‘No, it was my own decision,’ said Tate. ‘Entirely my own.’
Cooper nodded. That wasn’t quite what he’d asked. Tate had used a common evasion technique, answering a different but similar question.
‘Did you look on the internet for guidance, for example?’ said Cooper.
‘On the internet? Why would you ask that?’
And there was another technique. A question answered with another question.
‘It’s what people often do these days,’ said Cooper. ‘Everyone checks out their own symptoms online before they go to the doctor. It’s second nature to Google for information.’
‘It didn’t occur to me.’
‘One final thing, then, sir.’
‘Yes?’
‘When you made your suicide attempt, you were living at an address in Mansfield, Nottinghamshire.’
‘That’s correct,’ said Tate.
‘But since then, you’ve moved to Edendale.’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I ask why?’
Tate smiled. ‘Because I like it here.’
Cooper felt the hairs on the back of his neck stirring uncomfortably. This was a man who had travelled nearly thirty miles into the Eden Valley to kill himself. He was one of their suicide tourists, though an unsuccessful one. When he came the first time, he’d wanted to die in Edendale. And now he’d decided to live here. Because he ‘liked it’.
From anyone else thinking of moving into the area, that would have sounded fine and Cooper wouldn’t have questioned it. He understood why anyone would want to live in his town. Well, almost anyone.
From Anson Tate, the motive had to be questionable. Was he here in Edendale just because it was a nice place to live? Or was it because he found it more convenient? Next time he decided to kill himself, it would save the hour-long commute.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Cooper said. ‘I think that will be all for now.’
Tate showed him to the door.
‘Detective Inspector,’ he said, as Cooper turned to leave.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Don’t judge anyone’s choice. Not until you know what options they had to choose from.’
Emerging into the sunlight on Buxton Road was like coming out of a cinema after watching the matinee of a two-hour horror film. Stepping back into daylight, Cooper found the real world difficult to adjust to.
He was disturbed by his conversation with Anson Tate. When did the right to die become a duty?
Yet he still had nothing. And there ought to be something. In particular, there should have been some sign left by Roger Farrell before he took his own life at Heeley Bank. But there had been no note or letter with the body, no goodbye to a loved one.
And then it occurred to him. He rang Carol Villiers back at the station in West Street.
‘Carol, have you listened to the outgoing message on his voicemail?’ asked Cooper.
‘No. Why?’ said Villiers.
‘Try it, will you?’
‘I’ve got the number here. I’ll ring it.’
‘Put it on speaker.’
Villiers dialled Roger Farrell’s mobile. They heard the phone ringing. Twice, three times, four times. Then the recorded message cut in. It seemed strange hearing Farrell’s voice. He sounded entirely calm and unperturbed, almost content. Cooper was reminded of the bereaved relatives who constantly called the number of someone they’d lost just to hear their voice and remember them the way they’d been in normal life. It became a unique form of reassurance, a suggestion that their loved one might still be there at the other end of the phone, just too busy to take their call right now.
But this wasn’t Mr Farrell the way he’d been in normal life. He’d recorded his message when he was preparing for death. From the background noises, he may already have been sitting in the car park at the Heeley Bank visitor centre. Was that his first task when he arrived? He’d composed a farewell message, then turned off his phone so that no one could contact him in those last few hours. His words were quite simple, but chilling:
‘So this is the first secret of death. There’s always a right time and place to die.’
11
The mortuary behind Eden Valley General Hospital was an inconspicuous building with hardly any windows. It was no more welcoming inside. Cooper was glad he didn’t work here all the time. Daylight and fresh air were among his essential requirements.
The people working in a gloomy mortuary like this should really be pale, hairless trolls with lopsided grins who wheeled dead bodies down endless corridors. In fact, they were quite the opposite.
Dr Juliana van Doon had been working here for a long time and was one of the most experienced forensic pathologists in the region. Today, she had a younger woman with her, whom she introduced as her colleague Dr Chloe Young.
Dr Young was no more than five feet six, possibly less. Her hair was dark, almost black, with a sheen that caught the light reflected from the stainless steel dissecting table and autopsy instruments. She wore it knotted at the back in a kind of French twist, leaving the smooth lines of her face clear.
When he came in, she removed a pair of protective glasses and studied him through cool green eyes. Or were they brown? Perhaps hazel. He couldn’t decide and he realised he was staring too hard trying to work it out.
Cooper had become so used to seeing Dr van Doon in the Edendale mortuary that he’d developed a fixed idea of what pathologists looked like – that lean, hunched posture, with an exasperated expression, a sharp eye and a mouth turned down in disapproval. Dr Young looked nothing like that at all.
He was conscious that Juliana van Doon was getting close to retirement. She had even hinted at it once or twice with the suggestion that the only reason she hadn’t left already was because there was no adequate replacement. Was the replacement going to be Dr Young? From Cooper’s point of view, it didn’t look like a bad swap.
‘So, Detective Inspector Cooper,’ said Dr van Doon. ‘Your suicide case. You seem to be making a habit of suicide recently. Is there something you’d like to tell us?’
‘I wish there were. I was hoping there’d be something you could tell me.’
‘Well, no surprises here,’ she said. ‘I’m sure that’s the way you like it.’
‘Suffocation?’ he said.
‘Certainly. Death would have been quick and painless, given the method used. Very efficient.’
She sounded admiring. Perhaps it was the response of one professional for another at a job done well.
‘Anything else?’ asked Cooper.
‘There’s nothing obvious on toxicology. No alcohol or drugs in his blood. No sign of physical trauma or disease. The heart wasn’t in great condition, but that’s no surprise either. A well-nourished Caucasian male aged around fifty. It’s pretty much what we’d expect.’ The pathologist gave him a sardonic look. ‘This gentleman ought to be alive really. Not lying on my examination table.’
‘I can’t argue with that.’
‘As if you would,’ said Dr van Doon with a thin smile.
Cooper had spent years being slightly in awe of the pathologist, ever since he had first encountered her as a young detective and realised that even the older, more senior officers were a bit frightened of her.
‘By the way, my colleague here has obtained permission to take some samples of brain tissue,’ she said. ‘Dr Young has been taking part in a neurobiological study of suicidal behaviour.’
‘Oh, really?’
Cooper had a sinking feeling that he was about to be baffled with science. He had almost no idea what ‘neurobiological’ meant. Unlike many of the younger officers recruited to Derbyshire Constabulary over recent years, he’d left the education system at eighteen with a couple of A-levels and had never tried to get into university. He’d never even considered it. High Peak College had been the limits of his ambitions, because a degree hadn’t been necessary back then. And even if he had taken a degree, it wouldn’t have been in neurobiology.
<
br /> His lack of academic qualifications sometimes made him feel uncomfortable, with that sneaking suspicion he’d walked into an environment where he didn’t belong. Right now, he felt sure Chloe Young was going to say something before long that he wouldn’t understand.
‘It’s a global problem, of course,’ said Dr Young. ‘Nearly one million people take their own lives every year, according to the World Health Organisation.’
‘I didn’t really think it was limited to the Eden Valley,’ said Cooper. ‘But we do seem to have had a bit of a surge recently …’
‘Quite an epidemic,’ said Dr van Doon cheerfully.
Cooper looked at her in surprise – partly because he knew ‘epidemic’ was an unscientific term, but also because it echoed the expression used by Detective Superintendent Branagh. He wasn’t used to her sounding quite so cheerful either. Perhaps she preferred cutting up suicides to performing post-mortems on murder victims. Or maybe she just liked having the companionship of Dr Young in the examination room. He couldn’t blame her for that.
‘I believe all your suicides have been male,’ said Dr Young.
‘Yes, that’s right. I’m aware the rate of suicide is higher among men.’
‘There are well established socio-economic reasons for that. It’s the underlying pathology that isn’t very well understood.’
Cooper made a non-committal sound, as he didn’t know how else to reply.
‘Suicides and suicide attempts are usually associated with mental disorders, or with alcohol and substance abuse,’ she said. ‘The socio-economic factors have been well identified. But the neurobiology is less clear.’
‘Dr Young, I’m not sure …’
‘I’m talking about studies that are looking into biological abnormalities associated with suicidal behaviour. In particular, there’s work on the hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenocortical axis.’
Cooper nodded helplessly. Then she seemed to recognise that she was talking a language he didn’t understand.
‘Well, anyway,’ she said, ‘that work requires materials such as blood cells, cerebrospinal fluid and plasma. So post-mortem brain samples from suicide victims are essential for research.’
‘As you probably know, Detective Inspector,’ said Dr van Doon, ‘brain tissue degrades very easily. So particular care is required in collecting samples. That’s Dr Young’s speciality.’
‘Forty-eight hours,’ said Dr Young. ‘Samples for post-mortem study should ideally be taken no longer than that after death, otherwise they degrade too much to be useful for study.’
‘It sounds fascinating,’ said Cooper. ‘It’s a pity I don’t have more time. I’d like to hear more about the suicide study.’
Dr Young smiled. ‘Another day, perhaps?’
‘That would be great.’
‘So where are you headed now, Inspector?’ asked Dr Young.
‘I’ve got a funeral to go to this afternoon.’
‘What a fun life you must lead.’
David Kuzneski’s funeral was held on the outskirts of Sheffield. Cooper found the large cemetery among a network of tree-lined streets.
The suburbs themselves were flanked north and south by two supermarkets, Sainsbury’s and Morrison’s. Their orange and yellow signs seemed to beckon like the colours of rival football clubs. Well, perhaps the decision about where to shop was a bit like choosing to support Wednesday or United. Shoppers cherished their loyalty cards rather than season tickets, flaunted their branded carrier bags instead of a scarf and replica shirt.
The crematorium had been built in the middle of the open space, with memorial gardens around it. The supermarkets met all the needs of daily life. The cemetery provided what the supermarkets couldn’t.
‘Just here to watch?’
Cooper turned at the sound of the voice close behind him. He hadn’t heard anyone approaching, which worried him. His instincts must be letting him down.
The woman looked about thirty, dressed all in black. Tight black jeans, black boots with rows of beads up the seams, and a wide-brimmed floppy hat of the kind his mother might have worn to a wedding – if it had been white, rather than black. Her long, straight hair seemed to confirm his initial impression. Forty years too late to be a hippy and couldn’t quite go all the way with the Goth thing.
‘Something like that,’ he said.
‘There are people who find funerals fascinating,’ she said. ‘Or just graveyards. I can relate to that.’
‘Are you a relative of Mr Kuzneski’s?’ asked Cooper.
She laughed. ‘Ah, so you do at least know whose funeral it is. I’m a cousin. My name is Haynes. Lily Haynes.’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Cooper.’
‘A police officer. I thought you must be,’ she said.
‘Did you know your cousin well?’
‘We weren’t all that close, I’m afraid. Not recently. Our parents used to visit each other a lot when we were children, and my brother used to play with David and his sister Dawn. But once you grow up … well, your lives diverge, don’t they? I saw less and less of him in the last few years.’
‘So you wouldn’t have any idea about what was going on in his mind, what his mental state was?’
‘Whether he’d been thinking about suicide for a long time, do you mean?’
‘Yes, I suppose that’s what I meant.’
‘I couldn’t say. David was a strange man in many ways. Obsessive. He thought about death a lot, you know.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, I don’t really know.’
‘Was he terminally ill? If so, that wasn’t mentioned at the inquest.’
‘No, not that I’m aware of. I don’t think he had any more reason to worry about dying than anyone else. It’s just that the rest of us tend to go about our lives not thinking about it. We have far too many other things to concern ourselves with, don’t we? Trivial, unimportant things – that’s what David would have said. He thought everything was meaningless, except for the fact that we die one day.’
‘I suppose he had a point,’ said Cooper.
She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘That’s a very depressing outlook, though. There’s far more to living, isn’t there? We can’t go through our lives thinking about the day we’ll die. Well, I know I don’t.’
Cooper smiled. ‘And I’m sure you’re right. You seem very sensible and well balanced. Unfortunately, not everyone is.’
‘And those are the ones you have to deal with, I imagine,’ she said. ‘It must distort your perception of people.’
He watched the funeral party making its way slowly to the graveside, led by the coffin bearers and the vicar. It wasn’t a huge crowd – the immediate family in black and a straggle of friends and acquaintances awkwardly trailing in the rear, some glancing at their watches and mobile phones, as if they’d done their duty and should now be somewhere else.
‘Do you know everyone here?’ asked Cooper.
‘All the relatives, of course. Most of the others are David’s former colleagues – I spoke to a few of them before the service. I think the rest are neighbours and some of Stephanie’s friends here for support.’
‘Anyone who shouldn’t be here?’
She threw him a curious look. ‘Why are you asking me that?’
‘Because I think you’re a good observer. There might be someone here who stands out to you. A stranger who doesn’t know anyone else, but stands to one side and watches everything.’
‘Yes, there is one like that,’ she said.
‘Oh, who?’
‘You.’
Cooper laughed. ‘Good point.’
‘You do look a bit suspicious. Everyone is wondering who you are. If you want to stay incognito, I’ll have to tell them you’re my boyfriend or something.’
‘It doesn’t matter really,’ said Cooper. ‘If you’re sure there’s no one else.’
She looked more serious. ‘It’s important, isn’t it?’
‘It could be. I can’t say m
ore than that.’
‘Fair enough. But the answer is no – there’s no one who stands out. No complete stranger, no one who looks suspicious or shifty. Apart from yourself, there’s only one person here who has clearly never met any of the mourners before and knows nothing about the deceased.’
‘And who is that?’
‘The vicar,’ she said. ‘He’s useless. He just read from a script he’d been given.’
Cooper watched the party around the grave as the coffin was lowered in and the first spadefuls of soil were scattered. A mound of dirt lay ready to finish the job. If Dev Sharma were here, he would no doubt have been telling everyone that Hindus were cremated. They believed that burning the physical shell released the soul from the body.
Cremation was becoming more and more common among other groups too, especially since space in village churchyards began to run out. Yet on the far side of the cemetery was the Muslim burial ground. No cremation was permitted in Islam.
Cooper wondered why the beliefs around death differed so much. He’d heard there was a current fashion to bury favourite possessions with the deceased, as if they were Egyptian pharaohs or Celtic princes. Surely no one in the twenty-first century believed that physical treasures could be carried over into the after-life. He’d even seen bereaved relatives addressing their lost loved ones on social media, as if the dead spent their time in heaven checking out Facebook.
He turned to Lily Haynes.
‘Is that Mr Kuzneski’s widow by the grave?’ he said.
‘The pale, thin one who isn’t speaking to anyone? Yes, that’s Stephanie. Do you want me to introduce you to her?’
‘If it’s convenient. It might look less intrusive.’
Lily Haynes’s hat flapped in a sudden breeze across the cemetery and she clutched at it with a hand, the fingers of which were covered in rings.
‘Much good it will do you,’ she said. ‘Stephanie isn’t in much of a state to talk.’
When the mourners began to disperse, Cooper and Lily Haynes walked over and he was introduced to Stephanie Kuzneski.
He offered his condolences first. He was aware that commiserations probably sounded hollow and Mrs Kuzneski seemed to feel the same. She nodded vaguely at his words. Then he asked if he might call on her at home next day to ask a few questions. She gave no answer, but instead just nodded again, a glassy look on her face.
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