Dead And Buried (Cooper and Fry) Page 14

  ‘Is your husband well enough for us to speak to?’ asked Fry.

  ‘I told you, he’s dying.’

  In fact she’d said that he was already dead, but Fry let it pass. She looked at Kirsten instead. She was what? Fifteen or sixteen? But she seemed very mature for her age, the way some teenagers were these days.

  ‘Dad is in the hospice,’ said Kirsten. ‘St Luke’s, here in Edendale. He won’t be coming out again now.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yes, you said. We didn’t believe you the first time.’

  Nancy stood up. ‘There’s no way I would let you talk to Maurice, even if he was well enough. I’ll phone the hospice right now and tell them not to let you through the door. If you try to harass him, I’ll make your life hell. Give the man a bit of peace in his final days.’

  It was clearly a waste of time. On her way out, Fry looked at Nancy Wharton again, noting that hint of hardness in her eyes. The result of a lifetime in the pub trade? Perhaps.

  But Fry reminded herself that Nancy had gone through particular troubles of her own in the last couple of years. She’d lost the Light House after a fruitless struggle against financial difficulties, and now she had to deal with the husband’s terminal illness, which was likely to be another long, futile battle.

  Betty Wheatcroft lived in an old cottage right on the outskirts of Edendale. It must have been in a village once, but the town had swallowed it up decades ago. Now the cottage, and a few others like it, was sandwiched between the clubhouse of Edendale Golf Club and a small industrial estate whose units housed an MOT test centre and a signmaker’s.

  When he got out of the car, Cooper inhaled the air, detecting an all too familiar smell. Even on the edge of Edendale, a hint of acrid smoke was on the wind. He looked at the roof of a car parked outside the nearest house. Black flecks speckled the surface like the first spots of a dark, soot-filled rain.

  As soon as he knocked, a woman’s face appeared round the edge of the door and scrutinised his ID.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Cooper, Edendale CID,’ he said. ‘Are you Mrs Wheatcroft?’

  ‘Come in, come in,’ said the woman. ‘Don’t stand outside. Our neighbours are like the CIA – they’ll have the binoculars and microphones trained on you already.’

  Cooper thought she was joking, but she took hold of his sleeve and almost dragged him into the hall.

  Betty Wheatcroft had wild grey hair, and her eyes showed a faintly manic gleam. If there had been any weapons in the room, a kitchen knife lying on the table maybe, he wouldn’t have felt entirely safe. As it was, he found himself checking his route to the door, in case he needed to make a hasty retreat. Strange, how that fixed stare could be so unsettling. He supposed it was an instinctive fear of insanity, a primal distrust of the unpredictable.

  ‘It’s very distressing,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been able to eat since I heard. I haven’t been out of the house.’

  ‘There’s no need to be afraid, Mrs Wheatcroft,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  She looked towards the window, as if fearing a murderer stalking her street. But what threat could there be to her from the golf club or the MOT test centre?

  ‘Aidan,’ she said. ‘Yes, I knew poor Aidan. Shocking business. Shocking. But that’s the sort of thing that happens these days, isn’t it? It goes on all over the place. None of us is safe. We’re not safe even in this street. That’s why the so-called Neighbourhood Watch knock on my door all the time.’

  ‘Aidan Merritt,’ said Cooper, realising straight away that his main task would be to keep Mrs Wheatcroft on track. He was very accustomed to these visits to old people living on their own. They were often lonely, and didn’t get many visitors. The result was that they seized eagerly on any human company and the chance of a bit of conversation. It was one of the things that made them so vulnerable to distraction thefts, and attractive as prey for the smooth-talking conmen who pretended to be from the electricity company. Many elderly people had lost hundreds of pounds just because they wanted someone to talk to.

  But this was his last job of the day, and he hoped the visit wouldn’t stretch out too long. Liz had plans for the evening. She’d lined up a viewing of her preferred wedding venue, and his presence there was essential.

  ‘I felt sorry for him, trying to teach children these days,’ said Mrs Wheatcroft. ‘It must be a thankless task. Schools are all about targets and test results. You don’t really get a chance to teach them anything. Well, that’s what I told him. And he seemed to agree with me.’

  Cooper smiled as he looked round the interior of the cottage. Plenty of books and papers in haphazard piles, framed photographs of a younger Mrs Wheatcroft with groups of small children, a home-made farewell card covered in scrawled signatures.

  ‘Were you a teacher yourself, Mrs Wheatcroft?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, how did you know?’

  ‘It was just a guess.’

  ‘I worked in local schools for thirty-five years,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen some changes, I can tell you.’

  ‘Aidan Merritt,’ said Cooper. ‘Who else did he talk to at the Light House?’

  ‘Oh, well … I suppose there was that Ian Gullick. Horrible man.’

  ‘Gullick?’

  ‘He’s a van driver, delivers motor parts to garages or something.’ She chuckled. ‘At least he does when he’s got his driving licence.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘He got banned from driving.’

  Mrs Wheatcroft’s look of satisfaction was unsettling. The smile was a little too smug – the contentment of a trick or spell that had worked successfully.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘He had too much to drink at the Light House one night. Not that that was unusual. But he’d made himself particularly obnoxious that evening. Someone called the police and reported him for drink-driving. But he’d never actually tried to drive away. He was arrested while he was sleeping in his van in the pub car park. The police found the keys in his pocket, and charged him with being drunk in charge of a vehicle. Banned for twelve months.’

  ‘So who reported him? Who made the call?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  Cooper was starting to get a bit irritated by the way people answered his questions with another question. Especially that one. How should I know? It was always employed to sound like a denial, but it was actually just another evasion.

  ‘There were a few others,’ said Mrs Wheatcroft. ‘Vince Naylor. Mmm … not many, though. Aidan was a bit of a loner, actually. You might say he was quite odd, in a way.’

  Interesting. Those names had already been mentioned earlier, in the office. Ian Gullick, yes. And Vince Naylor. Cooper made a discreet note.

  ‘The night before the Pearsons disappeared,’ he said, ‘there was another group of visitors in the pub. They were seen talking to the Pearsons.’

  ‘Not local?’

  ‘No. Visitors.’

  She ran a hand through her hair, disarranging it even more.

  ‘I think I remember. They were from down south somewhere.’

  ‘They were staying in a holiday cottage nearby too, were they?’

  ‘Rented, yes. Most visitors are only around for a week or two.’

  Cooper gazed out of the window, and saw that the edge of the moor was just visible beyond the green at the ninth hole of the golf club.

  ‘If you can remember the name of those people, or where they came from in the south, that would be a big help,’ he said.

  Mrs Wheatcroft looked at him with a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘Watford,’ she said. ‘They came from Watford. I can see them now, sitting in that corner near the window. I can see their matching cagoules and woollen sweaters. And I can hear him talking about the football club. They came from Watford.’

  ‘You went to the Light House often, didn’t you?’

  ‘Not that often,’ she said cautiously. ‘Not on my pension. Besides, I don’t have
a car. I needed a lift to get up there. Either that or a taxi, which is too expensive for a pensioner like me.’

  ‘And that night?’

  ‘I went with my daughter. She’s divorced.’

  ‘And was Aidan Merritt there?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She leaned closer, with a conspiratorial half-wink. ‘But there was one night the previous week when his wife was there on her own.’

  ‘Mrs Merritt?’ said Cooper in surprise.

  ‘Samantha, that’s her name. Plain-looking girl. She ought to put in a bit more effort. But I had a bit of a joke with her.’

  ‘Did you, Mrs Wheatcroft?’

  ‘I told her that if she sat on her own in that place, she’d be pestered by men all night. But she didn’t seem to care.’

  Cooper frowned. ‘Do you think Samantha might actually have been there with the intention of picking up a man?’

  Mrs Wheatcroft gave a short laugh, then shook her head again. ‘No, that’s wrong. I shouldn’t laugh. We don’t know anything about other people’s lives, do we? She might have been doing that, for all I know.’

  ‘Did you see her talking to anyone?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. There were people around her, at other tables. But she didn’t seem to be speaking to anyone.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes. Well … pretty sure.’

  Mmm. Perhaps a hint of a memory there that might surface later?

  ‘If you do remember anything later, Mrs Wheatcroft, please give me a call. It could be important.’

  ‘Yes, I see that.’

  ‘And it was definitely Watford, was it?’ asked Cooper. ‘The town those visitors came from?’

  She looked surprised. ‘Watford? No, no. Coventry – that was the place.’

  Mrs Wheatcroft beamed at him, her face lighting up with a smile that suggested pride in an achievement. Cooper recognised that look. He’d seen it often in his own mother as she grew older – that delight in plucking a name from the air that had almost managed to elude her. After a while, every accurate recollection became a minor triumph.

  Then she frowned.

  ‘Or it might have been Northampton,’ she said.

  Cooper sighed. When he looked at Mrs Wheatcroft again, he realised that she was just like his mental image of the typical madwoman in the attic – the first Mrs Rochester perhaps, prone to alcoholism and fits of violence.

  The impression was so strong that Cooper found himself expecting an insane laugh to follow him as he left her cottage and walked back towards the gate.

  14

  Cooper’s life was becoming dominated by lists. Their headings ran through his mind like a well-practised litany. Organists, choirs, cakes, cars, bells, banns, veils, vows, videos, rings, dresses, flowers, music, DJs and seating plans for the reception. Bridesmaids, bouquets, ushers, pageboys, speeches, guest lists, gift lists, hen nights and centrepieces for the tables at the wedding breakfast. Even honeymoon outfits, for heaven’s sake. If they ever made it that far.

  He’d bought Liz a Kindle for Christmas. The first books she’d downloaded were The Complete Wedding Planner and The Step by Step Guide to Planning Your Wedding, closely followed by Get into Shape for your Wedding Day. Well at least she’d stopped looking at brochures for destination weddings in the Seychelles.

  There was a list of potential wedding venues too, of course. The venue currently top of the list was deep in one of the wooded dales on the banks of the River Wye, not far from Bakewell. It was a former mill owner’s house, quite a fanciful piece of gothic architecture in itself, but standing in a wonderful position, with twenty acres of woodland and the most fantastic views over the river.

  Liz had her eye on the floral arcade for an outdoor ceremony. It was bit optimistic, given the vagaries of the weather in this part of the world. But no bride ever expected her wedding day to be spoiled by rain. Everything was going to be perfect, including the weather.

  There was always the orangery, where the reception would take place. Cooper measured the distance by eye. It wasn’t too far to run if the rain started. Well, unless you were wearing a wedding dress with a train as long as the Monsal Viaduct. He wondered if it was one of the groom’s duties to carry the bride indoors to escape a thunderstorm, as well carrying her over the threshold of their new home. That wasn’t mentioned in any of the wedding planning guides.

  Nor was the fact that their new home might only be a pipe dream, its threshold purely notional as well as symbolic.

  ‘The orangery can seat up to ninety, if we use the room that opens into it as well,’ said Liz.

  ‘Ninety?’

  ‘Up to.’

  ‘Do we even know ninety people to speak to?’

  ‘I’ve got a big family, especially on my dad’s side. There’ll be cousins coming from all over the place.’

  ‘Oh yes. The Scottish Pettys. Half of Dundee will be coming down on a coach trip, I suppose.’

  ‘And they can stay right here, Ben. It’s perfect. There are cottages in the grounds. They can accommodate up to fifty people at a time. No one will have to drive back home afterwards if they don’t want to.’

  ‘So they can all get well oiled on the Glenlivet.’

  ‘It is a celebration,’ she said accusingly.

  Immediately he began to regret sounding flippant.

  ‘Yes, of course it is. The Dundee Pettys can drink as much Glenlivet as they want, as far as I’m concerned. I might even check to see if the bar has any Laphroaig.’

  She squeezed his arm. ‘It’s going to be wonderful, you’ll see.’

  ‘Just perfect. Everything will be perfect.’

  ‘A lovely traditional wedding.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Was an outdoor ceremony in a floral arcade particularly traditional? Cooper wasn’t sure. His brother had married his sister-in-law Kate at All Saints, the parish church in Edendale, followed by a buffet and disco at a local pub. That was what he thought of as tradition, though he supposed traditions changed over time, like everything else.

  Well, he knew the wedding cake would be traditional. Liz had shown him a photograph of a fourtier confection from Love Cakes of Derby, covered in little iced flowers. At least it wasn’t a cupcake tower, which was what he’d been afraid of.

  ‘We can do photos in the grounds, and they say we can use the main staircase too, if we want,’ said Liz.

  ‘The staircase? Use it for what?’

  ‘You know, Ben – for the photos with the dress and the train spread out over the steps, and the bridesmaids behind me. It’ll look fantastic.’

  ‘Oh, okay. Am I in these photos, by the way?’

  ‘Only if you behave yourself.’

  The orangery was nice, he had to admit. It had been restored about ten years ago to its early nineteenth-century elegance. According to the brochure, the restoration had received a commendation for its design from the Council for the Preservation of Rural England.

  ‘Okay, the staircase. Well, that’s a selling point.’

  ‘And look at the views.’

  ‘Yes, I can’t fault the views.’

  Liz looked at her list. ‘So how many stars shall I give it? Four or five?’

  ‘Out of how many?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Sometimes he thought it would be better if he just let Liz and her family get on with organising the wedding without him. But he always hastily put the thought aside, in case it popped out of his mouth in an unguarded moment. That would definitely land him in big, big trouble.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Cooper knew she wouldn’t believe him, but she accepted his answer for the moment. If she pressed him, he would find it very difficult to tell her what actually was the matter. The fact was, he was feeling guilty. He was bothered by a persistent, nagging certainty that he’d made a mess of the job last night, that he ought to have been the one to find the body of Aidan Merritt, instead of leavi
ng it to Diane Fry. All right, it might not have made a huge amount of difference. An hour or two perhaps. But those first few hours were crucial, as everyone knew.

  Besides, there was a question of pride. He would never live down the fact that a body had been lying a few hundred yards away, without him being aware of it. A murder victim, no less. It would haunt him for the rest of his career.

  And the reason it had happened was simple. He’d grasped the opportunity to leave the scene on Oxlow Moor early because he had an appointment to view a property that he couldn’t afford to buy. He’d compromised his professional integrity to please Liz.

  And the worst of it was something he could hardly explain to himself. When he looked at Liz now, and saw how happy she was, he even felt guilty about feeling guilty.

  At Bridge End Farm, Ben Cooper stopped by the stable to say hello to his two nieces. The elder, Amy, was really growing up now. She was a proper teenager, a bit gawky, yet obsessive about her appearance. Josie wasn’t far behind either – there were only a couple of years between them. Matt would really have his hands full soon.

  A few weeks previously, the girls had got the horse they’d always wanted. The eight-year-old chestnut gelding belonged to Amy really, a present on her last birthday. But the two girls were very close, and it was good to see them sharing the pleasure, as well as the hard work grooming and mucking out. The arrival of the horse had been a joint project anyway. They had been nagging their father about it for the past two years.

  Ben suspected that emotional blackmail had played a large part in their strategy. Crucially, their mother had been on their side too. Kate’s opinion would have been a clincher.

  Matt Cooper was coming back from the hill behind the farmhouse with the old sheepdog at his heels. They had been moving the sheep between fields. Ben could smell the lanolin from their fleeces, which had impregnated Matt’s clothes and the skin of his hands where he’d been handling the ewes to check them for foot rot.

  Ben was reminded of Gavin Murfin’s jibe at Diane Fry, and her response: Trust me, I’ll be happy if I don’t have to see another damn sheep ever in my life. Not much chance of that in the Peak District. They were everywhere.