Last night in the pub, he’d taken a long gulp of Scotch and tried to think seriously about his relationship with Sheena. They’d met on a driving course at a hotel in Chesterfield. That was ironic. It was like a reversal of speed dating. They’d both moved a bit too fast once, driven over some artificial speed limit by a few miles an hour on an empty road, and got caught by one of those damn cameras. They’d had to sit in a classroom for four hours and be lectured about what naughty children they were. He liked to refer to it enigmatically as an SAS course. Let people interpret it in any way they wanted. He knew that SAS stood for Speed Awareness Scheme.
But four hours. And no driving involved.
‘What?’ he asked a mate who’d done the course before. ‘So that’s four hours doing … what? Sitting in a classroom being lectured?’
‘You get to watch a video.’
‘Oh, great.’
Four hours. It was enough to make you want to jump in your car and put your foot flat down on the pedal, just to prove that the rest of the world didn’t move so slowly. Four hours. It felt more like a year off his life. He hadn’t been kept in detention since his last year at school, and that wasn’t for four sodding hours. He could have reported the school for breaching his human rights, if they’d tried it. But because his car registration number appeared on that camera, he was stuck in a room all afternoon to avoid getting three penalty points on his licence. It would have been terminally boring without Sheena to look at. Their speed had led to their meeting, but their first encounter had been slow.
Charlie made a deliberate pantomime of checking the refuse containers after yesterday’s collection. They had no wheelie bins this far up The Dale, but there was a green kerbside food caddy, a blue box for glass and cans, and a blue bag for paper and cardboard. He checked that Barbara had removed the kitchen caddy and taken it back indoors, then locked the handle back down again. The smell of rotting food was unpleasant. He ought to clean that out one day.
He picked up a bit of rubbish from the drive, a scrap of paper dropped by a passing youth or a careless binman. Let Barbara find some reason to complain about that.
Yes, that driving course in Chesterfield had changed Charlie’s life. At first, it had reminded him of the management seminars he’d been obliged to attend when he was a middle manager at the finance company, before he left to get a job selling property at Williamson Hart. You had to look interested at those things, and you were expected to participate. It had all the same buzz phrases and acronyms too. This one started with the Three Es for improvement of road safety – Education, Engineering and Enforcement.
Two-thirds of the class had been caught by speed cameras going over the limit in a thirty zone. The oldest attendee complained that he’d been driving for sixty-four years, always kept his insurance, tax and MOT paid up to date all that time, then got caught by a speed camera doing thirty-seven miles per hour, no doubt in his Fiat Uno or something. Another man said he’d volunteered for the course to get his insurance premiums down. One woman admitted she’d taken a re-test after being convicted of drink driving.
On the other hand, there were a couple of decent blokes there who’d been a good laugh. One of them had arrived a few minutes late, looking flushed and sullen. He claimed to have done some advanced driver training in the military, and hinted at Special Forces. But throughout the session he shouted out the stupidest comments and answers he could think of, suggesting that from a pollution point of view it was better to flog a V8 Range Rover to death, then shoot a cow, because it produced just as many emissions as the car. As the afternoon wore on, he’d become more and more outrageous, until the presenter finally lost patience with him and threatened to throw him off the course, which would have resulted in three points on his licence. The other bloke had admitted he liked to drive fast, and blamed the government, speed cameras and the police for his presence on the course. It probably wasn’t the attitude that was expected of them.
Well, they were the only people who’d made those four hours of his life even remotely worthwhile. At the end of the session, Charlie had got Sheena’s phone number, and gone to the pub for a drink with the two blokes. It was one of them who’d made the joke about calling the session an SAS course. They were both full of it, really. But Charlie could see exactly where they were coming from.
Charlie had felt a bit sorry for that presenter, though. He looked professional, had his name badge on a yellow lanyard round his neck, and a Dell laptop running a PowerPoint presentation. He’d shown them an animated reconstruction of a multiple pile-up on the M4, in which fifty vehicles had collided in fog, causing ten fatalities as a truck loaded with gas canisters exploded and started a massive blaze. Then he handed out handsets to vote on test questions. What was the national speed limit on a dual carriageway? Half the group got it wrong. They discovered they could have been driving faster after all. Well, fast legally anyway.
The course was run by AA DriveTech. Didn’t the AA used to stand up for motorists? He had a vague impression of his grandfather talking about driving his old car and being warned by an AA patrol of a speed trap ahead. Now they were part of the process of persecuting motorists, no doubt taking a decent share of the proceeds from the people in that classroom.
While the presenter was speaking, Charlie had done a quick calculation on his notepad. Twenty-six people here, who’d each paid more than ninety pounds to be on the course. The presenter said this was one of three sessions today. If the other sessions had the same number of people, that came to … over seven thousand pounds for the day. And that was just for the one venue. There were other places in the county he could have chosen. Nice work, if you could get it.
He pictured those two dozen people gathered in a room at a hotel on the Chesterfield bypass, next to a Tesco supermarket. He bet that some of them didn’t even drive often enough to get their cars dirty.
Charlie Dean stopped what he was doing. His eyes glazed over as he stared across the narrow street at the stone wall opposite. His umbrella sagged on to his shoulder and rain began to fall on his face. But he hardly noticed.
He’d just remembered the mud on his car. It must be all over the bodywork and the hubcaps, and coating the inside of the wheel arches. He’d forgotten about it last night, when he came back from the pub, but it would be obvious this morning in daylight. He recalled that he’d even plastered some over his number plate, in a misguided attempt at secrecy. If the number was still illegible he could get stopped by the police – not that many police officers were seen in Wirksworth these days. Just as bad, his bosses at Williamson Hart might start asking questions. He would be ruining his image. He couldn’t do anything about it now, though. He’d have to find time to go through the car wash on the way to the office.
He looked at his watch. Damn, he was going to be late if Barbara didn’t hurry up. He hated that. He wanted to be known as the perfect employee – the best salesman, the top negotiator, the guy who always arrived on time and stayed until the work was done. That made it much easier to get away with the rest of it.
So what was she up to? Surely she couldn’t still be on the phone? He knew she must be doing this deliberately. For some reason, she had it in for him this morning. Well, what was new? She’d never needed a reason before.
Charlie looked down at the surface of the drive he was standing on. Lumps of wet mud lay on the concrete, either side of a set of dirty tyre tracks. Could he blame the binmen for that? Probably not. They came to The Dale too early in the day. Anyway, Barbara would notice the mud as soon as she set eyes on the car.
He took a deep breath, and knew he’d have to face the worst. He had a couple of minutes perhaps to come up with a credible story. A new property that was half built, a site where construction hadn’t been finished and the access road was full of mud? It might work.
Last night, he’d driven in forwards and parked the BMW pointing towards the back of the garage. He normally reversed in, to give himself an easy exit. But last night he did
n’t want to be messing about turning in the road. There were always too many nosy people around, too many pairs of eyes peering from behind their curtains in The Dale.
He unlocked the doors of the car, and the lights flashed. He turned back from the road and looked at the BMW.
‘Oh, shit.’
He froze, not knowing what to do. Or, at least, what to do first. He thought about panicking, kicking the walls, sitting in the car and turning on the engine to fill the garage with exhaust fumes and ending it all, right here and now. It would be preferable to going indoors to Barbara and telling her everything. He might as well kill himself now, rather than wait for her to do it. He could make it painless anyway. Barbara wouldn’t consider that option.
Finally, he fumbled for the remote and closed the garage door, glancing over his shoulder again to see if anyone was outside the house, watching. He had a horribly vivid vision of the man in the red rain jacket, hood up against the downpour, watching him from the dark. But the road was empty. The coast was clear.
Dean let himself into the house, and poured warm water into a bucket with a trembling hand. He added a splash of washing up liquid, though he’d always told people it was too astringent and could damage your paintwork. He went back to the garage and found an old sponge on the shelf. He hesitated for only a moment before he began to remove the bloody hand print from the boot of his BMW.
Chapter Five
That was the trouble with cars these days. One looked and sounded just like another. A lot were even the same colour. There was no telling whether it was the right one until it stopped and you could see who was driving.
Ingrid Turner stared out of the window as the latest car passed. She knew she fussed too much sometimes. Glen told her himself often enough. ‘You’re like an old mother hen,’ he’d say, though he always said it with a smile and she knew he loved her to fuss over him really. She loved her son. So, yes – she was fussy about him. Of course, she tried not to get in his way too much and be a nuisance.
But there was no denying it. He ought to have been home by now.
Ingrid sat down in her armchair, then stood up again nervously. It was funny, really. She had often thought it would be a good thing if Glen didn’t come home one night. It would mean that he’d finally found himself a girlfriend. That would be such a relief. She’d worried about him for years, never been able to figure out why he hadn’t formed any relationships with women, and too scared to ask him the obvious question. Well, she couldn’t, could she? It was the sort of thing a mother shouldn’t ask her son. If he wanted to tell her, that was different. But if she pried into his private life like that, he would never forgive her.
She heard the sound of another engine in the street, a vehicle slowing down. But it was just the postman, stopping outside the house next door to deliver the stuff they’d bought off eBay. They seemed to be forever buying and selling. Taking parcels to the post office in West End, having more delivered. She couldn’t see the point of it herself.
Of course, she would have expected Glen to phone, if he’d met someone and wasn’t coming home. He wouldn’t have left his old mum wondering where he was. He’d know that she’d be worried and unable to sleep. She’d taken her pills last night, but still hadn’t slept a wink. This morning, she felt weary and her head was buzzing. She had a feeling it was going to be important to think straight today. She didn’t want to do anything hasty and mess it all up. On the other hand, she was terrified of hesitating too long.
She looked at her little patch of grass in front of the house. Somebody had walked across it during the night and left muddy prints from the bare flower beds. There was a beer can in the corner by the pavement. She’d go out and pick it up later, when it had stopped raining.
If he’d met someone and wasn’t coming home. When she thought about it baldly like that, it sounded so unlikely. She couldn’t imagine Glen picking up some woman in a club and staying the night at her place, getting up to goodness knew what. It just wouldn’t happen. Not in a million years. He wouldn’t have the confidence.
Now, all those scenarios that had run through her head during the night seemed like complete fantasies. They were so far fetched that she couldn’t believe she’d entertained them, even for a moment. Perhaps she’d been asleep after all, and dreamed the whole thing. Somehow, she’d convinced herself there was a rational explanation for the fact that Glen hadn’t come home. But there wasn’t one. Not one she could believe in any longer.
The postman ran back down next door’s drive and climbed into his van. Ingrid waited a moment, but he accelerated away. Nothing for her today. She was only putting off the moment.
She picked up the phone, and looked at the address book. She had the number of Glen’s office. She could phone his boss to see if he’d turned up for work or had called in with an excuse. But she was afraid of what they’d all say about her after she’d rung off. Afraid of what they would say about her Glen.
Ingrid put the phone down and looked at it, as if it might speak up for itself and give her the advice she needed. She dialled a ‘9’, then stopped. Weren’t you supposed to wait twenty-four hours before reporting someone missing? Especially if it was an adult, who might just be late home.
And was it really an emergency? She had no way of telling, but she didn’t want to get in trouble. There might be penalties for people who made non-emergency 999 calls. She’d read about them in the paper, all kinds of silly people who phoned to say they couldn’t find their glasses, or to ask for directions to Homebase. She didn’t want to be considered a silly woman. But she couldn’t do nothing either.
Instead, Ingrid began to dial a different set of figures. The non-emergency police number, 101. She heard a recorded message telling her that she was being put through to Derbyshire Police.
‘Yes, thank you,’ she said. ‘I want to report a missing person. It’s my son.’
Luke Irvine was glad to get out of the office. He was always unsettled by change. He hadn’t been in Divisional CID long enough to get his feet firmly planted under a desk. Not the way Gavin Murfin had, and others like him.
Murfin had become the proverbial immovable object around E Division. He’d worked his roots so deeply into the carpet of the CID room that nothing had been able to shift him for years. The introduction of tenure had passed him by, performance reviews left him unscathed, the annual appraisal process had mysteriously found him doing exactly the same job each time round. None of it stirred him.
Well, not until his thirty years were up, anyway. Not even Gavin could resist that steamroller. Immovable object was meeting irresistible force. And suddenly the object wasn’t so immovable after all. In fact, DC Murfin would roll aside like so much tumbleweed under the impact of Clause A19, if the force decided to follow neighbouring Staffordshire and invoke the regulation forcing retirement of police officers after thirty years’ pensionable service. Most of those affected by A19 were senior officers, who’d worked their way up through the ranks over the past three decades and were at the top of their particular tree. Experience counted for nothing when it came time to cut costs.
And right now, E Division was down in numbers across every department – not just CID, but uniformed response, civilian support staff, even forensics.
Irvine decided to dodge down the narrow back streets and wind his way across town past the parish church and Edendale Community School to reach the Buxton Road. It should mean that he would bypass the traffic that always snarled up on the main shopping streets like Clappergate. Even the Market Square got congested, though the businesses in that part of town were mostly banks and building societies, estate agents and pubs. Everything else had moved into the indoor shopping centre.
Edendale was a magnet for tourists, and they seemed to come in greater numbers every year, whatever the weather. The Eden Valley straddled the two distinct geological halves of the Peak District – the limestone hills and wooded dales of the White Peak, and the bleak expanses of peat moors in the Dark Pe
ak. Its position made a perfect base for exploring the national park, and all the usual services had developed to cater for the tourists – hotels, bed and breakfasts, restaurants, outdoor clothing shops. Some of the old-fashioned businesses were still there, the butchers and bakers and antique shops. But to Irvine’s eye, they looked more like antiques themselves, part of the picturesque scenery.
Gavin Murfin had been working in this area for so long that he knew a lot of useful things, and the best places to go. It had been Gavin who’d introduced him to May’s Café, just off West Street, the place where everyone nipped off to now that there was no canteen. It was one of the most useful lessons he’d learned during his first week in CID.
But it wasn’t the impending departure of Gavin Murfin that was bothering Irvine. He’d felt secure with Ben Cooper as his DS. You knew where you stood with Ben. He’d tell you the facts, give it to you straight, put you on the right path if you went astray. But you knew he’d always back you up. It was what you’d want from your supervising officer. It made you feel you were a valued member of his team.
Irvine had learned that being in the police was like being part of a big family. You didn’t always agree with each other, or even get on very well. But you were still family. It was a crucial factor when it came down to the ‘us and them’, the moment when you faced a dangerous situation together.
Yes, the loss of Cooper was bad news, whichever way you looked at it – even if it was temporary, and nobody knew if that was the case or not. For Irvine, the reappearance of Diane Fry in E Division was like the tsunami after the earthquake. If you survived one, the other would definitely get you. The old one-two flattened you every time.
When he thought about it, Fry made a pretty good tidal wave. She could knock you off your feet and leave you floundering.
He wondered how Becky Hurst truly felt about Diane Fry. It was difficult to tell with women. They were nice enough to each other face to face, but it was a different matter when their backs were turned. Becky was too smart to let it show if she felt strongly, though. She was an expert at keeping her head down and her nose clean. It was a skill he’d yet to learn for himself. Keeping his mouth shut was just too hard to do sometimes.
Already Dead Page 4