Already Dead

by Stephen Booth

  ‘It is possible. He could have been tortured to get the PIN for his credit card. Then he died. A weak heart perhaps, or something like that – the test results might tell us. And his robber panicked and dumped his body. That would explain why he was left naked. They took his clothes so that he wouldn’t be identified. You can definitely learn that trick from watching TV.’

  ‘What? And then they left the clothes piled up a few yards away for us to find? Complete with his driving licence to make it easy to ID him? And his credit cards were in there too. Not to mention the cash. Pretty slapdash robbers, Luke.’

  ‘Could you two just call a truce for a bit while I’m out of the room?’ said Fry. ‘I want forensics chased up on Glen Turner’s computer and laptop, so we can get a proper examination of his bank accounts. Then maybe we can pick it up when I get back.’

  ‘It’s such a pity we don’t have Ben Cooper available,’ said Detective Inspector Paul Hitchens when she’d brought him up to date. ‘He’s always been such a big asset to the team.’

  ‘We can manage perfectly well,’ said Fry. She didn’t really feel she needed to answer to a Divisional DI. Especially not Paul Hitchens. She’d worked with him, and she knew him. Most importantly, she knew all his weaknesses.

  ‘If you establish that it was murder, we’ll have to call in the Major Crime Unit,’ said Hitchens. ‘But then, you know that.’

  ‘If we need the MCU, we need them. What we don’t need is DS Cooper. We’ll manage fine without him.’

  Hitchens chewed his lip. Fry could see the problem he was facing. No matter how he felt, how much misplaced faith he had in Ben Cooper, he couldn’t display a lack of confidence in his own team.

  But it turned out that wasn’t what was on his mind.

  ‘This won’t come as a huge surprise to you, Diane,’ he said. ‘But I’m moving on. It’s time for me to do something different. I don’t fit in here any more. It was different when DCI Kessen was here, or Stewart Tailby before him. They were good to work for.’

  ‘You used to take the piss out of them both,’ said Fry. ‘All the time.’

  She had no idea what else to say. Hitchens was wrong – it had come as a surprise to her. But perhaps it shouldn’t have done. She’d seen a leaflet on his desk one day, promoting a seminar for inspectors. Meeting the challenges of the new performance landscape. She’d thought it was just another Human Resources initiative. But he spoke as if she ought to have known. Perhaps she had missed all the gossip.

  Hitchens coughed. ‘Perhaps occasionally. But you understand. I did talk to you about it earlier in the year.’

  ‘I don’t believe you’ve ever mentioned it to me,’ said Fry.

  ‘Oh?’ He looked confused. ‘I suppose it must have been DS Cooper, then.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it must.’

  ‘I’ve worked in E Division for a while, you know. I came to rely on Ben quite a lot. It was good having Cooper as DS.’

  Fry said nothing. Presumably Hitchens had also forgotten that Cooper had replaced her as DS on his team. That was a convenient lapse of memory. It allowed him to speak the truth without worrying that she might take offence at the implications. It was good having Cooper as DS. Much better than whoever it was doing the job before him.

  ‘We have reports coming in of vehicles sighted in the area the night of the murder,’ reported Irvine when she got back. ‘So far, we’ve got two white vans, a red car, and a BMW.’

  ‘Are they reliable witnesses?’ asked Fry.

  ‘I don’t know. The red car and the BMW were noticed by a passing motorist. There weren’t many on that road at the time, so it’s a bit of luck for us. And the two white vans were seen by an employee at the quarry company nearby. We’ve got good descriptions of the vans. A Mark 6 Ford Transit, and a Renault Trafic. One had a name printed on the side. Do you think either of those could be of interest to us?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Fry. ‘We’ll need to talk to the witnesses to see how well they stand up.’

  ‘Want me to run with that, Diane?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Two white vans, though?’ said Murfin. ‘One is more than enough, if you ask me.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Gavin?’

  ‘I’m saying everyone is always looking for a white van. Any inquiry I’ve ever been involved in, we were always trying to track down a white van. And when we found it, the driver never had anything to do with the crime we were investigating. He was always just passing or happened to be in the area at the time.’

  ‘Maybe they’ve been sent as observers,’ said Irvine cheerfully.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Observers. You know, like that American TV series – where these sort of bald aliens always turn up making notes in the background when anything significant happens. They’re observers. It could be why there’s always a white van man in the area when a serious crime is committed.’

  Fry scowled at him. ‘Now I have no idea what you’re talking about, Luke.’

  ‘When was that on?’ asked Hurst. ‘And what is the series called?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ said Irvine. ‘It’s American. A bit like The X Files, but more recent.’

  ‘I think you just made it up.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Look, I don’t care whether you made it up or not,’ said Fry impatiently. ‘Can we please get back to—?’

  ‘Fringe.’

  They all turned to stare at Gavin Murfin.

  ‘It’s called Fringe,’ he said. ‘The TV show that Luke is talking about. There’s this FBI agent and this mad scientist—’

  Fry turned away from the conversation in frustration. How was she going to track down witnesses to the death of Glen Turner, or whatever went immediately before it? There were too many white vans, and too many dark nights. One vehicle looked much like any other in the black, rain-lashed depths of the Derbyshire countryside.

  She looked out of the window as the thought came into her head.

  ‘Oh God, look at it out there,’ she said. ‘What have we done to deserve this?’

  Murfin turned and examined the water lashing against the panes. A thundering downpour filled the air, surging off the tarmac and overwhelming the surface drains in an instant to form swirling pools between vehicles in the parking compound. But for the sweep of headlights in the road outside, the world had been plunged into saturated gloom.

  ‘Perhaps it’s the kind of rain you can run through without getting wet,’ said Murfin.

  ‘Do you think so, Gavin?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Fry put on her coat and took an umbrella from the corner. It wasn’t far across the compound to where her car was parked – just twenty-five yards or so. But it was far enough to get thoroughly soaked in this weather.

  The umbrella was still wet from the last time she’d used it, and a patch of carpet underneath it was darkening with damp. They didn’t provide umbrella stands for CID rooms. They weren’t considered standard office furniture, she supposed, even in the Peak District. There was probably a crumbling patch of floorboard under this carpet by now, eaten away by wet rot. It was a fate she might be about to share.

  A few minutes later, she was in the driving seat of her car, dripping on the carpet, with the wipers working, while she waited for the fan to clear the condensation from her windscreen. The noise of the rain drumming on the roof almost drowned out the radio, and she turned it off.

  When her view was clear, she fastened her seat belt and drove out through the barrier, her tyres splashing through a stream of water running down the edge of the road. E Division headquarters had been built at the top of a hill, so all the rain was running down West Street and gathering at the bottom near the lights.

  When she reached the foot of the hill, she could see that the junction might be closed completely later on. Drivers were already negotiating their way cautiously through a shallow lake, throwing up waves on to the pavement. Lights had come on in the shop windows, and pa
ssers-by were sheltering in doorways waiting for the downpour to stop, trusting that it was only a cloudburst. Without exception, they gazed upwards in awe, fascinated by the sight of gallons of water hurtling from the sky.

  Fry had to admit there was something mesmerising about heavy rain. People could get quite obsessed with it. They dedicated their lives to recording rainfall and analysing weather patterns. They knew that Seathwaite in Cumbria was the wettest place in Britain. They could tell you that almost twelve and a half inches of rain had fallen there once in a twenty-four-hour period. Those self-appointed weather experts could reel off statistics all the way back to 1850, when official records began. Rain was one of the highlights of their week. They loved downpours, delighted in showers, positively purred over a torrential deluge like this one. They probably had forty different words for rain.

  But for her, it was just wet. Ludicrously wet. It was starting to become unnatural.

  As she drove through the town, taking care on the wet tarmac, it occurred to her that it would be quite different at the end of the journey. At her crime scene in Sparrow Wood, there was no tarmac, only mud. And then probably a lot more mud.

  Back home in Birmingham, it had rained a lot too. But at least in the city you could go indoors. And if you did have to venture outside, you weren’t forced to wade through six inches of sludge to reach your car, or get your feet wet just crossing the road.

  Fry knew this was a punishment. She’d done something wrong in a previous life. Whatever it was, she just hoped it was something she’d enjoyed.

  Luke Irvine met her at Prospectus Assurance. ‘Mr Edge is waiting for us,’ he said.

  When they entered his office, Ralph Edge spun in his chair and turned his shirt cuffs back, like a man preparing for a fight. He was older than Nathan Baird, and softer in outline, with smooth hands and a pudgy neck. His hair was receding to the point where he’d decided to shave the rest of his head, which gave him a strangely aggressive look that was at odds with the rest of his appearance.

  ‘So how can I help?’ he asked. ‘What do you want to know about poor old Glen?’

  ‘He was a claims adjuster here, is that right?’

  ‘Yes. Their role is to determine the extent of the company’s liability. They investigate claims. Interview claimants and witnesses, consult police and hospital records if necessary. Sometimes they have to inspect property damage. As an adjuster, you can work long hours, including nights and weekends. You have to be able to use a laptop, but a fifty-pound ladder as well.’

  ‘Much personal contact with the public?’

  ‘Well … you have to help the policyholder. You’re the one familiar with all the technical terms. Depreciation, replacement costs, actual cash value. Most policyholders don’t understand those things.’

  ‘Would you say Mr Turner was happy with his work at Prospectus Assurance?’

  Edge shrugged. ‘I guess so. Everyone grumbles about money, of course. There used to be a bonus scheme. Up to ten per cent of your salary. That doesn’t happen now. Austerity times, you know.’

  ‘And how does your job fit in with the work he was doing?’

  ‘We have to investigate claims to make sure they’re genuine. Sadly, some people do lie.’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ said Fry.

  ‘Of course you do.’

  ‘How much did you know about Mr Turner’s personal life?’

  ‘Oh, I suppose someone has told you that I was his best friend or something, have they?’

  ‘And were you?’

  ‘I’d be a bit more upset, if I was,’ said Edge.

  ‘Yes, I’d noticed you weren’t too distressed by his death, sir.’

  Edge held out one hand in apology. ‘Don’t get me wrong. Glen was okay. We did talk a bit. But his personal life? No, not really.’

  ‘Do you remember anything out of the ordinary about Mr Turner in the previous few days? Anything particularly unusual?’

  ‘When do you mean exactly?’

  ‘Say two days before his death.’

  ‘That would be…?’

  ‘Sunday,’ said Fry as he looked towards the wall planner for clarification. She followed his gaze and saw that the whole of the previous weekend was blocked out in bright red tape decorated with gold stars, as if it was a special occasion. A celebration, or some kind of anniversary. A wedding, maybe?

  ‘Sunday?’ said Edge. ‘Oh, yes. I know what Glen was doing on Sunday, all right. He was getting himself killed. Over and over again.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Josh Lane had been going out every day. He wasn’t working, just taking a trip somewhere different each morning. If the rain had stopped, he went for a walk. Sometimes even when it was still raining too. Then he would stop for lunch in a pub somewhere.

  As he followed Lane’s silver grey Honda Civic from Derwent Park that Friday morning, Ben Cooper wondered what was going through Lane’s mind when he did this. It was the sort of thing he imagined he would do himself, if he was facing the possibility of a spell in prison. Taking a look at the world around him before he lost it for a while. Getting the most out of that last taste of freedom.

  But he couldn’t bear the idea that he and Lane might think the same way. That wasn’t possible. He wanted this man to be eaten up by guilt. He needed to believe that Josh Lane was desperately seeking peace of mind that he might never get. And, if Cooper had his way, he’d make sure he never got it.

  Peace was certainly available in many of these places, if your mind was in the right condition to see it. Today, Lane was driving the short distance up the A6 into Cromford, where he turned into the centre of the village at the traffic lights and headed up the long hill going south.

  The road from Wirksworth ran steeply down into Cromford, carrying all telltale signs of nearby quarrying. The unnaturally white surface of the carriageway and the presence of crash barriers on every bend were the clues. Lorries loaded with asphalt and aggregates ground their way up and down this hill every day. No matter how well they were sheeted, or how often their wheels were washed, they left their traces on the roads as reminders of the quarry’s existence. The barriers were there to protect residents living directly in the path of the lorries. If the brakes failed as one of them descended the hill, it would turn into an uncontrollable twelve-ton missile capable of demolishing a house.

  As they passed the huge tarmac works at Dean Hollow, Cooper heard the siren go off – a long first blast, giving a two-minute warning of firing. The blasting engineer would be ready with his detonator and firing mechanism, sodium chloride fertiliser pellets packed into tubes to create almost instantaneous blasts. He knew from experience that the vibration would be felt down in the valley.

  When they reached Steeple Grange, Cooper thought Lane was heading into Wirksworth. A wide arc of abandoned quarries curved west and north of the little town, forming a backdrop to many of the views over it. Several of those old quarries had been absorbed into the site of the National Stone Centre, which occupied fifty acres of land between the Middleton and Cromford roads.

  During the Carboniferous period three hundred million years ago, Wirksworth had been under a tropical sea, which left it with vast quantities of limestone. Centuries of quarrying had left their scars on the area. But almost all of the quarries were disused and derelict now, forming Derbyshire’s own lunar landscape. You could step off a track, or out of a meadow, and find yourself walking on a dead surface of dust and rock, your view blocked on every side by coarse limestone walls, as if you were standing in a crater on the moon.

  The great upheaval for Wirksworth came in the 1920s with the reopening of Dale Quarry, known by local people as ‘The Big Hole’. Mechanisation had arrived, and a vast stone crusher was installed. Dust, dirt and noise polluted the heart of the town. Anyone who could afford to leave abandoned Wirksworth, taking commerce with them. Jobs were lost, buildings fell into disrepair, fine old houses were left to decay. What had been one of Derbyshire’s most important towns was blig
hted.

  But in the 1970s the town had been chosen for regeneration. The Wirksworth Project had restored buildings that were falling down, and which now became part of the town’s historic character. With regeneration came new businesses, and a different type of resident had moved in. It had become the sort of place that he and Liz might have wanted to live in.

  Cooper was almost caught by surprise when Josh Lane’s car slowed and indicated right near the Lime Kiln pub, well short of Wirksworth town centre.

  ‘Damn. Where is he going?’ Cooper said to himself, as the Honda waited for traffic to clear. It would be too obvious to pull up right on Lane’s rear bumper for the turn, so Cooper drove on a few yards and stopped in front of a row of neat stone cottages, each with its front door painted a different colour – one green, one blue, the next black – but every one with the same brass urn-shaped knocker.

  When Lane had completed his turn, Cooper reversed into an opening between the cottages and followed the grey Honda into Middleton Road. He found himself in front of the ornate gates of Stoney Wood, a park created from the remains of one of the quarries. Lane’s car was in the pull-in by the gates, and Lane himself was already out of it. Cooper turned his head away as he drove past and parked on the grass verge near Middlepeak granite works.

  He gave Lane a few minutes, then cautiously made his way through the entrance of Stoney Wood. The slopes of the old quarry had been planted with trees and filled with artworks. Lane was walking up the steepest part of the hill, past hundreds of stones laid out to form an infinity symbol. His head was down as he watched his footing on the slippery ground.

  Cooper stayed just out of sight among the trees at the bottom of the slope, and waited. He remembered this place. Its conception had been part of Wirksworth’s regeneration, yet here were all the signs of pagan folk memory that were inescapable in Derbyshire. In Stoney Wood, they were both formal and informal. Close by where he stood, someone had recently laid a pattern of holly and ivy wreaths on the stone seating. Near the top of the hill, he knew Lane would pass the Calendar Stones, modern monoliths placed to align with the sun at the time of the equinox and solstice.