Already Dead (21 page)

‘I’m okay.’

She gave him that concerned look he’d come to expect. He’d seen it so often over the last few months. Cooper wondered if this was what disabled people sometimes complained about – the way people stared at them with an expression of mixed curiosity and pity. Each time he saw that look, it felt as if everyone was trying to fix him into a role of pitiable victim.

He ordered more coffee, and she sat down across the table. She hardly took her eyes off him, as though she was afraid that he would try to escape if she looked away even for a second.

‘So what’s happening at the moment?’ asked Cooper. ‘Anything exciting?’

Villiers didn’t answer directly. ‘You know we want you back, Ben. We need you at West Street.’

‘Really? I don’t think Diane Fry would want to see me back.’

‘Yes, she would. You’d be surprised. She doesn’t want to be there any more than we want to see her.’

Cooper shook his head. ‘I just can’t come into the office, Carol.’

Villiers sighed. ‘So then,’ she said, ‘does it have to be unofficial?’

‘I can be unofficial,’ said Cooper.

Villiers regarded him steadily. ‘You know, while you’re on extended leave, you’re just another member of the public.’

Cooper nodded. ‘It has its advantages.’

When Villiers had returned to Derbyshire she’d been that much older and leaner than he remembered her, with an extra assurance in the way she held herself. When they were younger, they’d gone to school together, studied for their A levels at High Peak College at the same time. She’d been a good friend, a bit sports obsessed perhaps, really into swimming and running half marathons. She’d been Carol Parry then, the daughter of Stan and Vera Parry, who ran a bed and breakfast in Tideswell High Street.

But there had been another dimension behind her new self-confidence – a shadow in her eyes, a darkness behind the facade. Cooper had noticed it then, and he couldn’t mistake it now. Part of that darkness might be explained by the loss of her husband, killed by a roadside bomb in Afghanistan. But perhaps there were other experiences too, episodes in her life that she would never talk about.

‘Well, you know we have a murder case?’ she said. ‘It happened not very far from here, actually.’

‘Yes, I did hear that.’

‘You’re not completely out of the loop, then.’

‘It’s the front page headline in this week’s
Matlock Mercury
,’ said Cooper. ‘I noticed it when I was in the petrol station this morning.’

Villiers nodded. ‘That’s good.’

She made it sound like an achievement, as if he was a spinal injury patient attempting to move a finger for the first time, or a baby wobbling upright for a half a second before falling flat on its face again. Was he supposed to feel a warm glow that he’d pleased her with his powers of observation? Immediately he felt an unkind urge to puncture her expectations.

‘But I didn’t read the story,’ he said. ‘So, apart from that, I know nothing.’

‘Oh. Well, I’ve been away in Chesterfield for a few days assisting C Division, so I’m only just catching up myself. But the victim’s name is Glen Turner. There’s nothing of any interest in his background. Not that we’ve found so far, anyway. He worked in insurance. A claims adjuster, employed by Prospectus Assurance. Unmarried, thirty-eight years old, lived with his mother in Wirksworth.’

Cooper felt a jolt of excitement so completely unexpected that he thought for a moment he’d been electrocuted. He put his cup down in its saucer with an unnecessary clatter. He’d suddenly seemed to have lost proper co-ordination.

‘Prospect Assurance?’ he said.

Villiers brightened visibly at the tone of his response. ‘Yes. Have you heard of it?’

‘Oh … I think they have offices in Edendale.’

‘Yes, they do.’

Villiers’ coffee arrived, and Cooper took a moment to steady himself. His hand was shaking again, and he hid it under the table where he hoped she wouldn’t see.

‘So what happened to him?’ he asked.

‘Mr Turner was found dead in a shallow stream. Well, the stream wasn’t quite so shallow as it normally would be…’

‘Because of all the rain,’ said Cooper.

‘Yes.’

She gave him that look again.

‘Don’t say “good” again, Carol. I’m not a dog to be patted on the head every time I fetch a ball.’

Villiers had the grace to flush a little. Not that it didn’t suit her. It took the edge off that hard exterior she’d come back to Derbyshire with, the tough shell of a woman who’d seen active service overseas and had gone through an unsuccessful marriage at the same time. It made her a bit more like the Carol Parry he remembered from their school days. It was a transition he’d been hoping to see signs of for months now. He wondered if she’d decide to revert to her maiden name at some point.

‘I’m sorry, Ben,’ she said. ‘You’re right, of course. It’s just the way that everybody’s been talking about you recently, it got into my head. I suppose it might have made me sound a bit, well…’

‘Patronising,’ said Cooper.

She smiled. ‘Yes, patronising.’

‘It’s all right,’ he said.

And it genuinely was all right. He didn’t mind at all. The fact that she’d apologised straight away made Cooper feel warm towards her. He couldn’t imagine Diane Fry sitting there and saying sorry to him without hesitation … Not in a million years.

‘So. A flooded stream. And a dead victim called, let’s see … Glen Turner?’

Villiers laughed. ‘Are you taking notes?’

‘No.’ Cooper shook his head slowly. ‘Just listening to you, Carol.’

She took a drink of her coffee, reluctant to meet his eye for a moment. ‘He was lying dead on his back in the water. He’d been there for a number of hours before he was found by a council gully-emptying crew. His body was diverting the flow of water into the road.’

‘He drowned?’

‘Not sure. Cause of death so far unconfirmed.’

Cooper frowned. ‘There are several questions springing to mind.’

‘Well, I won’t say “good” – but I’ll admit that’s definitely what I like to hear.’

Thoughtfully, Cooper looked down at his empty coffee cup. Outside the window, the Kugel stone slowly turned and turned, driven by its jets of water. It was a testament to the power of even a small amount of water that it could lift a ton of granite so easily.

‘Was Mr Turner a big man?’ he said.

‘Yes. He formed a pretty good dam.’

‘And his clothes were found, I hope?’

‘Nearby in the woods. All present, including his wallet. Cash, credit cards, driving licence, mobile phone, the lot.’

He guessed from Villiers’ expectant expression that she was waiting for him to say something about robbery being discounted as a motive. But that was obvious enough.

‘Woods,’ he said. ‘Which woods?’

‘Oh. Sparrow Wood. The other side of Wirksworth, near Brassington.’

‘The Forestry Commission woodland?’

‘No, a privately owned section next to it.’

‘Car?’ said Cooper.

‘A Renault Mégane, but it was parked outside a pub about a mile away in Brassington.’

‘His shoes …?’ said Cooper.

‘Yes, mud on them.’

He nodded. ‘And there were no witnesses.’

‘Why do you say that, Ben?’

‘It’s a quiet road. Whatever happened took place at night, probably. And the weather has been bad. I suppose it was raining on the night he was killed. So there would be no one around to see anything. No witnesses.’

‘Only a couple who saw an unidentified man in a four-wheel drive near the woods.’

‘I see.’

Cooper gazed for a few moments at the expanse of water outside the window, where a boat was tacking across the little bay in the rain. Everything looked suddenly blurred and indistinct. Though he tried to concentrate on what had just been said, he found his mind drifting towards a nice pub that he knew, standing close to the western edge of the reservoir with views of the hills on the other side. The Knockerdown Inn. He was pretty sure it was open all day in the summer. There might be a log fire in the bar to dry out in front of. They served fish, chips and mushy peas with their own home-made batter.

Cooper’s eyes had settled on the four wind turbines that had recently been erected to the north on Carsington Pasture. The wind farm was just outside the boundary of the national park, but very close to the High Peak Trail. He remembered the National Park Authority objecting to the scheme because of the impact on the landscape of turbines three hundred and fifty feet high overlooking the reservoir.

Close by the new wind farm was the Dream Cave, where the remains of a woolly rhino had been found and
Homo erectus
had visited during the warm inter-glacial period. By the time the Romans arrived more than two thousand years ago, they’d found a thriving lead mining industry in this area. Now, they would find tourists living in EcoPods.

Human memory seemed such a fleeting, fragmentary thing in this landscape. Ephemeral and transitory. It flickered into the mind and out again so quickly that it meant nothing. Nothing at all.

He became aware that Villiers was looking at him with concern, her coffee going cold in front of her. In fact she seemed to have been speaking his name, and perhaps had been doing so for a minute or two.

‘Ben?’ she said. ‘Earth to Ben Cooper.’

‘Sorry,’ he said, shaking himself as if throwing off a heavy blanket.

‘I have to say this, Ben, but you’d really lost it there for a while.’

‘It’s nothing.’

But he could see she wasn’t convinced. He would have to work harder to pass muster, even with Carol Villiers.

‘Focus,’ she said. ‘You need to focus on something useful, a practical objective.’

‘You’ve told me that before.’

‘Because it’s the best advice I can give you.’

Cooper tried to smile. ‘I’ll remember.’

But Villiers was watching him closely. She didn’t miss much. In fact, she never had.

‘Well,’ she said, picking up her phone and checking the screen, about to get up and leave. ‘It’s been great, Ben, but—’

‘Don’t go, Carol. Not yet.’

He’d blurted the words out. But as soon as they left his mouth he knew they made him sound desperate and needy. That wasn’t the impression he’d been trying to give.

‘Sorry, Ben, I have to.’

What was he going to do? Carol Villiers was the person he could rely on. He knew he could trust her.

‘Where are you going now, Carol?’ he asked.

‘Into Wirksworth, then Carsington. I’ve got to see if this man in the four-wheel drive rings a bell for anyone connected to Glen Turner.’

‘Mind if I tag along?’

Her mouth fell open. Then after a moment she smiled. ‘It would be a pleasure.’

21

When
they got Charlie Dean in an interview room at West Street, he spilled the whole story about his assignation with Sheena Sullivan in the woods, the car getting stuck in the mud, the mysterious stranger in the red rain jacket who’d appeared out of the night and made such an impression on them both.

‘You can see why we didn’t come forward,’ said Dean.

He looked appealingly from Fry to Irvine, but found no understanding from either of them. Fry stared at him, seeing a man who thought far too much of himself, perhaps imagined he was the centre of the universe. Did Mr Dean really believe his actions had no consequences, except for himself? Yes, it was perfectly possible. He wouldn’t be the first to sit in this interview room and look baffled that no one else thought he was important.

‘You’re a married man,’ said Fry. ‘And yet you took a woman into the woods in your car for sex. And you admit you’ve done this many times? What were you
thinking
?’

He stared at her as if she was an idiot. ‘Well, obviously … I was thinking that I’d get away with it and never have to explain myself.’

‘No excuses, no reasons? No rationalisation?’

‘I always think rationalisation after the act is a bit futile,’ said Dean. ‘We all live in the moment, don’t we? We don’t feel we have to explain our actions to ourselves. So it’s only other people who have those expectations of us. Excuses, reasons …? Detective Sergeant, it’s all so much bullshit.’

Fry supposed he might be considered attractive by a certain type of woman. He was dark and well built, with a boyish smirk and a mischievous gleam in his eye. Once he’d recovered from the stress of being picked up by the police and taken into the station, he’d collected himself well and told a good story. At the same time, he’d managed to exude an air of assurance and self-possession, a man who was in control and could handle any problem. It was his own image, she supposed, a role he’d created for himself.

She looked at the details Irvine had taken from him, and remembered that Charlie Dean was an estate agent. It might be wrong to follow the stereotype, but it must be a job which gave him the opportunities to act out his role. If you were hesitant or unsure of yourself, you might be willing to let a man like Mr Dean steer you in whatever direction he wanted you to go. If he told you a house was perfect for you, it would be tempting to believe him.

‘We need more details of this man you encountered,’ said Fry. ‘A description. What type of car he was driving.’

Dean shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. It was so dark. And in the circumstances I just wanted to get my friend out of there.’

‘Your friend. Whose name you told us earlier is Mrs Sheena Sullivan.’

‘Yes.’

She could see that it had caused him some pain to reveal the name of the woman he’d been with. It was probably the sort of discomfort he felt when having to admit that the property he was selling you suffered from rising damp. There was no point in denying it once the survey had been done. In this case, he had no choice but to give up Sheena Sullivan’s name.

‘I wouldn’t want her husband to find out,’ said Dean. ‘Obviously.’

He directed a roguish, bad boy smile at Fry, but the charm was lost on her.

‘And your own wife, sir? You haven’t mentioned her.’

‘Oh, and Barbara too,’ he said.

Fry had never met anyone she could imagine marrying and spending the rest of her life with. Encounters with the likes of Charlie Dean were enough to put her off the idea completely.