Читать книгу Blood on the Tongue - Stephen Booth - Страница 9

Diane Fry hated these spells of standing around doing nothing. There were plenty of people who were better at that sort of thing than she was. It had been marginally better back at West Street, where at least she might have been able to hang on to the SOCOs’ fan heater for a little while longer. But out here there was nothing to keep her warm, apart from the long, red scarf she had bought from Gap at Meadowhall for the winter. There was no shelter, nor even any physical activity to prevent her body from seizing up. She would rather have been the officer directing the traffic – at least he got to wave his arms a bit. But it wasn’t the thing for a new detective sergeant to be doing.

Instead, she spent her time going through some discreet exercises, rising up on her toes, stretching her tendons, practising her breathing, feeling for the centres of energy in her body, keeping her circulation moving in her extremities to combat the cold. She became so absorbed in what she was doing that she almost forgot she wasn’t alone. Almost.

‘No blood,’ said DI Paul Hitchens. He folded his arms across his chest as he leaned casually on the wheel arch of the snowplough, whose blade had been hastily covered by a sheet of blue plastic. Hitchens looked relaxed, and he spoke as if he were commenting on the weather. No blood today then, just snow. How boring. But Fry knew the comment wasn’t addressed to her. Hitchens had a more appreciative audience.

DC Gavin Murfin had been talking to the county council driver and his mate, who were now sitting in the back of a patrol car. Murfin was wearing a pair of unsuitable fur-covered boots that came up to his knees, like the bottom half of a yeti costume. He stamped his feet on an area of compacted snow as he came round the back of the plough and wheezed faintly in the cold air.

‘Blood? Not a drop,’ he said cheerfully.

Fry frowned at Murfin as he fumbled among his clothes for a pocket to put his notebook away in. He was wearing so many sweaters that he looked like the original Michelin Man, with layers of rubber wobbling around his middle. Yet his face was flushed with cold. Somewhere in his pockets, she suspected, there might be a secret supply of food – something to keep him going for an hour or two, until he could find the nearest Indian takeaway for a beef biryani to stink her car out again.

‘You know, I really hate it when there’s no blood,’ said Hitchens.

The pathologist, Juliana Van Doon, was suited up and working in the area cleared of snow, while an officer video’d the scene. Mrs Van Doon had the dead man’s clothes open across his abdomen to examine a gaping wound. In her white suit, she looked like a badly designed snowman. Fry sighed. A snowman and the Michelin Man. There must be something wrong with her brain today. The cold weather was giving her hallucinations.

‘Blood really makes a body, I always think,’ said Hitchens. ‘It gives it that bit of excitement. A certain je ne sais quoi. A subtle edge of implied violence, perhaps. The bitter-sweet taste of mortality. Do you know what I mean, Gavin?’

‘Oh, sure,’ said Murfin. ‘It means you know the bloke’s a definite stiff ’un, like.’

Fry thought Murfin’s voice sounded slightly muffled, as if he had smuggled something into his mouth without her noticing. She thought she heard the rustle of a chocolate wrapper in his pocket. She looked longingly towards her car. There were things for her to be doing back at West Street. There were always things for her to be doing at the moment. Life went on in all its predictable messy ways in Edendale, as it did in every town in Derbyshire, as it no doubt did in every town and city in the country. There were plenty of crimes that went by without being investigated, let alone cleared up. The paperwork was everywhere to prove it – cases that had been allocated crime numbers for insurance claims, and then filed. Everyone was crying out for more police time to be spent on solving crime, as if the world depended on it.

But here, at the foot of the Snake Pass, Fry felt as though she were standing on the edge of the world. On either side of the A57 there was a white wall a couple of feet deep where the snow lay untouched and unnaturally smooth, so that the edges of the road merged seamlessly into the surrounding moorland. The tarmacked surface of the A57 was normally the only sign of civilization this far out of Edendale, and Fry found its disappearance unsettling. It seemed to be telling her she might never get out.

Mrs Van Doon turned for a second to stare at the police officers standing in the road. Their voices carried loud and clear to where she was working. She shook her head and concentrated again on her job.

‘You’d think if someone had been cut almost in half by a snowplough, they would bleed a bit,’ said Hitchens.

‘Yes, you’d think so,’ said Murfin. ‘A bit.’

‘If only out of a desire to be artistically satisfying in their final moments.’

Hitchens caught Fry’s eye and nodded at her, as if she had said something intelligent. She knew he sensed her antipathy to Murfin and her irritation at the way the DI was encouraging him. But Hitchens smiled, like a man who had all the time in the world at his disposal and had chosen to spend part of it right here, in this isolated, snow-covered spot, with a handful of fellow police officers, two distraught council workmen, and a body with no blood.

‘Mind you, it’s probably a clue,’ he said.

Fry watched the pathologist taking a temperature and examining the corpse’s skin for lividity. The dead man was dressed in a dark suit that bore the marks of the snowplough blade where it had gouged into him and tossed him on to the roadside verge like a sack of rubbish. The blue overnight bag that had been found with him stood a few feet away. He could almost have been a passenger stranded at a snowbound airport, sleeping uncomfortably on the floor of the terminal as he waited for a flight that would never leave.

Murfin surreptitiously chewed something and swallowed. When he opened his mouth, Fry imagined she could see tiny particles of chocolate hanging in the cloud of his breath, perhaps a sweet-flavoured mist that drifted and dissipated in the sharp air. ‘I think I’ve got it, sir,’ he said.

‘Yes, Gavin?’

‘The snowplough driver is a vampire. He sucked all the blood out of the body, and he never left a drop.’

Fry turned away so that they wouldn’t see her expression. She felt the irritation turning to exasperation, and she had to take a few deep breaths of the ice-cold air to control it. She wanted to slap DC Murfin round the head a few times, but she couldn’t do it with the DI present. Worst of all, she knew that Murfin would be hers for the duration of the enquiry.

‘Well, well,’ said Hitchens. ‘Our first vampire killer in E Division. That’s going to be a tricky one to do the paperwork on, Gavin. I don’t think we’ve even got a form for it.’

Murfin grinned. His lips began to move, and he patted his pockets, seeking something else to eat – a Snickers bar, a packet of sweets, there would be something there. Fry could see that he was thinking. His brain was occupied with a difficult challenge, and it wasn’t the detection of a crime.

‘Everybody has their cross to bear, sir,’ he said.

Mrs Van Doon turned, distracted by the chatter. ‘If you really want to know, this man’s heart had long since stopped,’ she said. ‘No heart pumping means no blood. Your corpse was already quite dead when the snowplough hit him.’

The pathologist began packing her bag. Fry wanted to help her. In fact, she wanted to go with her, to get out of the atmosphere here and into a nice warm mortuary, among peaceful company that didn’t crack stupid jokes or leave prawn crackers trampled into the carpet of her car. Mrs Van Doon looked tired. Like all of them, she was overworked at the moment.

Fry did one more stretch, inhaled and exhaled deeply, and felt her body tingle with the extra oxygen.

‘I dunno about that,’ said Murfin. ‘I still like the vampire theory myself.’

‘Excuse me,’ said the pathologist. ‘I think I’m finished here for now.’

Fry had to stand back out of the way to allow her past. She wanted to exchange a look, to share a little sympathy. But the woman’s head was down, and she didn’t look up. There were tired lines around her eyes and blue patches under them. Fry recalled that, according to the gossip at divisional headquarters, their old DCI, Stewart Tailby, had once had a personal interest in Juliana Van Doon, but nothing had come of it. Tailby was soon to make the move to an admin job in Ripley. Now Mrs Van Doon looked as though she had seen too many dead bodies.

‘You see, I reckon I know that bloke who was driving the snowplough,’ said Murfin. ‘And I’ve never seen him out in the sunlight.’

The pathologist walked back to her car and began stripping off her suit. Fry picked up Mrs Van Doon’s case and held on to it for a moment as the woman reached out to take it from her. Their eyes met, but neither of them spoke.

‘What do you think, Doc? Should we take a blood sample from him?’ called Murfin. ‘I don’t mean the dead man, I mean the undead one, so to speak. We might get a cross-match.’

Murfin barked with laughter. It was a very realistic bark, like the ‘arf-arf’ of a fat King Charles spaniel. It echoed off the banks of snow on either side and caused little avalanches on to the roadway. Mrs Van Doon took off her overshoes, piled her gear into the back of her car and drove off without another word, spraying a gallon of slush on to Murfin’s fur boots as she accelerated away.

‘Was it something I said?’ asked Murfin.

‘Oh no,’ said Hitchens. ‘You’ve been eating garlic for breakfast again.’

Ben Cooper found the CID room icy cold and deserted. Obviously, the central heating radiators on this floor weren’t working again. He could smell food. Tomato sauce and garlic. So Gavin Murfin hadn’t been gone all that long. At any other time, Cooper would have opened a window to let in some fresh air, but his fingers were already starting to go so numb that he could barely hold a pen.

There were files piled on his desk, with yellow notes stuck all over them. It looked like a crop of daffodils had suddenly bloomed, despite the chilly air. He saw that one of the notes was much bigger than the others and was written in black marker pen of the kind used for exhibit labels. He didn’t know what to do with it, or whether he should even touch it. For all he knew, it might be vital evidence in a forthcoming prosecution. All it said was: ‘We’ve got our heater back, you bastards!’

Cooper rang down to the control room.

‘DC Cooper here. Can you tell me what’s going on?’

‘DC Cooper? We’ve been trying to contact you since seven forty-two.’

‘Well, I’m here now. What’s going on?’

‘You were supposed to be on duty at seven.’

‘Yes, I know. You must have a record of the way I was left stranded with a prisoner on Hollowgate for half an hour waiting for a pick-up that never came? I had to walk up Spital Hill and meet a PC who couldn’t even stay on his feet for thirty seconds. He looked like a reject from the Northern Ballet Company. Since I got here, I’ve been processing the prisoner through custody.’

There was a pause as the operator consulted somebody in the control room. ‘We’re a bit stretched at the moment,’ she said.

‘Tell me about it.’

‘There are several messages from DS Fry,’ said the operator accusingly. ‘Three of them are marked urgent.’

Cooper sighed. ‘So where am I supposed to be, apart from three places at once?’

‘The body of an unidentified white male was found on the A57 Snake Pass, two hundred yards west of the Snake Inn,’ said the operator.

‘Is the road clear?’

‘According to our latest information, it’s passable with care.’

‘OK, I’m on my way.’

‘Er, we do have some later messages,’ said the operator.

‘Yeah?’

‘I could probably just skip to the last one. It says: “Don’t bother.”’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I suppose it means they’ve managed without you, dear.’

Cooper blinked. Suddenly, the control-room operator sounded like his mother. Or at least, like his mother used to before she became ill.

‘Thanks a lot,’ he said, and put the phone down. He looked again at the files on his desk. It seemed he was muggins again, the sucker landed with the work that nobody else wanted, not when there was something more interesting to do. And it was all because he had set off for work early and found Eddie Kemp in that café. Next time, he would know better. Next time, he would pretend he hadn’t recognized the suspect, as ninety per cent of his colleagues would have done when they weren’t officially on duty. That’s exactly what he would do next time. Maybe.

Cooper slouched across the room to see if he could dredge any warmth out of the radiator. As he moved, his left foot squelched.

Frank Baine banged the bell for a third time. There was no response.

‘Well, if you’re sure you’ll be all right,’ he said.

‘I’ll be fine,’ said Alison Morrissey.

She stood in front of the deserted reception desk with her bags. The lobby was like no other hotel she had ever seen. It was dark, and it seemed to be full of ancient potted plants and stuffed fish in glass cases. It was also deserted. Baine had already put his head round all the visible doors to try to find a member of staff.

‘Someone will appear in a second,’ said Morrissey.

‘We’ve got the meeting with the police at nine o’clock tomorrow morning,’ said Baine. ‘I’ll pick you up here about eight-thirty, shall I? It isn’t far.’

‘That will be great. And thank you, Frank.’

Finally, he left. Morrissey gazed at a trout the size of a small dog. It stared back at her glassily, its mouth hanging open as if it might say something to her in a minute.

‘Can I help you?’

A receptionist.

‘A room,’ said Alison. ‘I have a room reserved. And I’m about ready to die unless I get to it soon.’

After she had showered and rested, she got out the files again. There were files on every member of the crew of Sugar Uncle Victor. Some, of course, were slimmer than others. The thickest was that on her grandfather, Pilot Officer Danny McTeague. But at the top of the pile, the one Alison Morrissey would look at first and read again tonight, was the file marked ‘Zygmunt Lukasz’.

Later in the morning, Ben Cooper discovered who was going to have to interview Eddie Kemp in connection with the double assault.

‘There isn’t anybody else,’ he was told. ‘They’re all out.’

Kemp looked almost pleased to see him. He seemed to feel they had struck up a close friendship waiting at the side of Hollowgate, as if a bond had been forged between them by performing a bit of early-morning street theatre for the customers of the Starlight Café. Cooper wasn’t sure how long the theatre would have lasted, without turning into a tragedy, if it hadn’t been for the appearance of Sonny Patel and his two oldest sons, brandishing brushes and shovels. They had made a great ceremony of sweeping the pavement clear of snow, until the three men leaning against their plate-glass window had shuffled their feet and moved on.

‘The tea’s not bad here,’ said Kemp. ‘But they’re going to have to turn the bleedin’ music off. It’s doing my head in.’

Cooper and the PC accompanying him tried to keep their distance from the table, so they could breathe more easily. With the triple tape deck running and the duty solicitor sitting alongside Kemp, they took him through the events that had led to the injuries to the two young men at Underbank in the early hours of that morning. Kemp made no attempt to deny that he had been involved, but insisted that he had been assaulted first and had acted in self-defence.

‘That old one,’ said Cooper.

‘They’re known villains,’ said Kemp. ‘They’re dealers off the estates.’

‘And you say they attacked you first?’

‘Yes.’

‘When you arrived here, you were given the opportunity to see a doctor. You didn’t report any injuries.’

‘Well, I know how to handle myself,’ said Kemp.

Now that Eddie Kemp wasn’t wearing his Manchester United hat, Cooper could see that his hair was dark and wiry. He had the beginnings of a moustache, something more than a case of not having shaved this morning.

‘Who were the other men who took part in this incident?’ asked Cooper.

‘No idea.’

‘Complete strangers?’

‘I reckon they were just passing and came to help,’ said Kemp. ‘Good Samaritans, if you like.’

‘Who had the baseball bat?’

‘Baseball bat? I didn’t see that.’

‘A snooker cue, maybe.’

‘Dunno. Perhaps those lads that came to help me had been playing snooker at the club.’

Eddie Kemp looked at the solicitor and smiled happily. Kemp was experienced enough to know that witness identification was rarely sufficient in itself for a prosecution to go forward. Among a group of six men, it would have been impossible to say who had done what. And it had been at night, too. He was quite safe, for now.

‘The victims were seriously injured, you know.’

‘They deserved it,’ said Kemp. ‘They’re scum. We don’t want them coming around Underbank. We don’t want them getting our kids involved in hard drugs. If a beating keeps them away, that’s a good thing. Your lot can’t seem to do anything about them, anyway.’

‘Assault is still a crime, Eddie, no matter who the victims are.’

‘There’s a crime, and then there’s justice.’

‘Which one is this, in your view?’

‘I reckon it could be both at once.’

‘Well, aren’t you the philosopher then?’ said Cooper impatiently. ‘Two contradictory ideas in your head at the same time.’

Kemp nodded. ‘You’re right. Only I don’t think they’re contradictory. Not always.’

Diane Fry and Gavin Murfin finally blew in through the door of the CID room like Santa Claus and one of his elves. Their clothes were plastered with patches of snow and their faces were bright pink.

‘Ah, Ben, at last,’ said Fry, beating her hands together.

‘I’ve been here all morning.’

‘Got much done?’

‘I’ve worked my way through most of the daffodils.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Yes, I’ve done quite a bit of work.’

‘Oh well, whatever. I’ve got some jobs for you.’

‘Fine.’

But Ben Cooper got that sinking feeling again. No job that Diane Fry had for him would ever be something he could get excited about. He suspected he would be spending the rest of the afternoon chasing phone calls and shifting yet more paperwork.

‘We need to put a name to the Snowman,’ said Fry.

‘The Snowman?’

‘One white male, unidentified.’

‘Right.’

‘And dead,’ said Murfin.

Cooper listened as Fry explained the details they knew, which weren’t many. There had been no obvious identification on the man, though they would have his clothes to work on when the body was dealt with in the mortuary. There was also the overnight bag that had been lying nearby. Like the body itself, the bag had been scraped along the ground by the blade of the snowplough. It was scuffed and ripped, and it was soaking wet from the time it had spent underneath the snow. Worst of all, it was empty. Even a toothbrush and a can of anti-perspirant could have helped them to build up a picture that would identify the Snowman.

‘What we need are some mispers,’ said Fry.

Cooper had only that afternoon been dealing with some reports relating to a missing person. It was easy to refer to them as ‘mispers’ when they were merely a set of details in a computer database. But when you started to look into an individual case, they suddenly turned into people. They sprang out of the screen and became unhappy teenagers or abused wives, confused old women or businessmen who had hit fifty and decided to recover their youth with the girl from the marketing department.

‘What age are we talking?’ he said.

‘Early thirties. Good physical condition. Well dressed.’

‘Mmm. Right profile anyway.’

‘For what?’

‘Well, for going missing.’

‘You need to be a particular type of person?’

‘Apart from youngsters, the people most likely to go missing are men aged between twenty-seven and thirty-four.’

‘That puts you right in the frame, then, Ben.’

‘Are we talking death by misadventure? Or suicide, or what?’

Fry hesitated. ‘Don’t know,’ she said.

‘If it’s murder,’ said Cooper, ‘you don’t need a profile for that. Anybody will do for a victim these days. Have we got any evidence? I thought he was hit by the snowplough?’

‘He was already dead before then.’

The Snowman’s priority rating depended on the pathologist. If he had merely suffered a heart attack by the roadside, then he would be likely to stay on ice for some time before he was claimed. But Fry wasn’t taking that line.

‘An instinct, Diane?’ he said.

But Fry ignored the question. ‘So you and Gavin have got work to do. Let’s have a list of possibles, soon as you can. Neighbouring forces, obviously. Don’t forget he was found on the A57. Greater Manchester must have a whole book full of missing persons.’

‘No doubt.’

‘Get on to the Missing Persons Helpline. And don’t forget the national forces – Transport Police, Ministry of Defence. Oh, and the Northern Ireland Police Service.’

‘Oh, great. Terrorist execution by snowplough.’

‘You never know.’

E Division’s commander, Chief Superintendent Colin Jepson, had agreed to see Alison Morrissey himself. But of course he demanded support from his junior officers. There was strength in numbers, he said – as if the visitor were the advance party for an enemy horde about to invade E Division. But numbers were something they didn’t have at the moment. The duty inspector had said she was too busy, and nobody from the community safety department was available, either. Ben Cooper’s name had been mentioned.

‘Here are the files the Local Intelligence Officer has put together for the Chief,’ said DI Paul Hitchens after telling Cooper the news, just before he went off duty that night.

‘If the LIO produced the files, why can’t he go to the meeting?’ asked Cooper.

‘He’s got flu. So it’ll have to be you, Ben.’

‘Why?’

‘The Chief is afraid he’ll be asked questions that need a bit of local knowledge. You know he’s never quite managed to work out which county he’s in since he transferred from Lancashire. He has you marked down as the local lad who can answer all the difficult questions the rest of us can’t – you know, like how to spell “Derbyshire”.’

‘No, I meant – why?’ said Cooper. ‘It sounds as though this Alison Morrissey is on some kind of holy mission to clear her grandfather’s name. All ancient history, isn’t it?’

‘That’s about right,’ said Hitchens.

‘So why are we doing this at all?’

‘Ah. Political reasons.’

‘Political? What’s political about it?’

‘We owe favours,’ said Hitchens.

‘We do?’

‘When I say “we”, I mean the Chief, of course. Maybe you don’t remember the big fraud case a few years back, Ben. The main suspect got out of the country and ended up in Canada, masquerading as a lumberjack or whatever. The Mounties weren’t too co-operative at first, but the Chief talked to the consul in Sheffield. They’d played golf together once or twice, and the consul pulled some strings. Anyway, the net result was that our Chief Superintendent made some new bosom buddies over there in Ottawa. They discovered they had similar handshakes, if you know what I mean. And one of them turns out to be this Morrissey woman’s uncle. That’s what I mean by politics.’

‘So we’re putting on a show.’

‘Up to a point. We’re not actually going to do anything.’

‘How do you know that, sir, if we haven’t even talked to her yet?’

‘Oh, you’ll see,’ said Hitchens. ‘Even political influence can’t produce resources out of nowhere.’

Finally, Cooper went off duty and made his way directly across town to the Old School Nursing Home. In one of the lounges, he found his mother waiting. She was sitting up in an armchair, tense, staring at the wall, her thoughts far away in some world of her own making.

‘Do you remember what I said, Mum?’ he asked. ‘About moving out of the farm?’ He tried to say it casually, to make it sound as though he were only planning to pop out to the shop to buy some tea bags.

Isabel Cooper didn’t say anything, though her eyes shifted from the wall to his face. Cooper took her hand. It felt limp and lifeless.

‘I’ve decided I’ve got to live in my own place for a bit,’ he said. ‘It’ll only be in Edendale. I’ll still come and see you every day, don’t worry.’

Her eyes remained distant, not focused on him at all. But a momentary shadow seemed to pass across her face, a faint echo of the expression she had always used when she thought she had caught him out in a lie.

‘You’ll never know any difference, Mum,’ he said. ‘You’ll see as much of me as you always have. Too much, as usual. That’s what you always used to say, whenever I got under your feet.’

He wished that she would smile at him, just once. But her face didn’t move. Part of that was the drugs. The drugs were doing their job, controlling the involuntary spasms, suppressing the facial twitches that had so often turned her into someone else, nothing like the mother he had known.

He patted the back of her hand, leaned forward and kissed her. Her cheek was cold, like the face of a statue. He heard her release her breath in a long sigh, and felt her relax a little. It was the only response he was likely to get.

For a moment, Cooper thought of going back on his decision. But it didn’t matter to his mother now, did it? It didn’t make any difference to her where he lived, now that she was in the nursing home and not likely to return to Bridge End Farm. It was his own reluctance that he was having to deal with, his own sense of leaving a large part of himself behind.

He had promised to call at the nursing home to see his mother every day, and so far he had done it. It meant he could keep telling her every day about his decision to move out, until they both believed it.

Cooper had left the farm too early that morning to collect his mail when the postman came. It was usually approaching nine o’clock by the time the post van made it out as far as Bridge End. So the estate agent’s details were waiting for him when he arrived home that evening. Everyone could tell what the envelope contained. He had told his family that he planned to move out, but he could see that they hadn’t really believed it until now. One of his nieces, Josie, handed him the envelope without saying a word, but with a reproachful look. She almost seemed to be about to burst into tears.

‘Anything interesting?’ said Matt, watching his brother open the envelope from the estate agent.

Cooper could see straight away that there was nothing suitable. All the agents had available were a couple of three-bedroom semis in Buxton and a furnished first-floor apartment in Chapel-en-le-Frith. Apart from the fact that they were too far away, the rent for each of them was well outside the limit of his resources. But it seemed like an admission of failure to tell his family there was nothing. Worse, it might raise expectations that he would never find anything and that he would be forced to stay on at the farm. Once that idea became accepted, it would be all too easy to fall in with it himself. And that would be that. He would be here until he retired, or until Matt decided to sell the farm, which would be a disaster in itself.

He looked at Matt. He wasn’t altogether sure how his brother felt about the prospect of him moving out. It was a big step, to be sure. But wouldn’t it leave more room for Matt and Kate and the girls to live their own life? Even inside the estate agent’s, though, he had felt embarrassed to explain what he was doing. He was nearly thirty years old, and it wasn’t an age where you could comfortably announce that you were thinking of leaving home for the first time. He imagined the sideways glances at him, the speculation about his relationship with his mother.

‘I might have a look at one or two of these places tomorrow,’ he said.

He could only hope. Things might look completely different tomorrow.

Diane Fry stayed behind in the office for a while after everyone else had gone. The night shift was practically non-existent, and the station became like a morgue. It was the time she liked most, when there were no distractions and she could think out problems without being interrupted by singing lobsters or, even worse, her colleagues. People always had their own demands to make on her.

From a locked drawer in her desk, she took out a manila folder, which had Ben Cooper’s name on it. It contained copies of his personnel files. She knew when he had been recruited into Derbyshire Constabulary, what grades he had got in his training and where his first posting had been. She had the date of his transfer from uniform to CID, a couple of commendations from senior officers, and a special note from the Divisional Commander referring to the death in service of his father, Sergeant Joe Cooper. Ben had been given compassionate leave and counselling. A note said ‘no long-term problems’.

There were also the results of his examinations for the rank of sergeant, all good. Then the outcome of his interview board, when he had withdrawn his application. That had been when Fry got the sergeant’s job herself. Did the change in Cooper stem from that time? It would be understandable. But she didn’t think it was quite that – although the disappointment of missing out on the promotion he had banked on could have been the cause of what she suspected he had done later. She was almost sure he had concealed evidence, or at least not reported his suspicions, all out of misguided loyalty.

Fry touched the scar on her face, which had healed but not yet faded. She had no evidence against him – that was the problem. There was no proof. Unfounded allegations against a colleague would blight her own career as surely as anything else she could do. Especially when they were against Mr Popular, the man who had lived in the Eden Valley all his life and knew everyone. She would get no benefit from stirring up trouble against fellow officers, unless she was absolutely sure of her ground. And that was particularly true when one of them had died in the course of his duty.

Fry knew nothing could do more damage to her relationship with her colleagues. She could imagine even now the officers drawing away from her in the corridor, the cooling of attitudes from senior staff, gradually freezing her out. Finally she would get the message and either transfer back to where she had come from, the West Midlands, or leave the police service altogether, knowing no one would care which she chose.

She frowned at the memory of the way Ben Cooper had looked today as he went off duty. He had been wearing that ridiculous waxed coat with the long skirts and the vast inside pocket he called his poacher’s pocket. The coat was dark green, as if he were trying for a camouflage effect. It wasn’t much use in the snow – he would be a sitting duck for an angry gamekeeper with a twelve-bore shotgun. But somehow it made him look as if he belonged where he was, like a man who was at ease with himself and his own place in the world. And then there was the tweed cap. In the shadow of its peak, you could barely see his eyes.

Fry shook herself. There was no one she could ask about Ben Cooper. Perhaps her view of him was somehow distorted. Maybe her antennae were deadened by her preoccupations with her own problems. One thing was certain, Cooper was a man orbiting somewhere beyond the reach of her detection systems. But he wouldn’t need to put a foot too far wrong before his orbit brought him right back into her sights. Maybe tomorrow.