‘How on earth have you found out when the binmen come?’
‘They left a note.’
Cooper stood on the tiny landing, watching Fry move around the bedroom. He felt a slight draught, and looked up.
‘There’s a trap door over the landing,’ he said. ‘There must be a loft.’
‘Can you reach it with this chair?’
Cooper managed to get the trap door open by standing on the chair. Fry handed him a small torch, and he was able to heave himself up on his elbows enough to see that the loft was tiny – barely more than a crawl space beneath the rafters, with a layer of ancient insulation nibbled into holes by burrowing mice. He shone the torch into all the corners. Nothing.
He climbed down and took the chair back into the bedroom. Fry had just pulled out a picture that had been stored under the bed. It was wrapped in an old sheet and covered in dust.
‘There’s no baby in this house anyway,’ she said.
‘Thank God for that. Now all we need to do is find out who she left it with.’
‘Yeah.’
Cooper watched her unwrap the picture she’d found.
‘It’s a print of Chatsworth House,’ he said, recognizing the distant view over parkland to a vast, white Palladian facade. It was the home of the Duke of Devonshire and one of the area’s biggest tourist attractions.
‘Very picturesque. But she obviously didn’t like it.’
Cooper took it and turned it over. ‘It was bought at the souvenir shop at Chatsworth itself,’ he said.
‘Not recently, though, by the looks of it.’
‘No, but I wonder if she bought it herself, or whether it was a gift. Chatsworth is only a few miles away. She might have been there for a day out.’
‘Ah. With the anonymous boyfriend, you mean.’
‘It’s the sort of thing you might buy someone as a gift, as a memento of a day together.’
‘Is it?’
‘If you were that way inclined.’
‘How much would it cost, do you think?’
‘A print this size? It could have been thirty or forty pounds, I suppose.’
‘We can soon check.’
‘Interesting,’ said Cooper. ‘Apart from the usual household items, that print must be one of her most valuable possessions.’
The wardrobe had mostly trousers and jeans, sweaters and long skirts. A pair of child’s sandals was in the bottom, but they surely wouldn’t have fit Marie’s baby for a couple of years yet. A black evening dress was still on a hanger from the dry cleaners.
‘Bathroom?’ said Cooper.
The bathroom cabinet contained toothbrush and toothpaste, floss, mouthwash, a bottle of migraine tablets and a foil sheet of contraceptive pills, with half the blisters still full.
‘The pills are an old prescription,’ said Fry. ‘Well past their use-by date.’
‘More than nine months past?’
‘Yes, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s her own baby she was looking after.’
‘Might she have wanted to keep it secret?’
‘Why? She was an adult – and it’s not a sin any more. You don’t get put away in a lunatic asylum for being an unmarried mother these days. Not even in Edendale. They tell me you even stopped burning witches last week.’
‘Maybe there was one particular person she didn’t want to know about the baby.’
‘One particular person? Who?’
‘The boyfriend,’ said Cooper.
‘Him again. Mr Nobody. We know nothing about him at all.’
Cooper placed a secondhand pair of baby shoes on the table. ‘On the contrary,’ he said. ‘I think I’m starting to get a feeling for him.’
‘You were always one for empathy. You can check with her GP, when we leave here. And the hospital and Social Services. We need any clues they can give us about where to look for the baby.’
Fry was staring at the bookshelves. She touched the spines of the books gingerly, as if they were some inexplicable religious icons. Cooper joined her and examined the mixture of modern novels, celebrity biographies, cookery books, diet books and self-improvement programmes.
‘She was a great reader, by the looks of it,’ he said.
‘Too much imagination, I suppose. It never does anybody any good.’
Cooper picked up a copy of a Danielle Steel novel that was lying face-up on the shelf. It had a well-worn cover, and it looked as though it had been through more than one pair of hands. ‘Why not?’ he said.
‘Well, look at this stuff. Half of it is about other people’s miserable lives. Let’s face it, life turns out shitty for everybody in the end, no matter who you are. What’s the point of reading about how bad it is for somebody else?’
Cooper turned the book over in his hands and read the blurb on the back. ‘Maybe it helped her to feel she could connect to other human beings in some way.’
Fry curled a glance at him from the corner of her eye. ‘Oh, my God. Let’s have less connecting and more detecting, please, Ben.’
Cooper smiled. ‘Eden Valley Books,’ he said.
‘What?’
He held up an imitation leather bookmark that had been nestling between chapters 26 and 27 of Danielle Steel. ‘I’ve detected where Marie bought her books from.’
‘Is it here in town?’
‘Just off the market square. Never noticed it?’
‘If I had, I wouldn’t have to ask.’
‘The bloke who owns it is called Lawrence Daley. I’ve been in there a few times.’
‘Oh? Get your Barbara Cartland fix there, do you?’
‘He found me some old song books once. For the male voice choir, you know.’
‘Lovely.’
‘Also he had a couple of burglaries at the shop, not long after I transferred to CID. God knows why – there’s nothing in the place worth nicking. We thought it was probably some heroin-fuelled dork who’d been watching Antiques Roadshow or heard about antiquarian books being sold for big money at Sotheby’s, and thought he could lay his hands on some of the same stuff. I don’t suppose a set of old Agatha Christie paperbacks fetched him much to feed his habit with.’
‘And your point is?’
‘I know Lawrence Daley slightly. He’s a bit of a character, but he’s OK.’
‘Ben, I’m well aware that you know everybody round here.’
‘I was thinking – if Marie Tennent bought so many books, Lawrence might know something about her. He’s the sort who’d want to chat to his customers and find out a bit about them.’
Fry nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s worth a try. I can’t see that we’re going to turn up much else in here.’
‘When I’ve finished with Social Services and the hospital, I’ll call at the bookshop and have a word with Lawrence.’
‘I’ve got a meeting this afternoon. Let me know how you get on.’
They cleared up the books and put Marie’s junk mail back on the hall table.
‘What about this box?’ said Fry, pushing at the carton near the door with her foot.
‘More books.’
‘Have you had look at it?’
‘Not yet.’ Cooper pulled out a penknife and cut the tape. ‘I think they call this Chick Lit, don’t they?’ he said, opening the box to reveal books with bright pink and yellow covers, the sort of book no man would ever willingly be seen reading. ‘Looks like they’re from a book club.’
‘Is there a delivery date on the box?’ said Fry.
Cooper inspected the delivery company’s label. ‘Monday.’
‘The day she went walkabout.’
‘She signed for the delivery herself. But she never opened the box.’
‘No.’
‘If it were me,’ said Cooper, ‘I would have opened it straight away, to see what I’d got.’
‘But if she wasn’t intending to read them, why should she bother?’ said Fry.
‘Good point. But she must have been intending to read them when she ordered them.’
‘Right. So something happened between her placing the order for the books and getting the delivery. Something changed her view of things. Her books had suddenly become an irrelevance.’
Cooper flicked through the pages of one of the books and turned to the back cover. According to the blurb, it was a hilarious, sexy account of a thirty-something woman’s search for Mr Right and her disastrous encounters with a series of Mr Wrongs. The cover showed discarded underwear among a scatter of wedding confetti and a bride’s bouquet.
‘There’s always the possibility,’ said Cooper, ‘that they were all too relevant.’
When they’d finished, they locked Marie’s front door on the way out.
‘If only she’d made it a bit easier for us,’ said Fry. ‘If the binmen left a note, why couldn’t she?’
Cooper looked at the boarded-up windows of the other houses, at the high wall to the side of Marie’s garden, and finally at the dark expanse of stagnant water that shut off the end of the street like an icy wall.
‘A note?’ he said. ‘Who to?’
After they’d spoken to the staff at the estate agent’s, Fry called in and reported their failure to locate the missing baby. While she was using the radio, Cooper irritated her by standing outside the estate agent’s office to look in their display windows. It was on the corner, with one window looking on to Fargate that was full of photographs of houses, with their prices and details alongside. Fry could never understand what it was about these windows that seemed to distract so many people. Maybe it was the fascination of seeing the price of properties that other people lived in, of weighing up the unattainable and working out the mortgage that would be involved if they were ever to achieve their dream. It was another form of living out a fantasy, much like reading Danielle Steel novels.
She watched Cooper become absorbed in something towards the bottom corner of the display.
‘What are you looking at?’ she said, when she finished her call.
‘Mm? Oh, they’ve got some properties to rent, look.’
‘So? Why are you interested?’
‘I told you a while ago, didn’t I? I’m going to move out of Bridge End Farm. It’s just a matter of finding somewhere to live that I can afford.’
‘You’re really going to do it, then?’
‘Of course.’
‘I never thought you would, Ben.’
‘Why not?’
Fry shrugged. ‘You’re too much of the home boy. Too much of a man for having his family round him, all cosy and smug at night.’
‘You mean “snug”.’
‘Do I?’
Cooper bent to peer at the properties lower down, at the cheaper end of the display. It was funny how estate agents’ windows were designed so that rich people didn’t have to bother bending to look at suitable houses.
‘No, I didn’t think you would ever move out,’ said Fry. ‘Not until you had a wife of your own to settle down with and have kids. Then you’d be looking for one of those little executive semis over there. Something like that one –’ She pointed to the other side of the window. The houses displayed there were made of stone, but were newly built. The one she was indicating was a rectangular box with a garage door that seemed to dominate its frontage. It had a bare patch of soil at the front, and no doubt a barbecue patio at the back. The house to the left of it looked identical. And the one to the right did, too. And so, she was sure, would the one behind it, and the one across the road, and all the others that spread across the hillsides in the new residential developments south of the town. She’d seen those developments, and they had a comforting anonymity. They were a bit of the city dropped into the uneasy quirkiness of Edendale, like the advance paratroopers of an urban invasion.
‘It’s conveniently close to schools, shops and other amenities,’ she said. ‘And only a few minutes’ drive from the A6 for those wishing to commute to the cities of Manchester or Derby.’
‘And nobody knows the name of their next-door neighbour, I expect,’ said Cooper.
‘Maybe. Is that necessary in your world?’
‘I suppose it is.’
‘All right. So what’s special about this flat, then?’
‘Nothing special really. But it’s right here in town. It isn’t too big. And the rent’s reasonable.’
‘You haven’t got any money put aside to buy something, then?’
‘No way. It’s what I can afford on a police salary or nothing.’
Fry thought of her own flat in Grosvenor Avenue, in the land of student bedsits and laundrettes, Asian greengrocers and Irish theme pubs. ‘A cheap rent just means something really grotty that nobody else wants,’ she said.
Cooper sighed. ‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘The perfect place to live seems very hard to find.’
‘Impossible. Most people have the sense to give up trying.’
‘Yes, you’re right.’
Fry walked to the car. She’d wasted enough time humouring Ben Cooper. Her efforts to understand the members of her team were over for the day, as far as Cooper was concerned. But when she opened the driver’s door, he still hadn’t moved away from the estate agent’s window.
‘For heaven’s sake, are you coming?’
‘Diane?’ he said.
‘What now?’
‘If it’s so hard to find the perfect place to live – how difficult do you think it is to find the perfect place to die?’
14
High above Irontongue Hill, another Boeing 767 left its white track across the lightening sky as it approached Manchester. It was a few minutes late, and it was waiting for clearance behind a shuttle from Paris. Much lower in the sky, a small plane banked and turned and came in slowly, as if someone in the cabin might be taking photographs.
On the hillside below, four people turned to watch the smaller aircraft as they heard its engine. They lifted their heads into the wind, squinting their eyes against the brightness of the sky and the hard flecks of snow driven into their faces from the higher ground.
‘It’s a Piper Warrior. A Type 18,’ said Corporal Sharon Thompson. Her plump cheeks were bright pink from the cold, and her hair was pulled back tight under her beret and the hood of her cagoule. ‘It’s probably from Netherthorpe Airfield.’
Flight Sergeant Josh Mason glanced at the underside of the aircraft as it drew away from them.
‘Don’t talk crap,’ he said. ‘Any idiot can see it isn’t a Type 18. Haven’t you done your aircraft recognition?’
Thompson went a shade pinker, but her expression became stubborn. ‘Come on, Flight. We’ve got a long way to go yet. We don’t want to be out here all day. It’ll be dark before we get back.’
‘Well, as matter of fact, we’re nearly there.’
The cadets scrambled through a snow-filled gully and up the slope on the other side. They slipped and slid until they were near the top and were able to clutch at bits of dead grass to pull themselves the last few inches.
‘There you go,’ said Mason proudly. ‘The trig point. The Lancaster should be a hundred yards north north-west, just over that next rise.’
The cadets groaned. ‘Why do we have to do this, Flight?’ said Cadet Derron Peace. He brushed snow off the knees of his fatigue trousers where he’d slipped into a snowdrift.
‘We’re supposed to be on a navigation exercise,’ said Thompson. ‘If the skipper finds out …’
‘Well, he won’t find out, will he?’ said Mason.
‘It’s foolhardy to take people out on the moors in this weather. We’re not properly equipped.’
‘All right, stay here then.’ Mason began to walk away through the snow towards the next rise.
‘But you’re the one with the map and compass,’ said Thompson.
The cadets looked at each other and began to follow him. The cabin windows of the Piper caught a flash of sunlight as the aircraft banked and turned over the hill ahead of them, the note of its engine dropping to an ominous grumble as the sound bounced off
the rocky outcrop called Irontongue.
Chief Superintendent Jepson closed his eyes in pain. For a moment, he thought he might be having a heart attack. It was a fear that crossed his mind often these days, ever since his doctor had told him he had high blood pressure and needed to lose weight. Every time he felt a spasm of discomfort or a touch of cramp, he thought he was having a heart attack. He would sit back in his chair and breathe slowly, and reach for the aspirin to thin his blood, before it was too late. But it had never been a proper heart attack, not yet. Usually it was just the effects of one more bit of stress piled on to him by one of his junior officers, eager to tell the Chief superintendent about the latest disaster in E Division, careless of the damage they might be doing to his cardiovascular system.
And the news this morning was so typical. For fifty-one weeks of the year his resources were stretched, but not so stretched that they couldn’t cope. In fact, they coped so well that Constabulary HQ in Ripley used it as a reason to fend off his demands for more officers. They always pointed out that E Division saw less major crime than any of the other letters of the alphabet from A to D. But they also said that he was managing the division brilliantly, that he was an example to the other commanders of the way intelligence-led policing should work, that his intelligence and information were so good that the question of how many officers he had on duty at any one time had become academic. It was supposed to make him feel better.
And then came the one week in the year when the whole system collapsed. The one week when traffic ground to a halt in snowdrifts on every road out of town and his officers were tied up trying to move abandoned vehicles. It was the week when half his available manpower seemed to have fallen over on the ice and broken their collarbones, or sprained their backs shovelling snow from their driveways, while the other half had phoned in sick with the ‘flu. The same week when some idiot rammed a patrol car into a stone wall on Harpur Hill, and an even bigger idiot got his dog van nicked and burned out by two teenage burglars he was supposed to be arresting. Her Majesty’s Inspector of Constabulary was asking questions about how the administration budget was being spent. And the Police Complaints Authority had received yet another allegation of racial abuse from one of those thieving gypsy bastards camped on the council golf course.
Blood on the Tongue (Ben Cooper & Diane Fry) Page 16