Dead in the Dark

by Stephen Booth

  ‘Is this the police service you came into as a teenager?’ asked Young.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ said Cooper. ‘It isn’t even the same world.’

  Cooper stopped, aware that he’d been talking more in the last few minutes than he’d talked to anyone for months and months. How did Chloe Young get all that out of him, things he’d been feeling but hadn’t ever expressed before, even to himself?

  He smiled. No, he didn’t know how she did it. But it certainly made him feel better getting it out of his system. It felt almost as good as sitting across the table from her here in the Barrel Inn.

  ‘Change of subject,’ said Young.

  She placed an envelope on the table in front of him and tipped something out.

  ‘What are those?’ said Cooper.

  ‘Tickets.’

  ‘I don’t recognise them.’ He picked one up. ‘Oh, Buxton Opera House. I’ve never been there.’

  ‘What, never?’ said Young.

  ‘Well no, that’s not right. I think I went to some Gilbert and Sullivan thing once. It was years ago, though, when I was a teenager.’

  ‘That long ago?’ laughed Young. ‘Good grief.’

  ‘I went with my parents. They dragged me along against my will, because some relative was in the chorus. One of my cousins, I think. Not that we could have recognised them under the make-up.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘I think it was The Pirates of Penzance.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘What do you mean “Ah”?’

  ‘“A Policeman’s Lot is Not a Happy One”,’ she sang.

  ‘Of course. I remember it now.’ He smiled at the recollection. ‘My mother sang along, but my father wouldn’t join in. It was beneath his dignity, I suppose.’

  Young looked more serious. ‘Yes, he was in the police too, wasn’t he?’

  ‘A sergeant,’ said Cooper, then hesitated. ‘Did you hear about it? What happened to him, I mean.’

  He knew the answer, of course. Everyone knew about the way Sergeant Joe Cooper had died. If Chloe Young didn’t know when she came back to Edendale, she would have been told by Dr van Doon when she began working at the hospital, or by Carol Villiers. It wasn’t something he could keep private, even if he’d wanted to do so. Over the years he’d become accustomed to the idea that everyone knew. But he could never be sure whether the knowledge made people look at him differently. Was Chloe Young looking at him differently now?

  ‘Yes, I did hear,’ she said after a moment’s pause. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Not long enough for you to have forgotten it.’

  ‘No.’

  Cooper was forced to look away for a few seconds. There was another tragedy in his much more recent past, one he could never forget. And he was certain Chloe Young would have heard about that one too. He began to feel uncomfortable in her presence, as he questioned what might be going through her mind. She wasn’t a suspect in an interview room, so he couldn’t interrogate her. He had to accept that her thoughts were her own, unless she decided to share them with him.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said, more brightly, ‘back to the tickets.’

  Cooper looked down at the table. He’d forgotten the tickets. They’d slipped from his mind in that flood of memories, a chain reaction of recollections sparked by the mere mention of Buxton Opera House and The Pirates of Penzance.

  ‘Oh, the tickets,’ he said, knowing he must sound stupid.

  ‘You’ll notice I have two,’ said Young.

  ‘What are they for?’

  ‘Tosca. The English Touring Opera production. Are you a fan of Puccini?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She looked at him more closely. ‘It isn’t Gilbert and Sullivan, you know.’

  ‘Now you’re being patronising.’

  ‘I apologise.’

  ‘Accepted.’

  ‘So – are you free on that day? I hope you are. No urgent cases to investigate?’

  ‘Hopefully,’ said Cooper. ‘And no dead bodies waiting for you to cut up?’

  ‘None that won’t keep in the freezer for a few hours.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s a date then.’

  Young smiled. ‘So it is,’ she said.

  7

  Diane Fry felt exhausted as she drove back into Nottingham that night. Shirebrook had tired her out.

  The act with Geoffrey Pollitt had been difficult to maintain. Fry knew far more about him than she could have admitted. Yet, in the Zalewski case, he was supposed to be a secondary witness who might have some information about the victim. She had to treat him as an innocent bystander. And Pollitt had to believe that’s what he was.

  On the way back towards Wilford, Fry drove over Clifton Bridge and pulled into the forecourt of the BP filling station on Clifton Lane. She withdrew some cash from the ATM, filled up the tank of her Audi, and bought a couple of bottles of water in the shop. She didn’t need the cash – she hardly ever used it. But it had become a habit. Cash, petrol, water. A steady routine that kept her grounded and reminded her that she had a private life, such as it was, out of the office.

  She crossed to the bank of InPost lockers in a corner of the forecourt next to the air pump. She had a medium-sized locker for items she’d bought online. She scanned the QR code from her phone to open the locker, conscious of the CCTV camera focused on the lockers. Today there was another yellow box waiting for her to collect. She slid it out and clicked the locker shut.

  When she reached her apartment, she remembered she had no food in. She’d been used to that at the old flat in Edendale, of course, but somehow she’d imagined it would be different in Wilford, as if the apartment would resupply itself. It had every other modern convenience, so why was the fridge always empty? Something wrong there, surely.

  Fry sighed. So it was a takeaway. Domino’s Pizza or Oriental Express? They were both near the Tesco store at Compton Acres. It was a Monday, so the Oriental Express would be open. Tomorrow, the choice would be more limited. After a second’s hesitation, she dialled and ordered a Yuk Sung Chicken with mini vegetarian spring rolls.

  While she waited, she performed some exercises to wind down from the day. She became absorbed in what she was doing and stopped in surprise when the buzzer sounded.

  ‘That was quick,’ she said. ‘They must be quiet tonight.’

  She grabbed a couple of notes, left the apartment, and went downstairs to the outside door to collect the takeaway. She never knew what to say to the delivery people, so when she opened the door, she began: ‘Thank you. That was—’

  And then she stopped.

  ‘Oh, were you expecting someone else, Sis?’ said her visitor. ‘Anyone nice?’

  ‘Angie?’

  Fry gritted her teeth. Why did her sister always do this, arrive for a visit when she was least expecting her? It was almost as if Angie was trying to catch her out.

  ‘No one,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone. Particularly not you.’

  Angie smiled. ‘Are you going to invite me in, then? If I’m not intruding?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Fry took a step out of the door and looked round the parking area in front of the apartment block. No sign of any unfamiliar vehicles. Angie had a mysterious boyfriend who Fry had never managed to meet. But if he’d dropped Angie off, he’d made a very quick exit.

  Angie was already on her way upstairs. She knew her way to the apartment, because she’d been here before, staying for a few days after another unexpected visit. Fry realised her sister wasn’t carrying anything but a small shoulder bag. No change of clothes, nothing for an overnight stay. So it would only be a quick visit. And there were no bottles, teats, wet wipes, or packs of nappies either.

  ‘Where’s – er …?’

  ‘Where’s what?’ said Angie. ‘Who?’

  ‘The baby. Zack.’

  ‘I know what my baby’s name is. Sonny is looking after him.’ />
  ‘Really?’

  Fry had formed an image in her mind of Angie’s boyfriend. He drove a Renault hatchback and was involved in some kind of business that brought him to Nottingham occasionally. She was sure it was dodgy, probably illegal. She deliberately hadn’t asked. And looking after a baby for the day didn’t suit her mental image.

  ‘Actually,’ said Angie, ‘it will be Manjusha who’s looking after him.’

  ‘Manjusha?’

  ‘Sonny’s mother.’

  Angie had dropped into an armchair in the sitting room and kicked off her shoes.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Fry. ‘Who’s Sonny? I thought your boyfriend was called Craig something?’

  ‘Oh, him,’ said Angie with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘He’s old news.’

  ‘But isn’t he the father, of er …?’

  ‘Zack? Maybe. But he wasn’t much of a dad. Never showed any interest. I couldn’t have left Zack with him for the day, let alone his mother. She’s a drunken old slag.’

  Angie eyed the gin bottle on the table. It was half-full, or half-empty, depending on your point of view. There was a glass next to it, but only one. Fry took the opportunity to slide the yellow box out of sight under her jacket on a chair.

  ‘Now, Sonny is a different matter,’ said Angie. ‘He’s very good with Zack.’

  ‘So how long will he last? Or are you planning to move on to someone else soon?’

  Angie yawned. ‘No, he can stay for a bit.’

  ‘Is his name actually Sonny? It makes him sound like a boxer.’

  That made her sister laugh. ‘He’s nothing like a boxer. Well, if you must know, his name is Sunil Kumar. Everyone calls him Sonny. Though I’ve always thought it ought to be Sunny, with a “u”. He’s quite a laugh.’

  Angie had managed to control the weight she’d put on after the pregnancy and was starting to recover her old angular body shape. Her face had changed, though. That was probably permanent. Fry realised it must be the approach of middle age. Angie had started having children relatively late, as many women did now.

  Then Fry checked herself. ‘Started having children’? That raised the possibility there were going to be more little versions of Zack. She wondered what those would be called. Zane, Zappa, Ziggy, Zeus?

  ‘I’m glad you’re happy,’ said Fry.

  ‘Thanks, Sis. I suppose you want to know all about him.’

  ‘Only if you want to tell me.’

  ‘Is there any chance of a cup of tea?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The door buzzed again. Before Fry could move, Angie had jumped to her feet and run to the window to peer out.

  ‘Oriental Express,’ she said. ‘That’s great. It looks as though I’m just in time for supper.’

  Shane Curtis scrambled awkwardly through the opening and clung for a second to a beam before dropping on to a bale of straw.

  This barn had been disused for years. The old man who owned the farm had used it for overwintering his suckler herd. But there were no signs left of the cattle now, except a layer of trampled straw and a whiff of dung from the breeze-block stalls. A much bigger, steel-framed barn stood a few yards away, stacked to the roof with huge bales of straw.

  Shane settled into a dark corner where he couldn’t be seen from the doorway. He found a dry patch and squatted on a pile of empty feed sacks. The place must be crawling with insects, but they didn’t bother him. They couldn’t do him any real harm. Only humans did that.

  A trickle of moonlight crept through the gaps in the corrugated roof, and a movement of air stirred a vast spider’s web strung between the beams. There was no sound, except for that persistent coughing. Cough, cough, cough, like a coal miner with emphysema.

  Shane tugged a can of lager from the pocket of his coat, popped the tab and took a long swig. He fumbled in another pocket and found his tin. A couple of feeble-looking joints lay inside. It wasn’t the best stuff, but it was all he had. His usual dealer had got himself nicked a couple of weeks back, the idiot. Someone else would take over his customers, but for now Shane had to rely on some blokes who came out from Mansfield and went round the pubs. It was expensive too, but they charged what the market would take. Pure capitalism.

  He lit one of the joints and lay back in his corner, smiling to himself. This was his idea of the way to live. Away from all those drunks and junkies and the stupid women who got themselves pregnant at the drop of a hat. There was only one thing missing.

  Cough, cough, cough. Out there in the darkness, somewhere between the barn and the house.

  Shane laughed at the sound. Things like that out in the darkness didn’t scare him either. He’d been in juvenile detention for eighteen months after twocking a few cars and pinching a bit of stuff from the shops in the market square. Werrington Juvenile Centre. That was pretty bad. But it hadn’t scared him. Not at all. He was as tough as any of those kids in there, and he could prove it if he had to.

  He sat up suddenly, clutching the joint. The coughing had stopped. Instead, he heard a soft thud of hooves on the muddy ground. Something or someone was coming this way. Those sheep had heard it before he did and they were leaving in a hurry. It was time to be ready.

  Then Shane sniffed. He could smell something more than mouldy straw or the whiff of cows. What was it? It took a few moments for him to identify the smell. Then he had a memory of the party at his uncle’s back in July. Out in their big garden on a warm summer evening. Burgers and cold beer. Uncle Rick himself presiding over the barbecue with his apron and tongs.

  Shane jumped to his feet, spilling the last bit of lager from his can. Yes, it was smoke. He could see it now, grey tendrils of it creeping under the barn door. It stank of burning wood, acrid and toxic.

  ‘No! Not now!’

  He scrambled to his feet and ran to big double doors. But the bar across them was too heavy to lift, the hinges too rusted to shift. He banged on the wood.

  ‘Hey! There’s someone in here. Let me out.’

  There was no response. Only the increasing noise of flames crackling, the whoosh of a bale of straw igniting in the hayloft, showering sparks on to the floor below. The fire had started right here in the barn. Someone had done this deliberately.

  Shane coughed as a blast of smoke filled his lungs, the hot fumes scorching his airways until he could barely croak out a breath.

  ‘Hey! Someone! Please!’

  He shouted and banged on the door for as long as he could, until finally the smoke overwhelmed him and he sank to his knees, his throat raw and his eyes streaming.

  And still there was no reply. Even the sheep had moved away from the barn to leave him to his fate.

  8

  Day 2

  Ben Cooper stepped out of his Toyota. He didn’t need to sniff the air to know what had been burning. The air was still thick with charred embers of straw drifting on the breeze. A shower of black specks were settling even now on the paintwork of his car and on to his face as he turned to look up at the burnt skeleton of the barn. The ground around the building was muddy and running with channels of water from the firefighters’ hoses. The smell of hot steam mingled with traces of acrid smoke that stung his nostrils.

  He looked around for the duty DC and found both Luke Irvine and Becky Hurst on the scene. The two youngest members of his team were very different. Irvine could turn a bit bolshie, if he wasn’t reined in. Cooper had overheard political arguments between him and Hurst and Irvine was definitely somewhere out on the right wing. Hurst was like a little terrier, no job too much trouble. She had good instincts too. When Carol Villiers wasn’t around, Cooper often looked for the coppery red of her hair behind a computer screen.

  ‘Another arson?’ he said.

  Irvine nodded. ‘No doubt about it.’

  ‘Dry straw goes up so easily. It wouldn’t take much to start it off.’

  ‘And don’t these kids know it.’

  ‘Kids?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘Well, it must be, mustn�
��t it? Some youths who get a kick out of setting fires and watching them burn. They like to see the fire appliances turn up. It’s like they’re watching the telly, but in real life.’

  ‘There’s no evidence of that, is there?’

  ‘We just haven’t identified the right suspects,’ said Irvine. ‘Because no one is talking. They never do – even if it’s a murder case.’

  Castle Farm stood in a small valley to the north of Edendale, at the end of Reaper Lane. It would once have been remote, lying at the foot of the moorland that separated the Eden Valley from the Hope Valley. But, as the town grew, the housing estates on its northern outskirts had crept nearer and nearer to Castle Farm, filling the bottom of the valley and coming within a few fields of the farm itself.

  The mass of housing was visible to Cooper from the gate of the farmyard. The fields, barns and outbuildings were near enough for youngsters from the estates to reach in twenty minutes on their bikes. The old farmer was the last generation of the Marston family to run it as a going concern. Other Marstons had left to take jobs in Chesterfield or Sheffield. When Ron Marston retired or died, the farm would become vacant. The sheep would be sent off to market, there would be another farm machinery sale in the yard, and developers would be competing to get their planning applications in for a series of barn conversions.

  ‘We’re not classifying this as a murder case,’ said Cooper. ‘Not unless there’s any clear evidence. On the face of it, it seems unlikely to have been a deliberate killing. It was arson, certainly. But it looks as though Shane Curtis was in the wrong place at the wrong time. So manslaughter at most, I’d say.’

  ‘Of course, he might have been in the right place at the right time,’ said Irvine.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s quite possible he was one of the arsonists, isn’t it? Why else was he in the barn?’

  Cooper looked at Hurst, but she shrugged. ‘It’s true we haven’t found any legitimate reason for him to be here.’

  ‘So Shane and his mates came along to have a bit of fun and set fire to the barn,’ said Irvine. ‘And somehow it all went wrong and he was trapped inside when it went up.’