed to get away from work. Cooper looked out of the window and saw the sun had gone from the sky. It was dark by the time he got home, which was always too depressing.

Of course, it happened every year, but that didn’t seem to make any difference. It caught him out every time. No matter how many times he was reminded about changing his watch, the reality of its effect on his daily routine didn’t sink in. Not until it happened. And then, somehow, he felt deceived.

It made Cooper feel the way he had when he was a child, expecting the summer to go on for ever and feeling that sense of loss and disappointment when the light faded and he knew that winter was on its way. He could recall the feeling now, remembered how let down he’d always felt, as if even the calendar were prepared to betray him.

Yes, he certainly learned that lesson as a boy. The whole world was the same. People too. He’d discovered that you couldn’t rely on anything or anyone. If you let yourself be fooled into trusting someone, the same betrayal was inevitable. The day would eventually come when the weather changed and winter arrived.

Mrs Shelley’s stroke last night had been a serious one. His landlady’s nephew had turned up at the hospital. Cooper had never liked him — he suspected the man had no interest in his aunt, except for the prospect of inheriting her two properties in Welbeck Street. There was no doubt that Cooper’s rent would go up when that happened — but only until the houses were sold off to the first property developer who came along.

Dorothy Shelley looked more than just frail as she lay in her hospital bed in the intensive care unit. She looked deathly pale and so thin that her fragile bones protruded from the sunken skin on her shoulders. Her eyes were deep set and the shape of her skull stood out as clearly as if it were a specimen in an anatomy class.

It hardly needed saying, but the medical staff had to say it anyway. One stroke was often followed by another, and then another. And if Mrs Shelley suffered just one more stroke as serious as the first, it might well be fatal.

Well, it was the weekend and he wasn’t supposed to be on duty, but the hospital could get in touch with him at any time if they needed to. Though he supposed they would contact the nephew now. Family members always took precedence in hospital procedures. Next of kin and all that. But at least if he heard nothing, he could call later, perhaps on Sunday. Waiting was always the worst thing.

The fact that tomorrow was Sunday put an idea into his mind. There was a retired clergyman he’d known for many years. The Reverend William Latham had been their local vicar for decades. He’d conducted the wedding of Joe Cooper and Isabel Howard, and baptised all of their children, including Ben. He’d guided the young Ben towards confirmation and given him communion a few times. And he’d expressed his disappointment when Ben stopped going to church.

The Reverend Latham was rarely called on now. Retired clergymen were often relied on to stand in and conduct services when there were vacancies. But the old man generally declined invitations, preferring to let the younger clergy do the work. The last time Cooper saw him was at his mother’s funeral.

But he knew Latham was still around. He sent a Christmas card every year — one of the few cards Cooper still received with an overtly religious theme, usually a nativity scene with angels and shepherds. He wasn’t sure the old vicar really believed in the Nativity story, or anything that appeared in the Old Testament. An air of irony always seemed to seep from his cards when they were opened. Sometimes there was a subtle joke included in the message inside. The Reverend Latham definitely had a subversive sense of humour.

Like a lot of Victorian clergymen, Bill Latham had an obsessive interest in history, particularly stories from the past of his own parishioners. Unlike the Victorians, he’d never had time to indulge his interest while he was serving as a Church of England minister. The old joke about only working one day a week hadn’t been true for a long time. A vicar was more likely to be rushing from one parish to another, attending meetings and training courses, and involving himself in the community. But since he’d retired the Reverend Latham had made up for lost time.

‘Ah, young Ben,’ he said in surprise, when Cooper called him. There was a short pause, during which Cooper could almost hear the old clergyman mentally checking through his recollection of the stories he’d heard and making sure he’d got it right. ‘I was so, so sorry to hear about your loss…’

‘Thank you. It’s in the past now.’

‘Of course.’

In fact, Latham had taken the trouble to write to Cooper at the time of Liz’s death — a long handwritten letter that arrived at Bridge End Farm addressed to him, along with the more usual sympathy card. Cooper still had the letter, stored away in its envelope. He’d taken it out and read it a few times during those months on sick leave and alone at home in Welbeck Street. It was strange how much comfort you could glean from a few heartfelt paragraphs written by someone you respected, a man who’d played an important part in your life. They didn’t need to share a religious belief for that to matter.

‘So you’re keeping well, Ben?’

‘Yes, I’m fine.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

Latham enquired about the rest of his family. Once he’d dug into his memories, they seemed to start flowing unstoppably, like a rusty tap being turned on. He not only remembered Matt and Claire, but he knew the name of Matt’s wife Kate and recalled that they had two children.

‘Two girls, am I right? They must be, oh … I suppose they’re almost grown up now. It’s been such a long time.’

‘They’re teenagers anyway,’ said Cooper.

‘Ah. Well, perhaps not such a long time, then. It’s difficult to keep track. And your Uncle John and the rest of the family?’

‘All fine.’

‘Good, good.’

Latham paused, possibly feeling that he’d achieved a success. He must be approaching eighty now. Cooper remembered him as being very active and fit, so he was pleased the old man’s mental faculties seemed to be intact too. It encouraged him to ask the favour he wanted. The reaction was enthusiastic.

‘Oh, I’d be delighted,’ said Latham.

‘Are you free today?’

‘Any time you like.’

‘I’ll pick you up later,’ said Cooper.

Geoff and Sally Naden were sitting together in an interview room at West Street. Mr Naden had managed to tame the wild tufts of grey hair that had sprung from the sides of his head when Cooper saw him in the churchyard at Hartington. But his expression hadn’t improved. He still looked just as angry.

His wife sat primly next to him, her arms folded and her knees pressed tightly together, as if she were afraid of touching anything. Perhaps she was frightened of being contaminated by the taint of crime that might be staining the table and seeping out of the walls. Cooper couldn’t really blame her for that. He sometimes thought he could smell it himself.

‘Mr and Mrs Naden, thank you very much for coming in,’ said Cooper, sitting down across the table from them. ‘We really appreciate your help. This is my colleague, Detective Constable Villiers.’

Carol nodded and smiled. Her smile always looked genuine and trustworthy. She could play the ‘good cop’ role very well, if required.

‘We saw the appeal on the news,’ said Mrs Naden. ‘It was asking for people to come forward. If they were in the area where … you know.’

‘Yes, that’s correct.’

Her husband looked surprised and irritated that she seemed to have appointed herself spokesperson. There was a definite edginess between them. It dawned on Cooper that it might have been his wife that Mr Naden was thinking about yesterday, when he was wielding that rake so passionately.

‘We heard there had been an incident,’ said Naden. ‘A body.’

‘You did the right thing,’ said Cooper. ‘It could be very useful to us. But we’ll try not to keep you too long. If you could just tell us in your own words what you saw or heard that night.’

‘Well, it was dark of course,’ said Naden.

‘Ah yes,’ asked Cooper. ‘Is it your usual practice to go for walks at night?’

‘It wasn’t that late actually,’ said Mrs Naden. ‘It was barely dark at all. Dusk, really.’

‘It’s the quietest time,’ put in her husband.

‘Anyway,’ said Sally hurriedly, as if she thought he’d said the wrong thing, ‘we saw something, so we thought we’d better come in and tell you about it. Didn’t we, Geoff?’

‘No, we heard something,’ said Naden. ‘To be accurate.’

His wife pursed her lips. ‘I,’ she said firmly, ‘I thought I saw something.’

Her husband sighed. ‘I’m afraid my wife has a bit of an overactive imagination, Detective Sergeant Cooper. She starts putting two and two together in her mind and gets five, then she convinces herself it’s a scientifically proven fact. I’m sure you must know what women are like.’

‘Er…’

Cooper could sense Carol Villiers shift uncomfortably next to him, as if about to argue. But Villiers was no Diane Fry. She wouldn’t let any animosity show. She knew when to hold her tongue and let people talk.

Mrs Naden’s face was set into rigid lines, her mouth turned down at the corners. She looked sour and obstinate. It was probably her normal expression.

‘Perhaps we could just let you tell your stories one at a time,’ suggested Cooper.

‘Certainly,’ said Naden. ‘I’ll go first, shall I?’

‘Well, that was the trouble, right from the start,’ said his wife. ‘He insisted on going first, as always. He thinks he knows better than everyone else. But he’s usually wrong.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Naden, turning slightly pink. ‘If you’d just shut up for a few minutes-’

Cooper held up a hand. ‘We’re not here to offer marriage guidance counselling,’ he said. ‘So if you don’t mind, could we stick to the subject?’

Now they both looked offended. But there was a limit to anyone’s patience.

‘Well, we were just there, that’s all,’ said Naden sullenly.

Mrs Naden tapped her fingers on the table, then seemed to remember the risk of contamination and tucked her hands hastily into her lap.

‘And what did you hear, sir?’

‘A noise. You’ll ask me to describe what kind of noise, of course.’

Cooper nodded expectantly.

‘Screaming, I suppose you might call it. But not, you know…’

‘What?’

‘Well, it didn’t sound like someone being attacked, if you know what I mean.’

‘Mmm. Not exactly.’

‘Shrieking,’ said Mrs Naden, ‘is what I would have called it. If I’d been asked.’

Cooper looked from one to the other. ‘Would you agree with that, Mr Naden?’

‘It might just have been high spirits,’ he replied.

Sally Naden snorted derisively and her husband began to look angry again.

‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘someone was definitely there. That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it?’

Cooper turned to Mrs Naden. ‘And you say you might have seen something.’

‘I believe so. Just … something white, there in the trees.’

‘Something white? A person? Or a light, perhaps?’

‘I don’t know. It could have been either.’

‘You’re not certain, Mrs Naden?’

‘No,’ she admitted reluctantly.

Geoff Naden tilted his head on one side and regarded Cooper seriously, as if about to pass judgement.

‘You see, we’re all much better off when we just stick to the facts, aren’t we?’

Mrs Naden coughed and glanced at Villiers’ notebook.

‘Detective Sergeant,’ she said tentatively, ‘you spoke to my husband yesterday in the churchyard at Hartington.’

‘Yes, Mrs Naden.’

‘Do we take it that the person who was killed … well, was it Sandra Blair?’

‘Actually, we’re still waiting for a formal identification,’ said Cooper.

She nodded. ‘I understand. We did wonder. We know her a bit, you see.’

‘From the tea rooms,’ said Naden.

‘Yes, from the tea rooms,’ agreed his wife.

Cooper smiled at them. It was quite satisfying to see the Nadens in agreement for the first time since they’d arrived at West Street.