‘They wouldn’t do such a thing,’ said Matt.
‘I think so. But I’m just wondering whose side you’re on.’
‘I never wanted for this to happen.’
But Ben could hear the doubt in his voice, and see it in his eyes. He still knew his brother well enough for that. He’d retained some of the ability to read Matt’s thoughts in an expression or a small gesture.
‘If your friends had nothing to do with the Pearsons, what are they so sensitive about? Why do they object to people asking questions?’
Matt looked distressed.
‘I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to be the one who told you this, Ben,’ he said.
‘What? What?’
‘There was something going on at the Light House, something that had nothing to do with drinking beer. Maurice Wharton had lockins, you know.’
‘Why? What was going on?’
‘Drugs, they reckon.’
‘I had no idea. You mean someone was dealing at the Light House?’
‘Yep.’
‘Did Wharton know about it?’
‘I couldn’t say. Though it’s hard to imagine him not being aware of what went on at his pub.’
A blue Land Rover drove in to the gateway and stopped.
‘Who’s that?’
‘The lads you were supposed to be meeting,’ said Matt.
‘What?’
‘They phoned and said you weren’t alone, that someone else was here.’
‘So who were those guys?’ said Cooper. ‘I must have been followed. Was it a white pickup?’
‘Ben, I have no idea.’
20
Ben Cooper woke up the next morning sore and angry. When he looked in the bathroom mirror, he could see a bruise developing rapidly on his temple. His hands were scratched and raw where he’d grappled with his assailants, trying to get a grip on a waxed jacket and a bloated body.
He’d reported the incident, without any expectations of a result. He was unable to identify the two men, and the farmers who’d turned up with Matt knew nothing about them, or what sort of vehicle might have been following him.
Turning his face from one side to the other in the mirror, Cooper hoped that nothing like this happened just before the wedding. He’d be in big trouble then. Very big trouble.
He had the impression that Gavin Murfin was whistling as he entered the CID room at West Street that morning. Murfin seemed to have perked up considerably since the arrival of Diane Fry. Everything he did was contrary to his previous behaviour. He’d disparaged Fry for years, referred to her in private as the Wicked Witch of the West. Now he seemed glad to see her.
It gave Cooper an uneasy feeling. In Murfin’s present end-of-term mood, he might be planning something drastic. A final farewell that would ensure he was remembered for ever, his name enshrined in station legend.
Murfin placed his bag carefully on the desk, looking thoughtful. Over the years, Cooper had learned that his colleague could occasionally produce a flash of insight from his long experience in CID. This might be one of those moments, if he was lucky.
‘What are you thinking, Gavin?’
Murfin sniffed. ‘I’m thinking about what’s in this bag.’
‘Which is?’
‘A steak and kidney pie and a vanilla slice.’
‘What else have you been buying?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
Cooper peered into the bag.
‘Blow-up Bonking Baa Baa? Seriously?’
‘Stag night,’ said Murfin, snatching the bag away.
‘No need to be embarrassed, then.’
‘I’m not.’
‘That had better not be for me, Gavin,’ said Cooper.
‘Course not. I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘Who else is getting married, then?’
‘No one you know.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. I do have a life outside the office.’
‘A mate down your local pub, maybe?’
‘Could be.’
‘Well you don’t have any other social life. Unless you’re in the habit of making friends at the chippy.’
Becky Hurst was shaking her head in disbelief. ‘Blow-up Bonking Baa Baa. Does that sort of thing still go on at stag nights? Incredible.’
Irvine laughed. ‘What? Are you saying women don’t get up to the same sort of stuff on hen nights? Have you seen Edendale town centre in the early hours of a Sunday morning?’
Cooper leaned towards Murfin and spoke to him quietly.
‘We need to talk, Gavin.’
‘All right, I don’t mind.’
‘And I mean soon. When we go off shift today.’
‘It’s a date.’
Cooper straightened up again, turning back to face the room
‘What’s going on then? Anything?’
‘You asked me to track down the vehicles owned by Ian Gullick and Vince Naylor,’ said Irvine.
‘Yes?’
‘Gullick has a blue Ford Transit van. He’s a market trader, so that makes sense.’
‘And Naylor?’ asked Cooper.
‘A Toyota Hilux pickup.’
‘A pickup? What colour?’
‘White.’
‘Of course it is.’
For a moment, Cooper forgot his bruises. Were things starting to come together at last? If so, it would be worth it.
‘Did we know that Maurice Wharton was an ex-copper?’ he asked.
Irvine nodded. ‘Yes, it’s in the files.’
‘It’s not unusual to find a retired police officer running a pub, is it?’ said Villiers.
‘He wasn’t retired. He got kicked out. Gross misconduct.’
‘Was he bent?’
‘No. He put the boot into a suspect once too often. You wouldn’t have heard about him because he wasn’t serving in this region. He was down in London, in the Met. He was rooted out of the Territorial Support Group in one of the Met’s regular clean-ups.’
‘It’s hard to imagine.’
‘He went to seed a bit after they dumped him,’ said Murfin.
‘You can say that again.’
‘He’s a big guy, though. At one time, when he was younger and kept himself fit, he would have been pretty intimidating.’
Diane Fry entered the CID room, came to a halt in front of Cooper and tilted her head on one side to examine his bruises.
‘I suppose you’re going to ask what happened,’ said Cooper.
‘No, I heard.’
He wondered for a moment who would have rushed off to spread gossip to Diane Fry. She wasn’t usually the sort to be whispering in a huddle over the coffee machine. But then he remembered her ability to enter a room unobtrusively, a trick that must allow her to overhear all kinds of things.
‘I gather there’s even a suggestion that it was some members of the local farming community who were responsible,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know there was a provisional wing of the National Farmers Union.’
Cooper gave her a curt nod. It seemed the only suitable acknowledgement to the closest that Diane Fry had ever come to making a joke.
‘Someone else’s blood on David Pearson’s anorak,’ he said. ‘So what happened, do we think?’
‘The Pearsons did something bad, and realised they had to disappear?’ suggested Irvine.
‘They attacked or killed someone? But who?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it? Apart from the timing being so far out, you’d think it might have been Aidan Merritt.’
Fry snorted. ‘Oh yes. Out by around two and a half years, that’s all.’
‘It would be convenient, though. We’d solve two mysteries at one go.’
‘Have we got any other theories, aside from these fantasies?’
Everyone was silent, until Hurst chimed in. ‘We’ll just have to hope for a DNA match from the blood.’
‘Is that the best we can do?’
No one answered, and Fry sighed.
‘It
looks as though it is.’
‘Otherwise, we’re going to ask all the same questions that were asked before?’
‘Yes, and as many more as we can think of,’ said Fry.
‘Why?’
‘If you ask enough questions, the person who’s lying will eventually change their story. Anyone who’s telling the truth can’t do that.’
‘A small bunch of regulars were looked at closely by the original inquiry team. Vince Naylor, Ian Gullick.’
‘Their stories tallied.’
‘Everyone’s stories tallied. At least anyone who was sober enough to remember what happened.’
‘You left a name off the list,’ said Hurst.
‘I know. Aidan Merritt. It’s too late to ask him any more questions.’
‘It had to be someone local.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, who else was in the immediate area apart from locals?’
‘Nobody that we know of, apart from the party of four tourists we can’t identify.’
‘What about guests staying at the Light House?’
‘They’d already stopped taking bookings before Christmas, remember? There was no one staying at the Light House.’
‘No one?’
‘Well, no one who wasn’t local. No one except the Whartons themselves.’
‘Is that right?’ Cooper turned suddenly to Murfin, who stopped chewing whatever it was he’d surreptitiously sneaked into his mouth. ‘Gavin, when you finally got to the Light House that day, it must have been a few hours after the Pearsons had been reported missing?’
‘Of course.’
‘Who was there?’
‘At the Light House? Just the Whartons, and a couple of regulars.’
‘Which regulars?’
‘Ian Gullick, Vince Naylor. They were always there. Practically lived in the place. They spent every hour they could in the games room.’
‘It was the day before Christmas, though.’
‘So?’
‘Hasn’t everyone been telling us that the Light House was always closed over Christmas? If the pub was shut, what were Naylor and Gullick doing there?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You didn’t ask?’
‘Ben, we were in the middle of a major search operation, not to mention the effects of a snowstorm. It never occurred to me to ask them what they were doing there. I suppose I just thought they were helping to clear the snow or something.’
‘How had they come? In a four-wheel drive, or what?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t remember seeing anything. When I think about it, I don’t think even a four-wheel drive would have made it to the pub in those conditions. Our vehicles couldn’t. We had to walk.’
‘Yes,’ said Cooper, picturing the depth of snow covering the access to the Light House from the road. ‘There’s only one way anyone could have got up there. It would have needed a farmer with a tractor.’
‘I’m amazed this wasn’t followed up at the time,’ said Fry. ‘Here are two individuals who might have had a grudge against the Pearsons. They were witnessed having an argument with them forty-eight hours previously, and they were on the scene not long after David and Trisha disappeared. What was the SIO thinking of?’
‘There were multiple witness statements taken from customers and staff who were at the Light House on the night after the argument,’ said Cooper. ‘Gullick and Naylor had no contact with the Pearsons that night. Maurice Wharton said he would never have let the two of them back into the pub if they hadn’t promised to behave themselves and stay away from the Pearsons. And by all accounts they did behave themselves. Apart from the angry words spoken the previous night, there was no suspicion against Naylor or Gullick, or any of their friends.’
‘We need to ask them some more questions.’
‘Of course. That’s what we’re here for.’
‘One more thing,’ said Fry. ‘Samantha Merritt gave us the names of some teachers she said her husband used to have a drink with sometimes after school. We talked to those teachers. And guess what? They said that a group of them often used to go for a drink, but that Aidan Merritt hardly ever joined them. They couldn’t explain why he would say that.’
‘And what do you think, Diane?’
She shrugged. ‘The usual reason would be an affair, wouldn’t it? You know, I’m going to be a bit late, dear – I’m just going for a drink with a few people from school.’
‘The usual reason,’ said Cooper. ‘But … Aidan Merritt?’
‘Why not Aidan Merritt?’
‘I don’t know. He just doesn’t seem the type.’
‘You never knew him. Or wait – did you? Maybe you had a private chat with him at the Light House some time? During the Young Farmers’ soiree maybe? A drunken get-together over a pint of Old Moorland, was it?’
‘No,’ said Cooper calmly. ‘I’ve just talked to a few people about him. That’s what we do. We get an idea of what sort of person the victim was.’
‘You don’t need to to tell me how to do my job.’
‘I’m not trying to, but—’
‘So can you think of another reason why Merritt would consistently lie to his wife about what he was doing after work?’
‘Well, no.’
‘Okay. Then perhaps we could explore the possibility that he was having an affair.’
‘Fine.’
‘That wasn’t too difficult in the end, was it?’
Cooper watched her leave. He wondered if Fry actually thought she’d won him over, convinced him with the force of her argument and brought him on to her side. Well, she might want to believe that. But all she’d done was convince him that he’d have to find a new approach to the problem.
‘We could try asking the first Mrs Rochester.’
‘Who?’
‘Betty Wheatcroft,’ said Cooper. ‘Mrs Wheatcroft was very upset by the death of Aidan Merritt. She’s a bit nervous about being on her own, I think. In fact, she seems to be developing irrational fears about someone coming to her house to attack her.’
‘Violence like that can be very worrying to old people. They feel vulnerable, and they don’t really know where the danger might come from.’
‘Yes, you’re right. But in my view she was a little too upset. It wasn’t just a general fear. I’m sure Merritt meant something to her personally.’
That morning, Superintendent Branagh sat Cooper down in her office. DI Hitchens was already there, leaning against the window. His jaw was set in a stubborn line, like a man who’d decided on a course of action and was determined to go through with it.
‘DS Cooper, how is your team settling down?’ said Branagh.
To Cooper, it sounded very much like preparatory small talk. His team had been settling down for months already.
‘Very well, ma’am. Thank you.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it. We’re in for rough times, you know.’
‘We’ll survive, ma’am,’ said Cooper. ‘We’ll survive.’
Branagh nodded, but he had the impression she hadn’t really been listening to the answer.
‘I hate having to bring in outside help,’ she said. ‘I would prefer to feel that the division can do the job with its own resources. As you know, there’s only one thing I detest more. And that’s leaks to the press.’
‘Yes, I’m aware of that.’
‘But we had no choice in this case. The Major Crime Unit have taken responsibility for the Merritt murder inquiry.’
She put an unusual amount of emphasis on the last few words. Cooper glanced at Hitchens, who raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement of some unspoken message.
The superintendent frowned, noticing the bruise on Cooper’s temple.
‘Did something happen to you last night?’
Cooper automatically touched the sore place. ‘No, it’s nothing.’
‘Not falling out with your fiancée over the wedding plans, are you?’
Cooper tried to laugh politely, but
Branagh wasn’t fooled.
‘Oh well. None of my business, perhaps?’
‘Thank you for asking, though,’ said Cooper.
‘No problem. The thing is, DS Cooper, we want you to understand that the presence of officers from the Major Crime Unit doesn’t preclude us from taking appropriate action for ourselves when we think it’s necessary. For example, if new information should come to light in our ongoing inquiries into the disappearance of David and Patricia Pearson.’
‘Ah,’ said Cooper, a light beginning to dawn.
‘Which,’ continued Branagh, ‘I believe you’ve been working on.’
‘I have, ma’am.’
‘Well, I would be very happy to hear we’d made some progress in our part of this operation. A suspect or two brought in for interview, perhaps. That would be good news, wouldn’t it? The sort of thing that would reflect well on E Division’s capability. Do we understand each other?’
‘Perfectly,’ said Cooper.
He was sitting up straighter in his chair, feeling the adrenalin already surging through his veins at the prospect of action. Those bruises didn’t hurt at all, now he thought about it.
Cooper stood up to leave the office. Branagh held him back by fixing him with her steady, piercing gaze.
‘DS Cooper,’ she said.
‘Yes, ma’am?’
‘Remember what I told you. Any problems or concerns you have, feed them back to me via your DI here. You have our full backing.’
‘I haven’t forgotten,’ said Cooper.
‘In that case,’ she said, ‘I’ll take it you don’t have any problems.’
Cooper strode back into the CID room. Everyone looked up as he entered, as if sensing the new mood in the air already.
‘Luke,’ he said.
‘Yes, boss?’
‘Ian Gullick is running a greengrocer’s business, you said.’
‘He has a stall on the market in town twice a week,’ said Irvine. ‘The rest of the week he’s probably setting up pitches on other markets around the county. Chesterfield, Buxton, I don’t know where. But Edendale is his home ground.’
‘And what day is it today?’ said Cooper.
‘Thursday. Why?’
‘Because it’s market day.’
‘Are we going shopping?’ asked Villiers.
‘No,’ said Cooper. ‘We’re going to make some arrests.’
21
Markets always seemed to be the coldest, windiest spots. He supposed it was in the nature of the layout – an open space with streets funnelling into it from every direction. In winter, stallholders often shivered in heavy overcoats and fur hats, as if they were trading on a street market in Moscow.
Dead And Buried (Cooper and Fry) Page 21