05.One Last Breath

by Stephen Booth

  For a start, he couldn’t recall seeing the prints of ancient photographs on the wall, showing that the Cheshire Cheese had once been a busy coaching inn. But in the days of horse-drawn coaches the sign had just read Cheshire Cheese’. So ‘Ye Olde’ must have been a twentieth-century addition.

  Over there, at the back of the room, was where he’d often sat with Ray Proctor and Will Thorpe. They’d been sitting there on that day nearly fourteen years ago, though the table and chairs had surely been replaced by now. Had there been four places at the table then? Quinn was amazed how hazy his memory was of that time. The events ought to be imprinted on his mind, but even now there were gaps in his recollection that he couldn’t fill. Some of it had come back to him almost randomly in the days and weeks following his arrest, with a sudden, sharp detail hacked out of his memory by a question from the police or a snatch of music in the next room. But not everything. A few of the triggers he needed were still missing, and he didn’t know where to find them.

  Quinn eyed the barman to see if he was watching and took a drink of his tonic water, which tasted sharp and bitter, like acid. After a while, he regained his composure and noticed the smells of food drifting from the kitchen. He’d eaten nothing since breakfast at the prison that morning, before his eight thirty release. He found a menu on the table, and ordered scampi and chips.

  ‘Don’t panic,’ said the barman, when he brought the food. ‘But do you want tartare sauce?’

  As closing time approached at eleven o’clock, Quinn finished his drink and went to his room. He paused in the passage to listen to the sound of staff chatting and clattering their cooking equipment in the kitchen, wondering if they were talking about him. On the landing, he walked under the lens of a security camera that pointed towards his room. He would pass it again tomorrow on the way out.

  He’d started thinking about cameras in Edendale, when he noticed the CCTV system covering the shopping area. He had watched the cameras swivelling on their tall poles, and had pictured the operators in a room somewhere – a bit like the control room at Gartree, where they’d watched every move he made when he was out of his cell. But in Edendale they were watching everyone. And nobody seemed to mind.

  Quinn counted the number of licence conditions he’d already broken. He hadn’t kept his appointment at the probation office, he wasn’t living where he was supposed to, and he hadn’t told his probation officer where he was going. There were people he wasn’t supposed to get in contact with, too. But what was the saying about a sheep and a lamb?

  All the money he had was a bit of cash he’d earned working on the farm unit and his discharge grant. The grant was equivalent to a week’s benefit, and was supposed to cover him until he received Income Support or Jobseeker’s Allowance. At least he didn’t have to worry about gate arrest, as so many prisoners did when they were due for release. The police had shown no interest in him.

  His room at the Cheshire Cheese was almost filled by a double bed. A shower cubicle stood in one corner, and a couple of steps led down to an alcove containing a toilet and washbasin. A small TV screen perched high up on a bracket near the ceiling. Quinn paced the room for a while. It was dark outside by now, so he drew the curtains. On the window ledge he found a small teddy bear sitting in a spindle chair with a black-and-white cat on its knee.

  He played with a touch lamp on the bedside table, then he lay on the bed and pressed buttons on the TV remote. A game show appeared and he left it on, not listening to the voices but watching the faces of the contestants. They seemed to be family groups – mother, father, a couple of teenage kids. They smiled and laughed at the compere’s jokes. But Quinn knew there would be arguments in the car on the way home. Tears, accusations, the old resentments and insults dragged out and rehearsed all over again.

  Soon, he began to feel tired. Anger tended to drain all the energy from him. He peeled off his charity-shop clothes and took a shower, knowing it might be the last he’d have for a while. The hot water felt good on his skin.

  When Quinn got into bed, he could still taste the bitterness of the tonic water in his mouth, and the spiciness of the tartare sauce. The two flavours mingled in his thoughts as he drifted into sleep. Spice and bitterness, bitterness and spice. The taste of blood and kisses.

  7

  Tuesday, 13 July

  No matter how many dead bodies he’d seen, Ben Cooper would never forget the first. He’d been thirteen years old at the time, a pubescent youth in baggy jeans. Until then, he’d been protected from most of the unpleasantness of the world. He was oblivious to the grubby human realities that were waiting to jostle him with their sharp elbows and breathe their stale breath into his face. He’d thought he was immortal then. He’d thought that everyone around him would live forever, too. But most of the things he’d believed were wrong.

  It was shortly before Christmas, and the pavements in Edendale had been cold and wet. Ben and his mother had been shopping for last-minute presents and the vast amount of food involved in celebrating a family Christmas at Bridge End Farm. The young Ben had been tired and bad tempered, and he was sulking about being dragged round the shops. It was already dark by late afternoon and illuminated Santas hung from the lamp posts, while plastic trees twinkled in every shop window.

  ‘Mum, can we go home yet?’ he’d been saying, without any hope.

  And then they had turned the corner of Bargate and walked into a small crowd of people on the pavement between the Unicorn pub and Marks and Spencers. They were arguing with a policeman and each other as they waited for an ambulance to arrive.

  In the middle of the crowd, a man had been lying on the floor, covered with a sheet that someone had brought out from the pub. Only the soles of his boots were showing, tilted at an unnatural angle. The wet pavement around him had reflected the Christmas lights, breaking up their colours into fragments of rainbow, as if the man had been lying in the middle of an oil slick.

  That was all Ben could take in before his mother hurried him away. There had been no blood to see, no injuries, no staring eyes or offensive bodily fluids. It had been the boots and the angle of them, impossible in life, which had told him the man was dead.

  And now, in Rebecca Lowe’s home, it was the small things again that conveyed the story of violent death. Not the blood or the stains on the kitchen floor, or even the distinctive smell. It was the way her head had tipped too far back and lay at an angle that would make it difficult for her to breathe if she were alive. It was the position of her right hand, still curled in a spasm as it clutched at the floor, the fingers digging so hard into the tiles that her nails had splintered and broken, and the pale varnish lay around them in flakes of glittering dust. And it was the single blue sandal, turned the wrong way up, lying on the floor a few inches from the victim’s foot. Her toes were pointing towards it, as if she had been reaching to retrieve her sandal in her last moments, but had failed.

  Some of the team had been allowed into the house, entering via the integral garage into a passage where they could access the lounge and dining room, and reach the stairs. Cooper had been waiting in the garage for ten minutes with other officers until the door had been opened, and there hadn’t been enough oxygen in there for them to share. He’d have given anything for a bit of fresh air right now.

  Inside the house, Cooper paused in the hallway and looked into the lounge. Fitted carpet lapped from wall to wall, and from doorway to doorway, flowing out into the hall in an unbroken sea of Wilton. Thick curtains covered the windows – in fact, not just the windows, but the whole wall from floor to ceiling, a great blanket of brown velvet designed to shut off the room from the outside, as if the double glazing wasn’t enough to do the job on its own.

  He imagined that everything in the house had been sealed: the fireplace would have no chimney, the doors would be insulated, and no doubt the roof space was layered with fibreglass. Parson’s Croft felt like a warm cocoon.

  To Cooper, it seemed unnatural to think about hiding away
from the outside world to such an extent. If you were going to cut yourself off from the sun and fresh air like this, you might as well be in prison. And in any case, when a killer had come looking for Rebecca Lowe, her house had given her no protection at all.

  An hour earlier, Cooper had found Diane Fry at the rendezvous point on the outer cordon, outside the front gate of Parson’s Croft.

  ‘Ah, Ben,’ she’d said. ‘How nice to see you. Well, this is what is technically known as a crime scene. There’s usually at least one involved in a major enquiry, such as the murder case we’re currently investigating.’

  ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

  ‘I tried to call you this morning. Your phone was off.’

  ‘This morning? I was in a cave,’ protested Cooper.

  ‘Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?’

  Cooper looked at the house. All the windows on the ground floor were lit, and the front door stood open. A safe pathway had been marked out by the scenes of crime officers, who he could see moving around inside the house in their white, hooded scene suits.

  ‘The body is in the kitchen, at the back of the house,’ said Fry.

  ‘Do we have an ID?’

  Fry checked her notebook. ‘The victim’s name is Rebecca Lowe, aged forty-nine. She lived alone. Her assailant seems to have gained access to the house via the back door, which leads into the utility room, next to the kitchen.’

  ‘An intruder? Was it a burglary gone wrong?’

  ‘We can’t tell at the moment. There’s no sign of a forced entry. The back door was unlocked when the victim’s sister arrived at the house.’

  ‘Who’s SIO?’

  ‘Mr Kessen, of course.’

  Cooper could see Detective Chief Inspector Oliver Kessen sitting in the back of the scenes of crime van, studying a video. Some senior investigating officers would want a clean sweep at this stage. In fact, one or two SIOs would pack up the entire room where the victim had died and send it back to the lab. They had a nagging fear that something would be missed at the crime scene. But DCI Kessen was said to be more focused. By watching the initial video of the scene, he’d be hoping to build up an early hypothesis, so that the number of forensic tests could be limited.

  They stood aside to let a group of officers go past, including a SOCO in a scene suit carrying an aluminium step ladder.

  ‘What’s the ladder for?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘To reach the kitchen ceiling.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The ceiling,’ said Fry. ‘Blood splatter on the ceiling. Wake up, Ben.’

  ‘Right.’

  A flutter of tape by the open front door marked the inner cordon preserving the scene itself. Contamination was the big fear, so everyone was being kept at arm’s length for now, including surplus detectives.

  ‘Blood splatter,’ said Cooper. ‘So what are we looking at as a weapon?’

  ‘Kitchen knife, probably.’

  ‘They’re much too handy.’

  ‘Apparently, Mrs Lowe had an entire block full of them,’ said Fry. ‘But now they’re scattered all over her kitchen floor.’

  Cooper watched the Crime Scene Manager enter the van to talk to Mr Kessen. As far as the forensic team were concerned, contamination was something that occurred only after the scene had been preserved. Before that, anything else that went on should have been ‘normal procedures’ – the desperate attempts to save an injured person’s life, the anxious search for the body of another victim or for a violent assailant who might still be on the premises. Normal procedures.

  He turned to Fry again.

  ‘When did we get the call-out?’

  ‘Eleven thirty-eight.’

  ‘I was long since out of Peak Cavern by then. You should have got through to me.’

  ‘No, it was earlier that I tried to phone you.’

  ‘Earlier? But –’

  ‘Not now, Ben.’

  And then she was away, striding across the edge of the garden towards a bustle of activity around the crime scene van. Cooper watched her, puzzled. But then, he was always puzzled by Diane Fry.

  DC Gavin Murfin appeared at Cooper’s elbow. A faint aroma of warm pastry drifted from Murfin’s clothes, and Cooper imagined the pockets of his coat stuffed with pies. Or perhaps the smell was simply impregnated into the fabric by now. No wonder Murfin was hungry all the time. There was no scent better guaranteed to make the saliva run.

  Murfin nudged Cooper and nodded his head at Fry as she reached the van and was immediately in conference with some of the senior officers.

  ‘Hey, Ben, is it true what they’re saying – her sister’s moved in with her?’

  ‘Who’s saying that, Gavin?’

  Murfin shrugged. ‘Everybody. You know what it’s like.’

  ‘I don’t understand how anyone can possibly know that. Diane doesn’t talk about her private life at all.’

  ‘Except to you, maybe,’ said Murfin, raising an eyebrow. ‘Or so they say.’

  Cooper shuffled uneasily but said nothing.

  ‘In fact, I heard that the sister turning up was no coincidence,’ said Murfin. ‘They say you had a bit of a hand in it – arranged the meeting and everything, behind Miss’s back. Can’t be true, can it?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. It’s a bit of a long story, though. And a bit, well … complicated.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you any more, Gavin. It’s personal. For Diane, I mean.’

  ‘No, no. Do spare me the sordid details. But what I don’t understand, Ben, is why you got involved in the first place. I mean, it’s a bit like poking a bad-tempered grizzly bear with a sharp stick, if you ask me.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Cooper. ‘It seemed the right thing to do at the time.’

  ‘Famous last words, mate. You’ll be uttering them as they cart your body away to the mortuary.’

  ‘It’s too late now, anyway.’

  ‘Mmm? If it were me, I’d be making sure I got a transfer damn quick, before Miss decides how she’s going to get her revenge. Preferably somewhere far away. I believe the Shetland Islands can be nice. They even get a bit of daylight at this time of year.’

  Cooper sighed. Why had he got involved? It was the question he’d been asking himself for weeks. But if he could go back and have the time again, would he do things differently? He supposed he ought to have turned Angie Fry away the night she turned up on his doorstep. But Diane had wanted to find her sister, hadn’t she? How could he have sent Angie away, knowing that? Somewhere along the route he’d followed, there might have been a moment when he could have found a better, more sensible thing to do. But there was no guarantee he’d have taken the chance just because it was the sensible thing.

  ‘Anyway, what do you reckon about this job?’ said Murfin, indicating Parson’s Croft with a more vigorous nod of his head. ‘Any overtime in it for us? Only, my credit-card bill is up to its limit this month. I’ll be paying off that holiday in Turkey for the next ten years.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Cooper. ‘We’ll have to wait and see what they come up with from the video recording.’

  ‘No doubt Miss will have her own ideas.’

  ‘She’s right a lot of the time,’ said Cooper.

  Murfin looked at him suspiciously.

  ‘Ben, you don’t actually like her, do you?’

  ‘Well … no.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘I knew it! What on earth do you find to like about her?’

  ‘Gavin, I haven’t said that I do.’

  ‘I can tell when somebody is avoiding the question, you know. I’ve watched Jeremy Paxman in action. So, answer the question, Minister. What do you like about her?’

  ‘Look, I just think Diane Fry is a bit misunderstood by most people around here.’

  ‘Oh, my God.’ Murfin raised his eyes to the sky in horror. ‘You’re not going to make her into one of your c
auses? You’re going to start a “Let’s All Love DS Fry” campaign, aren’t you?’

  ‘Give over, Gavin.’

  ‘Well, she’s not my cup of poison. And I know about poisons. You’ve met my wife, have you?’

  Diane Fry had seen DI Hitchens arriving at the scene. He had to park his car outside in the lane because the driveway was already full of vehicles. As Hitchens headed towards the crime scene van, he looked worried. But he noticed Fry and signalled her over. Then Mr Kessen climbed stiffly out of the van.

  ‘What is it, Paul?’

  ‘I think we have a suspect, sir,’ said Hitchens.

  ‘Already? How come?’

  Fry watched the DI run a hand across his face. Tonight he was looking tired, even before the enquiry had got properly under way.

  ‘You know Mansell Quinn is out,’ said Hitchens. ‘He was serving a life sentence for a murder in Castleton back in 1990, but he reached his automatic release date and left Sudbury Prison this morning.’

  ‘Yes. So?’ said Kessen.

  ‘He hasn’t turned up at his accommodation, and he missed an appointment with his local probation officer this morning.’

  ‘So he’s broken his licence,’ said Kessen. ‘It’s a stupid thing to do, but so what? A domestic killing fourteen years ago doesn’t put him in the frame for anything that’s going off in a fifty-mile radius.’

  ‘No. That’s not it, exactly.’

  ‘You’d better explain.’

  Hitchens took a deep breath and looked at the house across the garden. The helicopter support unit were just beginning a sweep to the north, their thirty-million candlepower searchlight probing the open ground behind Aston. It wouldn’t achieve much, except to annoy the residents.

  ‘The victim here – Rebecca Lowe,’ said Hitchens. ‘She’s the former Rebecca Quinn. At the time of the Proctor killing in 1990, she was married to Mansell Quinn.’