Secrets of Death

by Stephen Booth

  ‘I suppose he wouldn’t have felt a thing,’ said Mrs Burgess. ‘That’s what they say, isn’t it?’

  ‘So I believe,’ said Cooper, realising that she had jumped to the actual moment of Gordon’s death, trying to imagine it for herself.

  ‘And the dogs were with him,’ she said. ‘Abbey and Pepper. They’re outside in the garden now. They’re devastated. They know that he’s gone. Surely Gordon must have realised how much it would affect them.’

  Cooper had a flashback to his interview with Anson Tate, the failed suicide. Tate had brought out all the arguments, much as if he’d been quoting them from books he’d read – or, of course, from a website.

  Doesn’t it seem wrong to you that sick animals are put out of their misery by vets, but we aren’t allowed to end our own wretched existences? What is it about a human life that makes it so different, so sacrosanct? We’re just animals too, aren’t we? Why should we be forced to suffer?

  ‘Abbey and Pepper?’ he said. ‘I haven’t heard those names used for dogs before.’

  ‘They’re named after Beatles albums,’ said Mrs Burgess. ‘Gordon was a huge fan.’

  ‘Abbey Road and Sergeant Pepper,’ said Cooper.

  Instinctively, he looked around the room for a stereo, or a CD player at least. But he could see nothing. What about a bookshelf? You could tell a lot about a household from the books on the shelf. There were hardly any books either. The shelves held a few ornaments and a couple of crossword puzzle books. And there was a huge plasma TV screen on one wall, which some of the visitors couldn’t resist glancing at, though it was switched off. They said you shouldn’t trust anyone whose TV screen was bigger than their bookshelf.

  ‘I think you’re right,’ said Mrs Burgess. ‘It was funny, the way he talked to the dogs on the last day. He said he was taking them for a walk, but I knew something was different.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Gordon was saying something to them about learning to let go. He didn’t realise I could hear him.’

  ‘He was saying this to the dogs?’

  ‘Yes. He talked to them all the time.’

  ‘Mrs Burgess, can you remember what he said exactly?’

  ‘I don’t need to,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘My memory isn’t very good, so Gordon always wrote things down for me. We kept a special notebook that he put things in he wanted me to remember. I don’t know why he wanted me to remember this. But I’m sure it was what he was telling the dogs.’

  She handed Cooper a notebook. It was filled with dates and notes, most of them written in clear capital letters and some of them underlined to emphasise their importance. On the final page was one last thing Gordon Burgess had wanted his mother to remember:

  And this is the second secret of death. You have to let go. You have to learn to say goodbye.

  And underneath he’d written, in a more personal handwriting style:

  Goodbye, Mum. I love you.

  Of course, Carol Villiers was a dog-lover. Her parents had two retired greyhounds adopted from a rescue centre and Cooper remembered how upset she had been by the death of a pet spaniel when she was about fourteen.

  ‘If Mr Burgess really cared about his dogs, he wouldn’t have put them through that ordeal,’ she said. ‘Imagine what it was like for them out there on the moor for two nights with their owner dying.’

  ‘I don’t think he intended it to be that long,’ said Cooper. ‘He must have thought he would be found sooner and the dogs would be looked after. I don’t suppose he had any idea that he would lie there so long. If only his mother had appreciated the significance of the note he left, the search would have got under way much sooner.’

  ‘But she doesn’t seem to have known that he was depressed. Did he never talk to her?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Cooper. ‘He was fifty-five years old and unmarried. Can you imagine him telling his mother he was feeling depressed? He probably thought he was a burden or a disappointment to her. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d told him that herself, many times. Mothers can be cruel.’

  Cooper recalled his own mother when she was alive, constantly asking him whether he’d been promoted from detective constable yet, pointing out how early in his career his father had made it to the rank of sergeant. Yes, mothers could make you feel a disappointment and a failure. Gordon Burgess might have endured many years of that.

  ‘Fifty-five?’ said Villiers. ‘Frankly, if you reach your fifties and you haven’t come to terms with yourself, you’re in serious trouble. You should have got your life sorted out by then.’

  ‘Yes. And if you haven’t, and you suddenly realise that you’re on a downward slope, I imagine it can knock the ground from under your feet. It wouldn’t need any specific event to trigger the deterioration in your state of mind. A slow acknowledgement of the inevitable, undetectable even to his closest relative.’

  ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  ‘No.’

  Many individuals did think about it, though. When old people died they were sometimes said to have ‘had a good innings’. But even living to a hundred didn’t guarantee you had the opportunity to do everything you’d hoped to do in your life – or anything you hoped for, in fact. Some individuals went through their entire existence wanting to do something different, to be somewhere else, to spend their time with anyone except those they found around them, strangers and family alike.

  It was a tragic but undeniable fact. It made Cooper realise how lucky he was, in spite of everything that had happened to him.

  So Gordon Burgess had died from a gunshot wound. He’d aimed at the soft area under his chin, but people tended to flinch at the last second when they did that. As a result, the path of the bullet hadn’t been perfect for an instant death. Instead, he’d caused serious brain damage which had put him into a coma and resulted in a much slower death than he would have anticipated. His apparently peaceful pose on the moors did not reflect what had been going on in his head.

  Burgess was found clutching a revolver that he’d apparently inherited from his father. That answered the question of means. So how did his death fit in with the others?

  There was a twenty-two-year-old jobless biker from Derby who had taken a mixture of sleeping tablets, methadone and vodka. A mattress salesman from Nottingham, forty-five years old and a widower, who had chosen an exit bag filled with helium, causing painless suffocation.

  And then there was David Kuzneski, aged forty, a credit controller from Sheffield. The man who hated tablets. So what method of suicide had he chosen? An overdose of lithium carbonate. In a way, it was a logical choice for him, given his history of bipolar disorder. But would it have been his personal preference? It was almost as if a punishment had been devised to fit the crime, a manner of death chosen to fit the victim’s life.

  ‘You said Gordon Burgess didn’t fit the pattern,’ pointed out Villiers. ‘But it’s also the woman, isn’t it? Bethan Jones. She’s an odd one out too.’

  ‘Well, obviously, as the only female.’

  ‘I don’t see the logic in her case either.’

  Yes, there was Bethan Jones. A twenty-eight-year-old playschool leader who had travelled from Cheshire to slit her wrists. How did that fit in? Cooper had to admit it. Again, there was no pattern.

  They had the Ordnance Survey map of the area spread out on a desk. The locations were marked on it. Monsal Head, Upperdale, Heeley Bank, Bridge End Farm and now Surprise View. And in the middle of it all sat Edendale, deep in its green hollow in the hills, as if sucking everything towards it, drawing in individuals who had no resistance left.

  Cooper stared at the map. Sometimes people smiled when they saw him spending so much time gazing at maps. It was because he’d been taught to take an overview of a case, a top-level perspective. Looking down on it from above, rather than obsessing all the time about the small details.

  ‘I wonder who is choosing the lo
cations,’ he said thoughtfully.

  Villiers frowned. ‘What do you mean? Surely each one was the individual’s own choice.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘What else could it be?’

  Cooper didn’t reply. But only because he didn’t know the answer.

  ‘It couldn’t be anyone else’s choice, could it?’ said Villiers.

  He stood up. ‘Well … you’re probably right.’

  Cooper picked up his jacket.

  ‘Where are you going, Ben?’

  ‘There’s only one person who can stop this and help us to prevent more people from dying. He needs to be shaken up a bit.’

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ said Villiers.

  ‘That’s probably a good idea.’

  Halfway to the car park, he stopped and turned to Villiers.

  ‘I forgot to ask you,’ he said. ‘How was the book festival in Derby the other night?’

  ‘Fantastic,’ said Villiers. ‘We had a great time.’

  Cooper nodded to himself as he followed her out. ‘Fantastic’ had been an echo of what he’d said when Carol asked about his new house. And he still didn’t know who she’d gone to the book festival with.

  21

  Before they reached the house on Buxton Road, Cooper spotted Anson Tate striding up the pavement, his head down, hands in his pockets, as if walking against a strong wind. He was carrying a green shoulder bag.

  ‘Where is he going, I wonder?’ said Cooper.

  ‘Could be anywhere. Shopping, to the pub? Or just for a walk? I assume he has a life of some kind.’

  ‘Life? That’s not what Mr Tate is interested in.’

  Cooper turned the Toyota round and drove slowly back down the road, keeping his distance from the figure a hundred yards ahead. A driver behind him beeped irritably, then pulled out to overtake. A woman waiting to cross the road gave him a suspicious look, as if he was a kerb crawler.

  Tate crossed Meadow Road and walked over the railway bridge. He didn’t look right or left, but kept straight on. He wasn’t just taking a walk, he was fixed on a destination.

  ‘He’s turning into the high street,’ said Villiers.

  ‘Keep him in sight, Carol.’

  Cooper took the corner cautiously, deliberately letting a van get in ahead of him. His old local, the Hanging Gate, was down a side street to the left. But Tate didn’t even glance at it as he strode past.

  ‘There you go, he’s probably heading for the shops in Clappergate,’ said Villiers. ‘He’s going to buy his toothpaste in Boots or have his lunch at McDonald’s.’

  ‘Or he could be heading for the railway station,’ said Cooper. ‘Once he gets on a train, he could be in Sheffield or Manchester, or any location of his choice in between.’

  ‘You’re paranoid about him.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Look, all he’s carrying is that shoulder bag. He hasn’t exactly got luggage with him for a trip.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting he was going on holiday,’ said Cooper. ‘Or even for an overnight stay. If he’s going somewhere, it will only be for one purpose. And he won’t be planning to come back.’

  ‘Oh, you mean …?’

  ‘Of course. Anson Tate only has one objective in mind and if he achieves it we’ll have lost him as a source of information. He doesn’t need luggage. Just the specific items for whatever method he’s chosen this time.’

  Villiers was quiet and Cooper began to think he’d shocked her. But she’d lost sight of Tate in a crowd of shoppers and was concentrating on trying to pick him out.

  ‘Has he turned towards the station?’ asked Cooper, as his car came to a halt behind the van.

  ‘No, he’s crossing the road at the lights.’

  ‘The shops, then?’ said Cooper. ‘It looks as though you were right. I was wrong.’

  ‘You were paranoid.’

  ‘Not that paranoid.’

  In fact, they were both wrong. As the traffic moved and Cooper coasted the Toyota towards the lights at the bottom of Hollowgate, they could see Anson Tate on the opposite pavement. He’d reached his destination.

  ‘He’s going to the library,’ said Villiers.

  ‘Well, that’s interesting.’

  ‘He’s looking for some improving literature? Self-help books?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  Cooper indicated and drew into the kerb, earning himself another angry stare from a passing driver.

  Edendale Library was a modern building with a glass frontage on to the high street. Cooper knew there was another entrance at the back, where the public could get access from the bus terminus near the market square. Tate could walk straight through the library and get on to a bus. It would be a classic tactic if he suspected he was being followed. Luckily, the plate glass allowed them to track his movement as he entered. He walked past the counter and the self-service checkout machines to the far end of the library.

  ‘He’s sitting down at one of the desks. He’s going to use one of the computer workstations,’ said Villiers.

  Cooper nodded. That made sense too.

  ‘You go inside, Carol,’ he said. ‘Tate doesn’t know you. Try and get a look at what he’s doing online. Go and browse the romance section or something. Pretend you’re a fan of Danielle Steel.’

  Villiers climbed out of the car.

  ‘What makes you think I’m not?’ she said as she swung the door shut.

  Cooper watched her dodge through the traffic, then slow to a casual stroll as she entered the library. Nobody gave her a second glance.

  He pulled back out, managed to force the Toyota into the outside lane and turned right into Hollowgate, where he found a space in the car park behind the town hall. The back of the library was just beyond the bus stops, where a blue Hulleys bus was even now discharging passengers. A couple of them turned and walked up the disabled ramp to the library’s rear door.

  Inside, Cooper found himself in an entrance lobby, with noticeboards full of information about forthcoming events – a book club, Crafts and Chat, benefits advice and lots of children’s story-telling sessions. He was impatiently reading a leaflet about health and safety when Villiers finally appeared.

  ‘As far as I can tell, he’s not online. He’s writing something,’ she said.

  ‘Are you sure? Did you get close enough to see what it was?’

  ‘No. Not without breathing down his neck and looking like a stalker.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Cooper opened the doors and walked into the library. He strode down to the line of workstations. Anson Tate was sitting in the middle, with a teenager on one side and a pensioner on the other. The young man looked like a student, with a notepad and a small rucksack. The OAP was looking up flights to Portugal.

  ‘Mr Tate.’

  He took hold of the back of Tate’s chair and read the screen before he could delete it or close it down. He seemed to be composing a letter to the Eden Valley Times complaining about plans for fracking on the edge of the national park.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ said Tate in an angry whisper. ‘I can’t talk to you here. It’s a library, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Libraries aren’t what they used to be,’ said Cooper. ‘We won’t get shushed by a woman with her hair in a bun.’

  Tate began fussing with his bag. ‘I’m leaving anyway,’ he said.

  ‘We’ll come with you. It’s a nice day. A little stroll by the river, perhaps?’

  ‘It’s harassment,’ said Tate. ‘I’ll make a complaint.’

  But from the way he looked round the library, he seemed to be more worried about what other people were thinking of him. Jumping off a bridge in the centre of town was fine, but drawing attention to yourself in the library was unacceptable behaviour in Tate’s world.

  Cooper and Villiers stuck close to Tate as they left the library and went back out on to the high street. Cooper gently put a hand on his arm and steered him down the steep flight of steps to the ri
ver bank. There were benches here facing the water. Tate reluctantly sat down and Villiers sat next to him. Cooper remained standing over him. He was too impatient to sit down, even for a moment.

  ‘I’m trying to live a normal, law-abiding life here,’ said Tate. ‘I don’t deserve this.’

  He patted his head, pushing the wedge of hair forward until it pointed between his eyes. Then he shuffled his legs and shifted a few inches along the bench to distance himself from Carol Villiers.

  ‘You do if you’re withholding information from us,’ said Cooper. ‘As far as I’m concerned, you deserve a lot worse.’

  ‘Has something happened since the last time we talked, Detective Inspector?’

  ‘We’ve had two more deaths,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Suicides?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Tate nodded. He seemed calmer now, more reassured.

  ‘No one I know, I’m sure.’

  ‘The name of one was Gordon Burgess. He lived here in Edendale. Not a mile away from you.’

  ‘I don’t know anyone in this town. I’m a stranger. I speak to no one and they don’t bother me.’

  ‘Have you had any visitors since you’ve been in Edendale?’

  ‘Visitors? I don’t get visitors. My flat isn’t fit for anyone to see.’

  Cooper glared at him. It was almost as though Anson Tate was deliberately presenting a picture of himself as the classic loner, a man who kept himself to himself. He could have taken the image from any newspaper story about a serial killer or from a crime novel he’d picked up in the library. It told Cooper nothing and it felt as though he was being taunted with the fact.

  Tate couldn’t resist the obvious question.

  ‘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.