Scared to Live bcadf-7

by Stephen Booth

  ‘You almost make that sound like a good thing, Diane.’

  ‘Well, it means I can focus on the Darwin Street fire for a while. Unrelated, or not.’

  A few minutes later, Fry finished reading the postmortem reports on the Mullen family for the second time. She put the report aside, then recalled what Mrs van Doon had said about the victims being confused and disorientated by the inhalation of smoke.

  She picked up the phone and rang Scientific Support. Wayne Abbott, one of her favourite people.

  ‘Wayne, you know you said the fingerprints in the house at Darwin Street all belonged to members of the family?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Which members of the family did you mean specifically?’

  ‘Hold on …’ She heard the rustling of paper as he found the right file. ‘Here we go. Well, as you might expect, there were prints from the householders everywhere — that’s Mr Brian Mullen and Mrs Lindsay Mullen. And the children, of course. They were easy to differentiate because of their size.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Right. Those prints were mostly from the relatively undamaged parts of the house, you understand.’

  ‘Like the kitchen?’

  ‘Exactly. I mention that because we lifted a couple of prints belonging to the grandmother, Mrs Moira Lowther. We asked all the family to give their prints for elimination purposes, of course. But hers were only in the kitchen. Nice, smooth surfaces for us to dust, you see. We found none from her husband, though. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. There was so much damage in the sitting room — ’

  ‘Anyone else on the list?’

  ‘Yes, the dead woman’s brother, Mr John Lowther.’

  ‘Where were his prints?’

  ‘Oh, kitchen, bathroom, sitting room. Some of his were on the children’s toys that we salvaged. I expect he used to spend some time playing uncle with the kids, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fry. ‘That’s probably it.’

  The engaged sign was showing on the door of Interview One. Inside, John Lowther seemed to be sweating. Damp patches had appeared under his armpits, and his glasses were slipping on his nose. He looked like a man caught performing some shameful act. Yet all he was doing was sitting in a police interview room, waiting for the questions.

  With Cooper sitting in to observe, Fry began by asking Lowther to confirm his name, age and address. Then she looked at him, momentarily unsure how to approach the interview, to get him talking.

  ‘I gather your address is an apartment, sir?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a new development in Matlock. They converted an old will, I mean mill. It’s rather nice.’

  ‘I see. Do you own the apartment, Mr Lowther?’

  ‘It’s a nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine-year lease. With nine hundred and ninety-seven years left to run. Less two years, you see. But it’s no loss.’

  Fry frowned. ‘Right. And you’re an actuary by profession?’

  ‘- confession? Yes, I have very intensive experience in the field.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I worked in Leeds, in West Yorkshire, for three years. But I left that job a year ago.’

  ‘So you’re not employed at the moment?’

  He smiled. ‘You might say I’m resting. There’s not so much work for actuaries around these ports.’

  ‘I see.’

  Fry had never felt so unsure of anyone before. She could hear herself saying ‘I see’ too much, a clear indication to anyone listening that she hardly understood a thing that Lowther was saying. Did he recognize that, too? Was it a deliberate ploy on his part to disrupt her interview technique? If so, it was very subtle. But it was working.

  Suddenly, Lowther seemed to stare past her at something on the wall.

  ‘Is there a dog here somewhere?’

  Fry didn’t know what to say. She looked at Cooper to see how he was reacting, but he was quite still, watching carefully.

  She paused to gather her thoughts before her next question. But Lowther wouldn’t allow a pause.

  ‘One of my neighbours has a dog. A cross-bred Alsatian. Long-haired, shaggy — you know? All the time I’ve lived in the apartment, I’ve never heard it bark. Not even when the binmen come in through the back gate.’

  ‘Why does that worry you, sir?’

  ‘How do you know what’s a dog, and what isn’t? Dogs are domesticated wolves. But wolves don’t bark. So if a dog doesn’t bark, is it actually a wolf? It’s a question of identity, you see.’

  ‘Mr Lowther, when did you last see your sister?’

  ‘Oh, Lindsay? Last week. It could have been the week before.’

  ‘Did you visit the house in Darwin Street on that occasion?’

  He hesitated, contorting his mouth as if trying to work around some words that he couldn’t pronounce.

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Surely you can remember where you last saw your sister.’

  Lowther stared at her. She noticed that the focus of his eyes was shifting back and forth, like someone trying to get a fix on a constantly moving object. Fry began to feel as though she wasn’t really there to him. Not all of the time, anyway.

  ‘I can’t remember. Did I say that already?’

  Fry deliberately shifted her position, made a show of moving her notes on the table, gestured with her hands in front of her face. Anything to make sure she had John Lowther’s full attention.

  ‘I know you were very close to your sister, sir. But what sort of relationship do you have with your brother-in-law, Brian Mullen? Would you say there was some resentment between you?’

  But Lowther barely seemed to have heard her. He made that chewing movement with his mouth again. Fry decided he wasn’t trying to pronounce the words, but to swallow them, to suck them back into his mouth before they reached the air.

  Then, astonishingly, he smiled at her. It was a charming smile, friendly and guileless. What a niceconversation we’re having his expression seemed to say.

  ‘Is there another question?’

  Fry sighed. ‘Yes. Mr Lowther, have you ever seen this before?’

  She showed him a photograph of the wooden dinosaur.

  ‘Tyrannosaurus.’

  ‘Have you seen it before?’

  ‘No. Is it from abroad?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘Some people go abroad, hunting for whores. No, for babies.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I get confused sometimes. I’m not sure what you’re asking me. Is it time?’

  Fry automatically looked at her watch. ‘Time?’

  ‘Time to leave.’

  ‘Do you want to leave, sir? You’re only here voluntarily, so you can leave whenever you want. We can’t keep you against your will. But we only want to ask you some questions, Mr Lowther. We’re trying to find out how your sister and her children died.’

  ‘What are they saying?’ said Lowther.

  Again, he seemed to be looking at something behind her. Or perhaps not looking at something, but listening.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ she asked.

  ‘You don’t have to believe what people are saying, you know.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t quite follow — ’

  ‘The things they say,’ he insisted. ‘They aren’t always right. You don’t have to believe them.’

  ‘Which people do you mean particularly?’

  Lowther looked anxious. A bead of sweat formed at his temple and trickled slowly towards his jaw.

  ‘Whoever it is that you’re listening to. I don’t know who they are. I don’t know who any of them are.’

  ‘What have people been saying to you, sir? Have you been hearing rumours? Please share any information you have.’

  Lowther tilted his head. ‘I’ve got exceptional hearing, I’m told. I can hear the people in the next room now.’

  Fry tried for a while longer, probing for information about his feelings towards Brian Mullen, and about the
last time he’d visited the Mullens’ house in Darwin Street. But she could feel that she was getting nowhere. The conversation seemed to veer off in directions that she had no control over, and she didn’t know how to bring it back under control. She just didn’t have anything of substance to use against Lowther and pin him down.

  When the interview was finally over, they watched John Lowther leave. Then Fry walked back and checked Interview Room Two.

  ‘There wasn’t anyone in the next room,’ she said.

  ‘So what was he hearing?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Something outside? Someone chatting in the corridor?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Some people do have particularly good hearing. They say blind people develop their other senses to compensate.’

  ‘So what is John Lowther compensating for?’ said Fry. ‘Let’s face it, he’s unbalanced.’

  ‘Hang on, Diane. He could be faking it.’

  ‘Faking it?’

  ‘Well, all that stuff was verbal. It was like a smokescreen. He didn’t actually answer any of your questions, as I’m sure you noticed.’

  ‘A bit of a teacake,’ said Fry thoughtfully.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was something Gavin said.’

  ‘Well, we shouldn’t underestimate Gavin’s judgement.’

  ‘I think I’ll get John Lowther’s background looked into,’ said Fry. ‘Faking it, or not.’

  Listening to the interview tapes afterwards, Cooper noticed a pattern to John Lowther’s answers. Sometimes he spoke quickly, the words spilling out with no prompting. At other times, he was hesitant, leaving long pauses before he answered. During these periods, he seemed to ramble and go off at tangents, often failing to address the question altogether.

  At other times, Lowther seemed eager to anticipate what his interviewer was going to say, and tried to complete her sentences for her, often guessing the wrong word from its initial letter or sound. It sounded like a verbal equivalent to the predictive text function on his mobile phone. Both produced gibberish too often to be any real use.

  Cooper had heard this kind of language before. The sound of it brought back so many unpleasant memories that he knew he was reacting on an emotional level. He tried to suppress the response, to smother assumptions that might prevent him from being objective. These days, his antennae twitched at the first sign of aberrant behaviour in those around him. Right now, he was even more touchy on the subject, thanks to Matt and his obsessions. But not every eccentricity or verbal quirk was a sign of mental illness.

  He looked around for Fry. ‘I wonder if Lowther might have had experience of police interviews before,’ he said.

  But Fry shook her head. ‘Not according to the PNC. He doesn’t have any previous.’

  ‘No previous convictions, yes. But he might have been questioned and not charged. Should I follow it up?’

  ‘Yes. And don’t forget Lowther was on West Yorkshire’s patch for three years.’

  ‘OK. Have you done a PNC check on Brian Mullen, by the way?’

  ‘He has no record, not even any driving offences. There’s no local intelligence on him either, so he has no known criminal associates.’

  ‘No one he could call on for a competent arson job, then?’

  ‘I don’t think he needed to. This was a personal affair.’

  ‘Right.’

  Fry watched Cooper put on his jacket and check his mobile phone, ready to leave.

  ‘Are you in Matlock Bath later this afternoon, Ben?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got to go back to the shopping village.’

  ‘Do me a favour — keep an eye out for somewhere you might buy a wooden dinosaur.’

  Cooper stopped. ‘What? Oh, the photo that you showed Lowther.’

  ‘I want to find out where this came from. It must be fairly unusual. I’ve never seen anything like it myself, and Brian Mullen tells me he’s never seen it before either. If it was a gift for one of the Mullen children, it might have been from a recent visitor to the house.’

  Cooper studied the wooden toy closely. ‘Hang on — I think I did see something like this in Matlock Bath on Tuesday. Not exactly the same, perhaps — but similar.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Diane, I should have taken more notice.’

  ‘That’s OK, Ben. But check it out for me, will you?’

  Cooper handed the photos back. ‘The Rose Shepherd enquiry isn’t getting anywhere, is it? It’s too unfocused.’

  ‘I agree. What we need is someone to point us in the right direction.’

  ‘Oh, I nearly forgot — there was a message from Sergeant Kotsev,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Oh? What does he say?’

  ‘He says his flight from Sofia will land at Manchester Airport at twenty minutes to five.’

  ‘What? He’s coming here? For God’s sake, why weren’t we told about this?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe there was another message that we missed.’

  ‘And maybe not,’ said Fry bitterly. ‘Twenty to five? Does he mean today?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Damn it, he must have been phoning me from the check-in desk. He must have been practically on board the plane already.’

  ‘Do you want to hear the rest of the message?’

  ‘No, but you’d better give it me anyway.’

  ‘Well, he sends his respects to Sergeant Fry. And he wonders if you’d be free to pick him up from the airport.’

  22

  Cooper decided to drive down through Cromford to reach Matlock Bath. It was a relief to get out into the countryside again. This was his natural environment, not the stuffy meetings to discuss assassinations and organized crime, where he felt uneasy and out of his depth. Let Diane Fry have that side of the job, if she wanted it.

  Emerging from the canopy of trees on the Via Gellia, he passed a little tufa cottage. This was one of the area’s most photographed buildings, and it looked just the way he remembered it — a house made of grey, spongy stone, with wisteria growing up the wall and geraniums in the window boxes, like something out of a fairy tale.

  A few yards further on, the road swung to the right by the old Pig of Lead pub and the mills nestling in Bonsall Hollow, below Ball Eye Quarry. There was a quirky little bookshop opposite the pond in Cromford — the type of place that had vanished from most high streets, but still lurked in corners of the Peak District. Cooper could see it across the water as he entered the village. On a day like this, he’d have liked to be free to spend an hour or so browsing the shelves, making discoveries, drinking a cup of freshly ground coffee. Maybe there’d be home-made homity pie on the menu.

  But he had to drive on, filtering left at the crossroads on to the A6. After the tightly clustered cottages of Cromford, Masson Mill looked enormous in its position between the road and the river. This stretch of the Derwent Valley had been classified as a world heritage site a few years ago. When the centre of the cotton industry moved to Manchester, the mills and millworkers’ villages of Derbyshire had been left almost intact in their rural backwater.

  Some of the old millworkers said that the ghost of Arkwright himself still trod the creaking floorboards at Masson Mill. It was easy to believe that he wasn’t long gone when you saw the dusty boxes stacked on the shelves in the spinning room. ‘Return to Sir Richard Arkwright’. Of course, everyone knew he was buried down the road at Cromford. The mansion he’d built, but never lived in, stood directly across the river from the mill, among trees that he’d planted but never seen grown to maturity.

  The back wall of the mill overlooked the river. Its five storeys were full of windows — long ranks of them separated into pairs by stone mullions. They were spaced with Victorian precision, but so small and dark that nothing was visible behind the glass. Those windows stared out across the rushing water like blank eyes. There were scores of them, a hundred pairs of eyes — a high, brick wall full of dead faces.

  Upstream, a fallen tree trunk
was caught on the edge of the weir. It jerked from side to side as the flow of water hit it, dead boughs thrashing like a man drowning in the foam. It must have been drawn into the current from the opposite bank, or it would have been carried away into the water channel that fed the mill wheel.

  Inside the shopping village, Frances Birtland had just arrived and was taking off her coat.

  ‘My neighbour?’ she said. ‘Rose Shepherd?’

  ‘You don’t remember your neighbour coming in on Saturday?’

  ‘No. Did she come in? How embarrassing. But I saw so little of her, that I suppose I didn’t recognize her.’

  ‘Your colleague Mrs Hooper recognized her from her photograph in the papers.’

  Mrs Birtland shook her head. ‘I don’t read the papers very much. They’re always so depressing, aren’t they?’

  ‘But you were definitely here all that afternoon?’

  ‘Of course. Did Eva say different?’

  ‘No.’

  A customer was hovering behind him, and Cooper stood back for a moment. He took the opportunity to check out the stock on the central display units. He prided himself on his observation, but he’d completely missed the wooden toys last time he was here.

  Cooper picked one up. It wasn’t a dinosaur, but the wood looked the same as the toy that Fry had shown him, and the style of carving was identical.

  He looked at Frances Birtland, who was smiling at him, hoping for a sale.

  ‘Where are these from?’ he said.

  ‘Eva has them imported direct from Bulgaria. Traditionally crafted and ecologically friendly. I think they’re lovely, don’t you?’

  ‘Is there a dinosaur in the range?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m afraid we sold the last one.’

  Darren Turnbull pulled his Astra on to the grass verge, waited until a tractor went past, then nipped into the phone box. He never liked using his mobile to ring Magpie Cottage, in case Fiona got hold of the phone and checked his calls.

  ‘You’ve got to come and meet me outside the village,’ he said when Stella answered.

  ‘So you know it’s you they’re looking for, don’t you?’ she said. ‘You’re scared, Darren.’

  ‘I just don’t think it’s sensible to make a free gift of some gossip to those nosy buggers that live near you.’