Secrets of Death (25 page)

‘How did he do it?’ he said.

Cooper knew then that he held something over Anson Tate. He had information that Tate wanted. The man craved details, the facts of some other person’s successful suicide. Cooper waited. He could hear the traffic on Fargate behind him and the town hall clock striking the half-hour.

‘Are you looking for tips, Mr Tate?’ he said finally.

Tate pulled a face and didn’t dignify the question with an answer.

‘Was he someone like me?’ he said instead.

‘Not really. He lived a normal life. No one knew he was suffering.’

Tate smiled that sad smile. ‘I’m glad you’re starting to see it as normal.’

Cooper noticed Tate was looking up at the tower of All Saints Church.

‘Were you suffering, Mr Tate?’

‘Certainly.’

‘So didn’t you seek help?’ asked Cooper. ‘There are plenty of organisations available. Helplines? The Samaritans?’

‘There was no help for me.’

He put the emphasis on
for me
, as if there was something unique about his circumstances. That was all part of his façade, the need to feel his decision to end his life was somehow earth-shatteringly important. Yet
he was just another suicidal middle-aged man. He was just one small part of an epidemic.

‘No help at all?’ said Cooper. ‘It can make a big difference just to talk it through with someone, to tell them how you’re feeling.’

‘I know that. But it’s not enough.’

‘Isn’t it? I see.’

Tate looked up at him, shading his eyes. Cooper realised he was standing against the sun. Tate couldn’t look him directly in the eye, couldn’t tell what he was thinking from his expression.

‘What do you see, Inspector?’

‘I think you needed someone to do more than that, to be there for you talk to. You wanted someone to give you advice. To tell you exactly what to do.’

Tate pursed his lips, but didn’t answer. Cooper pressed on, feeling as though he was on the verge of something but in danger of slipping off track before he got there.

‘Because you couldn’t make the final decision on your own, could you?’ he said. ‘Perhaps you didn’t know how to do it. Or you weren’t brave enough. Was that it? You didn’t have the courage. So you needed the right guidance. A voice to say you were doing the right thing. You had to be told by someone else what to do, because you weren’t capable of taking your life into your own hands. You were too weak, too cowardly to see it through.’

‘You shouldn’t be saying these things to me,’ said Tate, his cheeks flushing.

‘Perhaps not. But it’s true, isn’t it? You were in touch with someone who encouraged you to take your own
life, who told you exactly what to do and where to do it. That made all the difference to you, I imagine. All the weight of responsibility taken off your shoulders. The difficult decisions taken out of your hands. Finally, you’d found someone who understood how you were feeling and knew what to do about it. It must have been like finding God. Who was it, Mr Tate?’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Whoever it is, they not doing it in your best interests. Don’t you realise that? It isn’t God, it’s just another deceitful and untrustworthy human. You’re being manipulated, Mr Tate. Just like all the others.’

‘All what others?’

Cooper stepped back in surprise.

‘Didn’t you realise there were others?’ And then he saw Anson Tate more clearly. ‘No, of course you didn’t. You thought it was all about you, didn’t you? You were so self-obsessed and blinded to reality that it didn’t even occur to you that you were just one of many, a small, insignificant part of a bigger picture. You’re very unimportant. Even to God.’

Tate stood up unsteadily. ‘I think it’s time you left, Detective Inspector Cooper. I’m afraid I can’t help you with your enquiries after all.’

‘You went way over the top there,’ said Villiers bluntly, when they let Anson Tate leave.

Cooper sighed. ‘Yes, I know.’

‘It wasn’t like you at all, Ben. I’ve seen you dealing with all kinds of people – individuals who’ve committed
horrible crimes sometimes – and you always manage to have some sympathy or empathy for them. You find the humanity in everyone. You try to understand their reasons for doing what they’ve done. It’s why they talk to you when they wouldn’t talk to someone with a less sympathetic attitude. It’s one of the abilities I’ve always most admired in you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You weren’t able to do that with Mr Tate. I wonder why?’

‘I don’t know why,’ said Cooper.

‘Mmm.’

He could tell that Villiers didn’t believe him. And of course he did know why. Now that he was out of the man’s presence, it was clearer to him what had happened, why he’d treated Tate so badly. It wasn’t because he didn’t understand Anson Tate. It was because he understood him far too well.

Villiers waited for him to explain. When he didn’t, she let it go and moved on.

‘Well, anyway,’ she said, ‘I hope he doesn’t make a complaint.’

‘He won’t do that,’ said Cooper confidently.

‘No. But you were right, of course,’ said Villiers.

‘Do you think so?’

‘Yes, absolutely.’

‘Obviously, he’s refusing to give us any useful information,’ said Cooper. ‘Nothing about who he was in contact with, where he got his advice or assistance from. Not a word. I’m not surprised, though.’

‘Why?’

‘Well,
couldn’t you tell? It’s written all over him, obvious in every word he says. As soon as he gets a chance, he’s going to have another try.’

Cooper had found talking to Anson Tate much too frustrating. Now he took a deep breath, feeling himself beginning to calm down. He looked at Villiers.

‘Did you take out a Danielle Steel, by the way?’ he said.

Villiers shook her head. ‘No. I’d read them all.’

And
then it was time for another visit to the Edendale mortuary. Eden Valley General Hospital was busy, the visitors’ car park full to overflowing, with more vehicles parked on the grass verges and on the side of the road. According to the
Eden Valley Times
, the local NHS Trust had been making millions of pounds a year from parking charges paid by patients and their visitors. It was the same up and down the country. Nothing was really free any more.

A few minutes later, Cooper was inside the mortuary looking at the body of Bethan Jones laid out on the stainless steel examination table.

‘You don’t need to tell me that she did a good job of it,’ he said.

Dr van Doon made a pretence of crossing out a note on her clipboard.

‘Well, that’s spoiled my act,’ she said. ‘I hope you’re not going to start claiming to know everything, Detective Inspector Cooper. I haven’t been accustomed to that since Detective Sergeant Fry deprived us of her company and left for pastures new.’

‘I’ve
never claimed to know everything,’ said Cooper. ‘Only a—’

He stopped. But Dr van Doon gave a dry chuckle.

‘Only a fool would do that,’ she said. ‘I think that’s the saying, isn’t it?’

‘I couldn’t confirm or deny.’

The pathologist glanced at her younger colleague, then back at Cooper.

‘Have you seen much of DS Fry since she left Edendale, by the way?’ she asked.

‘Not much. She’s busy with the Major Crime Unit. Based in Nottingham, you know.’

‘Ah yes, EMSOU.’

Dr Young looked quizzical. ‘EMSOU?’

‘East Midlands Special Operations Unit,’ said Cooper. ‘It’s part of the collaboration process between the region’s police forces.’

‘I see.’

‘You’ll get used to the acronyms in time.’

‘I hope so.’

Cooper cleared his throat, wondering whether he’d gone too far. It sounded as though he’d suggested Chloe Young would be here for a while, long enough to learn the police acronyms. Perhaps he had hinted that she might expect to have more contact with police officers, or with one particular officer. He wasn’t sure. He would probably have to repeat the conversation to himself later on when he was on his own. And then he probably still wouldn’t be sure.

‘So,’ said Dr van Doon, like a hostess breaking an
awkward silence, ‘we have here a Caucasian female, aged in her late twenties. Cause of death was serious lacerations to both forearms. She would have bled out fairly quickly. The cuts are deep and extensive, and they look deliberate. I know you won’t allow me to say it, but—’

‘She did a good job of it.’

‘A most thorough and professional job, I’d say. Of course, I say that was the cause of death. In fact, she wouldn’t have lived much longer. Unlike most of my customers who attract your interest, Detective Inspector, this was
not
an individual in good health. She was suffering from advanced cancer of the stomach. Would you like to examine the tumour?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Cooper.

Dr van Doon’s tone softened suddenly.

‘I think this poor young woman must have been in considerable pain,’ she said.

‘She said the tiredness was the worst symptom. The exhaustion.’

‘I can sympathise with that.’

‘Don’t you find it depressing dealing with suicides all the time?’ asked Dr Young.

‘Yes, a bit. But no more depressing than dealing with murder victims. At least these people made their own decisions to end their lives.’

‘True.’

He looked at Dr Young.

‘And in any case …’ he said.

‘Yes?’

‘Aren’t
you the woman who spends all her time cutting out bits of people’s brain tissue?’

‘Ah, but that’s science,’ she said.

Detective Superintendent Branagh was waiting for Cooper when he got back to the office. She looked concerned about something.

‘You’ve caused a bit of a stir,’ she said. ‘It seems you’ve been making enquiries about a person of interest to the Major Crime Unit at EMSOU.’

‘Something of significance?’

‘It must be important. They’ve come all the way from Nottingham. I’m surprised they even knew how to find us.’

‘They must use a satnav.’

‘DS Sharma is free anyway,’ said Branagh. ‘He’ll be coming back to us tomorrow from the immigration case. He’ll be free to liaise with EMSOU, if you wish.’

‘I’d prefer to deal with them myself,’ said Cooper.

Branagh’s expression suggested that might be the wrong answer.

‘It’s up to you, of course,’ she said.

A team from the Major Crime Unit had already arrived at West Street. To Cooper’s eye, they looked awkward and uncomfortable, like people who’d turned up at a party and found they were the only ones in fancy dress.

They included a DCI he’d seen before, Alistair Mackenzie. It was strange how so many senior detectives seemed to look like accountants. A sober suit
with a pale mauve shirt and a striped tie, sensible glasses and a shiny expanse of bald head with a dark fringe of hair at the back. He was clutching a clipboard too, with his mobile phone gripped tightly in his other hand. All he needed was an electronic calculator and he would have been the perfect image of a finance director with a medium-sized company manufacturing cardboard boxes for the pharmaceutical industry.

They seemed to have cloned a number of these DCIs and detective superintendents in recent years. Perhaps there was a special school for them at Bramshill. Cooper thought he’d actually seen this one on TV not long ago reading out a statement on a murder inquiry. He’d sounded like a bad actor who’d just been handed a script – which he probably was.

Well, at least Diane Fry wasn’t here, for once.

Cooper turned to the window at the sound of a car approaching and he recognised it straight away. A black Audi. So much for that one consolation.

Cooper had so many memories of Diane Fry. He even recalled their first meeting when he was just back from leave and found everyone at West Street talking about the new arrival in CID from the West Midlands. People were already being less than complimentary about her. ‘A bit of a stroppy bitch’ had been one of the kindest comments. It had made him feel empathy for her before he’d ever met her.

And then he’d seen her in the CID room, moving
with that calm deliberateness, not meeting his eye, but glancing from side to side as she walked past the desks and filing cabinets, as if searching for evidence of faults among her colleagues. He remembered telling her, ‘Nice to have you on board.’

Their relationship had gone through many phases since then – too many for him to keep up with. His last memory was of sitting with Fry in a gastropub in Nottingham, the Wilford Green, looking out at the endless street of suburban housing and roads solid with traffic. It had been another one of those baffling and disturbing moments that had characterised the whole experience.

Throughout that time, Fry had been the one making the running, for good or bad. In a way, it was a relief that she was no longer a permanent presence in his life. And yet he missed her.

Diane Fry’s manner was cool. But that suited Cooper. He had nothing really to say to her. Well, he had lots of things to say to her, except none of them would be wise and none of them was suitable for the present circumstances. Best to keep his mouth shut. That was the way he’d been taught.

Fry gazed steadily at him, almost as if she saw him as a stranger. No doubt she felt she’d moved on to better things and had left behind the humdrum routine of life in E Division CID. Since the Major Crime Unit had been established at EMSOU, the work of divisional CID had been focused on volume crime – burglaries,
robberies, car thefts, assaults. Major Crime claimed all the glamour and the headlines.

Yet Fry still had
that
look. It was a look that suggested the whole world was a terrible place. Everyone must know how awful it was. If you smiled too much, you must be an idiot, too stupid to see how bad everything was. Stupid enough to be happy.

‘So,’ she said. ‘It seems you’ve been asking questions about a Mr Roger Farrell. He’s a person of interest in one of our inquiries.’

‘He’s a suicide case,’ said Cooper.

‘Not just a suicide, though.’

‘It seems enough to me.’

‘There’s the question why …’

‘He was depressed and desperate. He couldn’t see the point of living any longer and he decided to put an end to it. What more is there to say?’