One last breath bcadf-5

by Stephen Booth

  ‘Frightened?’

  Dawn Cottrill looked at her. Fry realized that the woman hadn’t really been focusing on her until now. Her gaze had been fixed somewhere over Fry’s head, at the trellising on the wall of the house.

  ‘I imagine you’ve been inside a prison,’ she said. Tn your job.’

  Fry felt suitably put down. Mrs Cottrill’s tone of voice suggested that her job made her almost as bad as the prison inmates.

  ‘Yes, I have,’ she said. ‘It isn’t pleasant for visitors. Especially for children. But, as you say, Simon and Andrea were teenagers by then. They were old enough to know what was going on.’

  Mrs Cottrill considered for a moment. She looked at Gavin Murfin, who had sensibly chosen to remain silent, taking notes. He took a drink of the fruit juice, which Fry hadn’t tasted. She saw him look around the table, as if hoping for some home-made cake to go with it.

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  ‘Rebecca once said that Mansell had started to be rather strange when they visited him.’

  ‘Strange in what way, Mrs Cottrill?’ said Fry.

  ‘He used to grab at the kids, wanted to hold on to them too tightly, tugged at their hair even. Well, Simon in particular. He was always especially fond of Simon, and I suggested to Rebecca that it was just the frustration of not being able to hold his own children, you know, that made him a bit rough. The lack of physical contact. Anyway, the children didn’t like it, and they were frightened.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I said they were teenagers, but I recall now that Andrea must have been about twelve at the time. She’s nearly three years younger than Simon. You can’t imagine what might be going through a child’s mind at that age.’

  ‘Would you have said Mansell Quinn was a violent man generally?’

  ‘Actually, no I wouldn’t. No one was more surprised than I was when he committed that dreadful act. I didn’t know Mrs Proctor, so I can’t say what their relationship had been to have provoked that kind of outburst from him.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘This? I can’t explain it. I have no explanation for it at all.’

  Fry detected a slight break in the woman’s voice. She might not have much longer before the interview began to slip away from her.

  ‘It’s Simon I’m mostly worried about now,’ said Mrs Cottrill.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I had Rebecca and both the children to stay in my house for a while after it happened. I mean, the first time. They were dreadfully shocked and upset, of course. We all were. But Simon went completely in on himself. Rebecca took him to see a counsellor at one stage, when he was having problems at school. I don’t know what this will do to him now.’

  ‘We will need to talk to him, I’m afraid,’ said Fry.

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  ‘I suppose so. But you’ll get more out of Andrea. She spoke with her mother on the phone shortly before it happened. She might be able to give you an idea of what Rebecca was thinking in the last hour or so of her life.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ said Fry.

  ‘You know, I’ve thought about Mansell Quinn quite a bit over the years,’ said Dawn. ‘We have to make an attempt to understand what goes on in the mind of someone like that especially if we’ve become their target. We always want to know “why”, don’t we?’

  ‘Sometimes you can ask “why” for as long as you like,’ said Fry, ‘but there’s never going to be an answer.’

  She pushed herself out of the settee and left her drink sitting on the table on the warm veranda.

  At Wingate Lees caravan park, Diane Fry and Gavin Murfin found that the Proctors lived in a large house that stood a little way back from the site itself, sheltered by a line of dark conifers. Leylandii, in fact. They had grown fast, and would soon be so big that they’d block off the light from the windows of the house.

  Thanks to the Victim’s Charter, a probation officer should have contacted the Proctors to let them know when Mansell Quinn was being moved to an open prison, and when he came due for release. Maybe Raymond Proctor had even been allowed to give his views to the parole board when Quinn’s review came up. At least it ought to mean that their news wouldn’t come as too much of a shock.

  The man who answered the door looked suspicious, though - even more suspicious than most citizens would on finding Diane Fry and Gavin Murfin standing on their doorstep. He was reluctant to open his door fully and peered at them in irritation.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir, we’re not more of those flamin’ Jehovah’s Witnesses,’ said Murfin cheerfully.

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  Instead of seeming relieved, the man looked at him even more sourly.

  ‘I am,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry? You’re what?’

  ‘A Jehovah’s Witness.’

  ‘Oh.’

  For once, Murfin was lost for words. Fry grimaced and tried to edge him aside.

  ‘Mr Proctor? We’re police - Detective Sergeant Fry and Detective Constable Murfin.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘You are Mr Raymond Proctor?’

  ‘Of course I am. What do you want? Is it one of my guests?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The guests. My customers. The buggers staying in my caravans. There’s that bunch from Glasgow in one of the cabins. Two youths, and two girls with them - that’s always a recipe for trouble. I wouldn’t have let them rent a cabin if I’d realized how old they were.’

  ‘It isn’t about any of your customers,’ said Fry. ‘It’s about an old friend of yours: Mansell Quinn. Can we come in?’

  Proctor’s face changed, but Fry wasn’t sure if he was surprised or not.

  ‘I suppose so,’ he said.

  They followed him down a passage into an extension at the side of the house, where a room had been equipped as an office, with filing cabinets, a phone and a wooden desk on which stood a PC with a blank screen. Three oak cupboards were lined up against the back wall, and dozens of keys hung on orderly rows of hooks, neatly tagged and labelled. Despite its business use, the place had a general air of untidiness, making the neatness of the keys look out of place.

  ‘Are you really a Jehovah’s Witness?’ said Murfin as he passed Proctor in the doorway.

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  ‘Am I buggery. I said that so you’d go away.’

  ‘It didn’t work.’

  ‘More’s the pity.’

  ‘Mr Proctor, are you aware that Mansell Quinn is out of prison?’

  ‘No. Is he? Well, I suppose it had to be around this time. I haven’t been keeping track exactly.’

  ‘Did you know when he was moved to an open prison?’

  ‘No. Why should I?’

  ‘You have the right to information like that under the Victim’s Charter. A probation officer should have contacted you to let you know what your rights arc.’

  ‘Oh, 1 recollect that someone came to see me a couple of months after Quinn was sent down. Perhaps that was a probation officer. He asked if I wanted to know about Quinn’s progress. He mentioned parole boards, and all that stuff. But why would I want to know? I’d rather forget about him.’

  ‘A lot of people would have wanted to know when he was due for release. It can come as a shock to see someone walking down the street when you thought they were safely inside. That’s the whole purpose of the Victim’s Charter.’

  Proctor shrugged. ‘I didn’t want to know. I’m married again now, got a new family. What happened is all in the past, as far as I’m concerned. And Quinn wouldn’t come back here, anyway. Would he?’

  ‘Actually, we think there may be a threat to your safety, sir,’ said Fry.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mansell Quinn was released from prison on Monday morning, but has since gone missing. We have reason to believe he may be in this area.’

  ‘No kidding?’

  ‘Also, we think he might already have attacked one person. We don’t know what his intentions are, but we’re very concerned.’

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‘Attacked one person? Who?’

  ‘Well, it’ll soon be in the news. His former wife was murdered last night.’

  Proctor stared at her, almost glassy-eyed. ‘Rebecca? So what has that to do with me? Why are you here instead of out there looking for Quinn?’

  ‘If he’s planning more violent attacks, it’s possible he might have you in mind as a potential victim, sir.’

  ‘What a load of rubbish,’ said Proctor. ‘Somebody’s overreacting here, aren’t they? What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Fry. Detective Sergeant Fry.’

  ‘Is this all your idea?’

  Fry began to get rankled. He seemed to be suggesting she was some kind of neurotic female, worrying about nothing.

  ‘No, sir. There’s concern at senior level. We’ve come to advise you ‘

  ‘I mean, Mansell Quinn … well, it was all over and done with fourteen years ago. Why should Quinn care about me? I never did anything wrong. In fact, it was me that was done wrong to. If Quinn comes here, it’ll be to apologize.’

  Fry took a deep breath. ‘We’d advise you to take whatever precautions you can, Mr Proctor. Keep your doors and windows locked, don’t open the door to anyone you can’t identify, make sure someone knows where you are at all times, and keep in touch.’

  ‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary.’

  ‘We hope not, sir. But it’s better to be safe than sorry. We can give you a number to phone if you’re worried. Of course, it would be even better if you left the area for a while. Perhaps you could take your family on holiday or stay with friends?’

  ‘You are kidding, aren’t you?’ said Proctor. ‘Have you seen this place? Who do you think runs it? This is our busiest time of the year. If I’m away from the site for a couple of hours, the whole thing starts to grind to a halt.’

  120

  ‘?’

  sirr

  Proctor simply laughed in her face. ‘Are you thinking in terms of razor wire and searchlights? You think I should get a dog? Perhaps a couple of Rottweilers to patrol the garden? Or a few man-traps and CCTV cameras?’ He stared out of the window, and for the first time Fry thought she saw a trace of uncertainty in the man’s eyes. ‘None of them would mean anything to Quinn.’

  ‘We can’t offer protection, I’m afraid, sir,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t expect it. Believe me, I don’t. What, some goon of a bobby hanging around my gate? It wouldn’t achieve anything, except to scare my customers off.’

  ‘We can ask patrols to come by at regular intervals.’

  ‘Oh, if you like. Now, have you finished?’

  Proctor assumed an expression of indifference. It was the sort of expression worn by teenagers who wanted to look cool. Raymond Proctor had obviously practised it to perfection over the years, and had even added a little curl of the lip that hinted at contempt. Fry expected him to shrug and say: ‘Yeah. Whatever.’

  Well, what about your family? They could go away somewhere.’

  ‘Connie and her kids? Chance would be a fine thing.’

  ‘Just until the situation is resolved.’

  ‘Until you’ve caught Mansell Quinn, you mean? Well, I’m not holding my breath.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant, but I don’t think it’s very likely that you’ll catch him. I know your lot - you couldn’t catch a cold in winter. In my opinion, if Quinn’s gone walkabout, he won’t be caught until he wants to be.’

  Fry hesitated, still concerned that Raymond Proctor hadn’t grasped the seriousness of the situation, or the immediacy of the danger he was in.

  ‘What sort of security arrangements do you have here,

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  Then she lost patience. Before she turned to leave, Fry leaned forward towards Proctor, pointing a finger in his face.

  ‘Just remember this,’ she said. ‘Every day and every night, somebody could be coming here to kill you.’

  Will Thorpe lit another cigarette. He had moved back from the hollow into the trees, where he could look across the rooftops of the houses on the southern edge of Castleton.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any fags on you?’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  Mansell Quinn wouldn’t sit down or relax. He stood among the trees, staring down into the gardens of the houses, running his eyes across the back windows, watching anyone who came in view.

  ‘You must have smoked inside,’ said Thorpe.

  Quinn didn’t answer.

  ‘Suit yourself, then.’

  ‘My house is just up the road from here,’ said Quinn.

  Tindale Road? It was your house.’

  Quinn turned quickly and covered the few feet between them in a second. Thorpe flinched and doubled over in a spasm of coughing. But Quinn simply stood over him. He looked up at the keep of the castle, where it hung over the sheer side of Cavedale.

  ‘See those bits sticking out of the wall of the tower?’ he said.

  Thorpe wheezed and tried to control his breathing. He wiped some saliva from his mouth.

  ‘What are you on about, Mansell?’

  ‘Can you see them?’

  ‘Yeah, all right. I can.’

  ‘They called those oubliettes,’ said Quinn. ‘It’s where they used to tip their shit out of the castle. Those folk down there in the dale would have been wading through it.’

  ‘Oh, very nice.’

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  ‘But even then, they knew that you have to get rid of your shit. You can’t have it fouling up your own home. So you offload it on to someone else. Isn’t that right, Will?’

  Thorpe coughed again. ‘Get on with it, then, Mansell.’

  ‘Just one more thing, and then I’ll leave you alone.’

  Quinn continued to stare at the castle, watching the distant figures moving about on the walls. Two young girls ran up the spiral stairs into the keep and appeared in an arched window further up, laughing. Their voices reached across the dale.

  With the back of his hand, Quinn wiped away the sweat and die flics that had settled on him as he stood among the trees. But his voice was cold, like a sudden draught of air from the caves below the limestone dale.

  ‘I want the other addresses,’ he said.

  ‘Mansell, are you sure -?’

  Quinn turned then and looked down at Thorpe. ‘Have you got them or not? Did Rebecca give them to you?’

  ‘Yes, but … I’m not sure it’s right.’

  ‘What?’

  Thorpe squinted up at him. ‘He has a new life now, Mansell. Why rake it all up again after so long?’

  Quinn lashed out almost blindly. He ripped a branch from the nearest sycamore, snapped it in his hands and shredded the bark into strips, exposing the white flesh underneath. The wood tore under his fingers with a sound like a faint scream.

  ‘Everyone thinks they can just get on with their lives as if nothing happened, don’t they?’ he said. ‘They’re about to find out how wrong they are.’

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  12

  The red stains of ferrous oxide showed through white limestone and a coating of green algae, and water ran continuously down the face of the multi-coloured rock. The stream bed where it left Peak Cavern was almost dry at this time of the year, but the flow reappeared down the gorge, spurting from a gash at the foot of the cliff.

  Ben Cooper and his nieces watched the jackdaws chattering continuously overhead.

  ‘Do the birds nest on the cliff ledges?’ asked Amy, who was taking an interest in wildlife at the moment.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ said Cooper, looking anxiously for ducklings planning to take a suicidal dive.

  Inside the cavern entrance, they found themselves on a series of wide terraces cut out of the rock. Families of rope makers had set up their workshops here centuries ago, building their houses into the floor and knocking out tiny doors and windows, so that the rope walks they worked on were also the roofs of their homes. The rock walls were stained black from the
soot of their fires.

  On the top terrace, a small crowd was watching a guide stretch hemp twine from winders to pulley-poles and twist it into rope using a sledge and a jack with rotating hooks.

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  Amy and Josie ran down the dirt slope to a reconstruction of a ropemaker’s house. The roof was hinged up, so that visitors could look down into the living space, otherwise it would have been too dark to see anything. Inside, there was just enough room for a fireplace, a couple of chairs and some beds covered in straw, built into the wall like shelves. Suddenly, the girls laughed nervously.

  ‘Who’s her

  ‘A ropemaker, I suppose,’ said Cooper.

  A stuffed figure was propped in one of the chairs near the fireplace. He was dressed in black and had a pale, shapeless face, with crudely defined eyes that stared blankly into a dim corner.

  ‘He’s a bit scary,’ said Amy.

  ‘It’s only like a Guy Fawkes.’

  ‘They should burn him, then.’

  Cooper blinked as he watched Amy go back to join the crowd at the demonstration. Josie stayed with him, staring into the house. She was the more thoughtful of the two, and he guessed she was trying to imagine what life would have been like for the ropemakers’ families. Or at least, he hoped she was. For all he knew, her mind might be absorbed in some fantasy of flames and immolation, too. He didn’t really understand children.

  He sniffed, inhaling the scent of the hemp as it moved through the guide’s hands. It smelled like wet horses’ tails.

  It occurred to Cooper that earlier visitors would have been able to smell this place long before they reached it. The rope makers had kept animals in here - pack horses, cattle, goats, and even pigs for their tallow. The effluent must have gone into the stream flowing out of the cave, along with human waste. It would have been quite a culture shock for the genteel visitors of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.