Already Dead (7 page)

He was in the passage again. A floor scorched where the carpet had singed through. Burning plastic and fibres. Blazing curtains falling on to furniture, glass shattering as picture cords snapped and frames crashed to the floor. When the flames reached the ceiling, they would cause flashover. It could reach five hundred degrees Fahrenheit in here. Boards over the windows were alight, reflecting the glow of the inferno inside. Fire mirrored itself, a vast furnace every way he turned.

And the smoke. He was peering through smoke. Pungent and choking, full of lethal particles. The heat was becoming too intense to bear. The exposed skin of his hands was roasting. Like a joint of meat in an oven.

And then came the moment. The moment he looked round to make sure she was still there. That she was still wearing her mask too.

But with an awful lurch in his heart, he saw that she was gone. He saw it again and again. He saw that she was gone.

7

With the Vietnamese connection still elusive, and the Edendale youth admitting that his iPod had been taken from him by his own brother, Diane Fry found herself winding down the day by wading through the volume crime reports. They were all finished and signed off by the time her shift came to an end. If she had to do this job, no one would be able to say that she didn’t do it well.

Becky Hurst approached her as she was checking her latest emails. It was always wise to clear your inbox at the end of the day. Otherwise, it would just be twice as full in the morning, so you’d never catch up. And you never knew when you might have missed something that required a response yesterday.

‘Yes, Becky?’

‘Diane, we’re meeting up in the pub after shift tonight. The Wheatsheaf. It’s just off the Market Square, near the Town Hall.’

‘I know where it is,’ said Fry.

‘So, obviously, if you want—’

‘Yes, if I need you, I’ll know where to find you.’

‘Oh, yeah. But I didn’t mean that. We were thinking you might … well, unless you’ve got something better to do, of course?’

‘I probably have.’

‘Right.’ Hurst nodded curtly and turned away.

Fry began to relax again. The knots of tension had instantly begun to build up in her shoulders. She never quite knew how to deal with social situations. She’d never had any interest in drinking with the more junior ranks. It tended to make them think she was their friend, which was wrong. If she was going to drink, she’d rather do it on her own. At least she could relax then, instead of being constantly on edge and struggling to dredge up the right small talk without too many awkward silences. Although she was only in her thirties, the younger generation of officers like Hurst and Irvine made her feel like a dinosaur. Outside the job, she had no idea what they were talking about half the time.

She kept an eye on Hurst as Murfin joined her and they spoke quietly for a moment. Despite the difference in their sizes, Becky always looked as though she was the leader when she was with Murfin. She was like a diminutive sheepdog nipping at the heels of a lumbering bullock, steering him in the right direction.

But tonight, Fry had her suspicions about Murfin. He’d been plotting something against her all day, she was sure. He wasn’t going to be content any longer with sniping from the sidelines. It was best to know where the stab in the back would come from.

A few minutes later, Fry climbed into her Audi, drove through the barrier and headed down West Street. She was remembering the first time she’d set eyes on Ben Cooper. She had only just arrived in Derbyshire following her transfer from the West Midlands and was already suffering a form of culture shock at the transition from working in the vibrant urban sprawl of Birmingham to the rural wastelands of the Peak District.

Cooper had been on leave during her first two weeks in Edendale. She’d heard plenty about him, though – everybody’s favourite DC, the fount of all local knowledge. And when he finally appeared, walking into a room full of people, arriving late for a briefing at the start of a murder inquiry, she’d known straight away that he was no threat. Untidy, awkward, lacking in confidence, with a tendency to say and do all the wrong things. He was well meaning, but weak. She clearly remembered thinking that about him at the time, an instant assessment. She would have hated him otherwise.

Fry changed down gears at the bottom of the hill and slowed for the junction with Eyre Street. Cooper had changed since then, of course. The man she’d last seen, before the incident at the Light House pub, wasn’t the same person at all. Promotion, responsibility, a fiancée, and a few more years under his belt – they’d all made a difference. He’d been almost unrecognisable as the awkward inconvenience she’d first met. Very different. And now he seemed more of a threat.

It was funny how that could happen to people. It made her wonder whether she’d changed too, in other people’s eyes. Had she become a different person during these last few years, as a result of her time in Derbyshire and all the things that had happened here? She thought not. Oh, there might be a new scar, a few painful memories, and a lot more clutter in her life – not to mention a reunion with her missing sister, which seemed a century ago now.

But she was still the same person, wasn’t she? She felt too much in control of her own nature to let any of those circumstances change her. There was no being swept along by the tide for her. Self-determination, that was what she believed in. She was in charge of her destiny, and it was important to remember it. Others should remember it more too. Yes, of course. Diane Fry was the same person she’d always been.

In Grosvenor Road, the little flat she’d lived in for years was starting to feel too small and too dismal now, the students and migrant workers upstairs too annoying. She didn’t like the idea of sharing the house any more, got irritated every time she heard the front door slam. She’d got into an argument one day with a girl from Slovakia, and now no one spoke to her. They probably thought of her as a bad-tempered old witch. They certainly made her feel old anyway. She did have twelve or fifteen years on any one of them. And somehow, those years had aged her more than they should have done.

She looked in the fridge, and found nothing on the shelves that hadn’t been there yesterday, and probably the day before. Half a two-litre bottle of milk, some limp lettuce, a few ounces of Cheddar. There was a small bottle of something dark at the back. Possibly soy sauce.

‘Damn it,’ she said, slamming the door. ‘And nothing to drink anyway.’

Fry walked into the Wheatsheaf and paused in the doorway, surveying the bar. At a table in the far corner, under an enormous decorative mirror, she saw a huddled group, heads bent close together over a clutter of empty bottles and half-full glasses.

‘Interesting,’ she said to herself.

She saw DC Carol Villiers first. She was dressed off duty in jeans and a T-shirt, looking strong and fit, and full of vitality, like a woman who’d just come out of the gym – which she probably had. Luke Irvine was next to her, nursing a bottle of American beer. And Becky Hurst came into view across the table when Villiers leaned over to pick up a glass. An unholy trio, if ever she’d seen one. Up to no good, plotting in the pub behind her back. So where was—? Oh, yes – here he came. Gavin Murfin, lumbering back from the bar, a drink in each hand, four packets of McCoy’s ridge-cut crisps dangling from his clenched fingers like trophies.

Fry watched as Murfin distributed the crisps – a red packet of plain salted for Hurst, orange Mexican chilli for Irvine. Villiers left hers untouched on the table as Murfin sat down and ripped open a green packet for himself. Cheddar and onion. She could almost smell it from here.

She wondered who’d organised this little gathering. She knew the youngsters were restless. It was unsettling to have so much disruption in the early part of your CID career. Hurst in particular was ambitious, and wanted to move up the ladder quickly. Fry recognised it – she was the same herself at that age. Becky was careful to keep her nose clean, and tried to earn approval whenever she could. In fact, Ben Cooper really rated her – he’d often said that Hurst was the best of the new recruits to Edendale CID. But she’d be itching with impatience if she felt something was holding her back, if a lack of stability in the department was depriving her of opportunities.

Irvine was a different matter. To Fry’s eye, he looked like a potential troublemaker. He adopted that sardonic style, made too many satirical comments, had too jaundiced an outlook for someone so young. Irvine was far more impulsive than Hurst, too. He was likely to act first and consider the correct procedure later.

But Fry’s money was on DC Carol Villiers. She was older than Hurst or Irvine, and certainly no innocent. Villiers had been a corporal in the RAF Police before she left the forces and was recruited to Derbyshire Constabulary. She must have seen lots of servicemen go off the rails, heard plenty of mutinous barrack room talk in her time. She was capable of dealing with a developing situation like this, if she felt like it. But she could lead it too, if that was her inclination. She had the confidence, that elusive air of authority. And here she was in the pub with the rest of the team, when she was supposed to be on secondment assisting C Division until later in the week.

Fry’s mind went back to a day not long after Villiers had arrived in Edendale. She’d wanted to talk about Ben Cooper, and Villiers knew more about him than anybody. Fry had made the effort, tried to be nice, smiled and done all the small talk. But Villiers hadn’t been forthcoming. She’d been positively tight-lipped, in fact. Fry had felt vindicated in her belief that there was no point in trying to be friends with anyone. You could never rely on them.

Cooper would probably say she always saw the worst in people. And that might be true. But of course, she was usually right too.

Hurst was the first one to spot her across the bar. Not that Fry had been hiding or trying too hard to be inconspicuous. That would have been silly. She had just as much right to be here in the pub as anyone else. Let them react to her presence however they wanted. Let them all worry about her being there, and what she might have heard or suspected. It would make life interesting in the office tomorrow morning.

But Hurst was waving her over. Villiers was even calling her name. Fry shook her head, but automatically began to move towards the table. Some instinctive courtesy prevented her from just turning her back and walking away.

Irvine pulled over an extra chair for her, and the others shuffled aside to make room. But she remained standing, her shoulders stiff and awkward. She had never felt comfortable in unexpected social situations. She needed to be prepared for it. Well, if this
was
a social situation. Looking around the faces again, she realised they all seemed too solemn.

‘Sit down, Diane,’ said Villiers.

‘It’s okay. I’m just—’

But Murfin had been back to the bar, and now he thrust a glass into her hand. Fry looked at it and caught the aroma. Vodka. She didn’t drink it often, only when she thought she was going to need it to get through the next hour. How had Murfin known? She’d never drunk with him, that she could recall, except when she was on soft drinks, and had always avoided any suggestion of a boozing session. If he’d asked her at any other time she would have chosen a J2O apple and mango flavour. But he hadn’t asked.

With the glass in her hand, she couldn’t help but take the chair. Irvine had placed it at the head of the table, making her feel as if she was the lady of the manor surveying her dinner guests. For a few minutes they all sat quietly, watching her out of the corners of their eyes. Eventually, Fry realised it was being left up to her to break the silence.

‘So what were you all talking about when I came in?’ she said, with an effort at lightness. ‘It looked very serious.’

Glances were exchanged. Hurst fidgeted in her chair, Irvine began to tear a beer mat into pieces. Murfin developed a sudden interest in the barmaid.

‘We were talking about Ben,’ said Villiers.

‘Ben Cooper.’

‘Of course.’

‘I suppose it’s no surprise,’ said Fry.

She could no longer get the lightness into her voice. She had never courted popularity, but deep in her heart she wanted respect, hoped that her team would at least be willing to continue working under her without becoming quite so desperate to get their old DS back.

In that moment, the disappointment struck her harder than she would ever have imagined it could. It felt like a betrayal. They’d been sitting here discussing how they could get rid of her and replace her with Ben Cooper again. And yet they’d invited her to join them and had sat her down at the table with a drink. What a nerve. With an overriding sense of relief, she began to feel angry again instead of hurt.

‘So what have you decided?’ she said. ‘And is it a democratic decision, or have you elected a leader for the revolution?’

Fry glanced from one to the other. They looked puzzled, moody, uncomfortable. Gavin Murfin was calmly drinking a pint of Buxton Brewery’s Black Rocks IPA. She hoped someone else was driving him home tonight.

‘It’s not like that,’ said Hurst. ‘We’re really worried about Ben. He’s not answering his phone at home. He’s not picking up calls on his mobile either. Luke and I went and called at his flat the other day, but we couldn’t get any response. The curtains on the front window were closed, even during the day.’

‘If it was anyone else, his friends would be asking questions by now,’ said Irvine.

‘So, what? Do you want to file a missing persons report? He’s on extended leave, for heaven’s sake. He may have taken a holiday, gone away for a while. He might be doing all the things he’s never been able to do because of the job. In fact, he can do what the heck he likes. I should be so lucky.’

‘That’s just a load of old wazzer,’ said Murfin.

‘Gavin, you’ve known him longer than any of us,’ said Irvine.

Murfin put down his glass and bit into an enormous crisp, licking a salty crumb off his lips.