One last breath bcadf-5 Read online

  His father had talked about a petrified bird’s nest that had belonged to his grandmother. It had been a gift from a relative who’d spent a holiday in the Peak District - and the only connection the Quinn family had had with Derbyshire until they moved there. Like the other souvenirs sold in the shops at Matlock Bath, it had been left in one of the petrifying wells until it had covered over with lime and attained the peculiar appearance that visitors prized so much. Quinn had never seen the nest, though he’d pictured it in his imagination. The detail that had impressed him most was that the nest had been complete with eggs.

  ‘Four of them,’ his father had said. And he would hold up

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  four stubby fingers, pitted with blue scars, as if his son couldn’t count. ‘Real eggs, turned to stone. Imagine the little chicks inside them.’

  ‘Were the chicks turned to stone, too?’

  ‘I don’t know, boy. We never opened the eggs to look.’

  The thought had repelled Quinn but fascinated him at the same time. They told him at school that eggs were supposed to represent new life. But here, life had been snuffed out at the moment of birth, turned to stone for the amusement of day trippers. It had symbolized the Peak District for him then - a place where his spirit had been stifled, forcing him to fight his way out into the world all over again. He felt crushed by the weight of the stone he could see in the hills all around him.

  ‘What sort of bird made the nest?’ he would ask his father, needing the specifics to make sense of the story.

  But there was only one answer he ever got: ‘Well, don’t know, do I?’p>

  ‘A blackbird, Dad? A starling? Something bigger?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. What does it matter, for goodness sake?’

  ‘What did Grandma have the nest for?’

  ‘She just had it, that’s all.’

  Then his father would get irritated and go back to his newspaper, or he’d walk out into the garden to look at his vegetables. And next time he told the story, it would be exactly the same. He never saw his son’s need for explanation.

  Quinn thought there ought to be ways of making sense of his petrified memories, of forcing them out into the open and letting the sun pierce the calcified layers to find the original shapes underneath.

  But memories seemed to become attached to personal possessions, and he had very few of those. For years, his life had been measured by prison service regulations. The possessions he’d been allowed in his cell had been subject to what they called ‘volumetric controls’, which meant everything he

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  possessed had to fit into two boxes. At intervals, his cell was inspected to make sure he hadn’t broken regulations and created a private life for himself beyond his battery radio and his statutory three books and six newspapers.

  Many of the permitted items held no relevance for him anyway. Diaries and calendars had seemed like self-inflicted torture, and he had no family photos for his locker.

  After a while, Quinn became aware that his lack of personal items might reflect badly on his suitability for parole. He’d placed a subscription for Peak District magazine and Birdwatching, and he’d asked the library for more books on natural history and geology. One of his magazines came with a calendar featuring scenic views of Derbyshire, which he taped to the wall of his cell. One day, an officer on lockup had pointed out that he hadn’t turned over the page, even though the old month had finished six days ago. But the old month had been January. It showed a snow scene over Castleton to the slopes of Win Hill.

  A movement caught his attention. A couple of golfers were walking across a green on the golf course to the north of the fishing lakes, but they were too far away to see him. Quinn scanned the anglers again, then lay back down in the bracken.

  It had been in Peak District magazine that Quinn had found the article about the Castleton caves. He’d read about cave breathing, the movement of air in and out of a cave entrance. It could draw in small creatures, leading them away from their natural environment into the depths, from where they never returned. Accidentals, they were called. Creatures drawn in by cave breathing.

  Mansell Quinn liked that idea. He thought he could be called an accidental himself. He had been drawn into the darkness. But he was on his way out now. He’d learned to control the breathing.

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  Standing outside 14 Moorland Avenue, Ben Cooper noticed that Millstone Edge was visible from the estate, too. He’d done a bit of rock climbing up there a couple of years ago. The long cliff face lay partly in shadow, producing a corrugated effect like the edge of a pie crust. The ancestors of men who lived in Hathersage now would have worked up there on the gritstone faces, cutting the millstones the area had become famous for - the same millstones which now lay abandoned in heaps on the slopes.

  Not bothering with the bell this time, Fry pounded on the door of Enid Quinn’s house with the knocker. It sounded hollower and more echoey than ever. But now Cooper knew it was due to the bare walls of the empty hallway.

  ‘I suppose my neighbours have been sticking their noses into things that aren’t their business,’ said Mrs Quinn, when she let them in. ‘They tend to be like that around here.’

  ‘One of your neighbours saw your son near here on Monday afternoon.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Mrs Quinn settled herself down on the settee in the same position she’d occupied last time they visited her. She had her

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  back to the window, her fair hair framed by the light. Rather than stand over her, Fry sat in one of the armchairs and motioned Cooper to do the same. He saw she’d assessed Mrs Quinn as someone who couldn’t be intimidated.

  ‘Mansell came here, didn’t he?’

  ‘I suppose there’s no point in denying it now.’

  ‘Not now that he’s got well away/

  Enid Quinn waited impassively. Fry had not asked her a question, and she wasn’t going to be tempted into volunteering information.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us before, Mrs Quinn? Why did you lie to us?’

  ‘As I said yesterday, people of my generation don’t walk away from things as easily as they do these days.’

  ‘You were talking about marriage.’

  ‘Perhaps I was. But there are other commitments, other kinds of ties to those we love. Obligations we can’t ignore.’

  ‘Yet you believe your son was guilty of murder.’

  Again Mrs Quinn sat quietly for a moment, her hands motionless in her lap. She gave every impression of being a calm woman, untroubled by conscience.

  ‘Yes, I do believe that,’ she said. ‘But it has nothing to do with whether I love my son, or whether I’m willing to open my door to him when he calls.’

  Fry and Cooper exchanged glances. Clearly, Mrs Quinn wasn’t going to concede anything she didn’t want to.

  ‘What did your son want?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘He wanted nothing from me. Nothing except some human contact. I couldn’t refuse him that, could I?’

  ‘Did he tell you what he was planning to do?’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘Nothing at all? Did he say where he was heading from Hathersage?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he talk about his ex-wife?’

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  ‘He made no suggestion to me that he intended to go and see Rebecca.’

  ‘And his son, Simon?’

  Enid Quinn flushed. ‘I know about that, of course. Well, Mansell certainly didn’t attack Simon. It’s nonsense to suggest it. That’s the very last thing he would do.’

  ‘OK. So, how did your son seem when you talked to him?1 asked Cooper. ‘What state of mind was he in?’

  ‘State of mind?’

  ‘Did he seem distressed? Angry? Frightened? Or was he just his usual self?’

  Mrs Quinn smiled tremulously. ‘I don’t know what Mansell’s usual self is any more. And I couldn’t say what his state of mind was, I’m afraid. I didn
’t feel I could read his mood as I used to be able to.’

  ‘But you’re his mother,’ said Cooper, who didn’t find her claim believable.

  And Enid Quinn took his point. She thought about it further. ‘I should say that he was none of those things you mentioned. He was absorbed. Distracted.’

  ‘Something on his mind?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I can’t help you.’

  ‘Mrs Quinn, when we were here yesterday, you told us you thought your son was seeking retribution. That was the word you used. What did he tell you to make you think that?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘So why did you say it? Why that word - retribution^

  Mrs Quinn shook her head. ‘It just seemed to me that’s what he’d want. Mansell was angry. He’s been angry for a long time.’

  ‘But retribution against who?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Did he want any information from you? Names and addresses?’

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  ‘No.’

  ‘Money? Food?’

  ‘Mansell didn’t ask me for money. But I made him a meal. Of course I did. I couldn’t refuse him that.’

  ‘What time did he leave here?’

  ‘Oh, I suppose it must have been about half past eight.’

  ‘It was still light?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he have transport? A car?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you. He was on foot when he left here.’

  Cooper sighed, and gave Fry a small shrug.

  ‘Mrs Quinn, we have to ask you again,’ said Fry. ‘Where was your son heading?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘We must find him, Mrs Quinn. You can see that, can’t you? You wouldn’t want anything to happen to somebody else, no matter how you feel about your son. Would you?’

  She shook her head jerkily. ‘I don’t know where he was going.’

  ‘Mrs Quinn, if you’re not telling us the truth ‘

  ‘Look, Sergeant, the truth is that I’m not sure I’d tell you anything that would help you find my son, even if I could. But I don’t have to make that judgement, because I asked him not to tell me what he intended to do or where he was going. And he didn’t. So I can’t help you.’

  Fry’s jaw clenched. But she stood up, and Cooper followed suit.

  ‘It’s very likely that we’ll be back to ask you more questions,’ said Fry.

  ‘I’m usually here. I don’t suppose I’ll be going out much for a while. Now that my neighbours are watching every move I make.’

  Fry managed to call in to the incident room when they were back on the A625 out of Hathersage. Cooper could tell she

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  had some news by the way she sat up straight and listened without interrupting.

  ‘What is it?’ he said, when she ended the call.

  ‘The nerve of the man is unbelievable.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mansell Quinn, of course. Enid’s golden boy. Last night’s TV appeal has brought another result. Quinn spent Monday night in a hotel in Castleton - the Cheshire Cheese.’

  ‘The hotel recognized him from the photos?’

  ‘They didn’t need to. He registered under his own name.’

  ‘Mmm. That was pretty cool.’

  ‘Quinn knew we wouldn’t be looking for him at that stage. And he was gone from the hotel in the morning.’

  ‘I suppose his room has been cleaned since then.’

  ‘Twice. But Forensics might get something, I suppose. And the staff are being interviewed.’

  The don’t suppose that will help much. He won’t have talked to anybody.’

  They had crossed the point where the River Noe flowed into the Derwent and were passing the weir at Lumble Pool. Rebecca Lowe’s home lay to the north, on the lower slopes of Win Hill.

  ‘The Cheshire Cheese,’ said Cooper. ‘It’s the pub Quinn was drinking in with his friends on the day Carol Proctor was killed.’

  ‘A coincidence, do you think, Ben?’

  ‘I doubt it. Quinn obviously has something on his mind. I wish we knew what it was.’

  ‘There’s one more thing: the PM results on Rebecca Lowe have come through.’

  ‘And?’

  N ‘She was killed not more than an hour or two before her body was found. Cause of death was a punctured lung. Most of her other injuries were post mortem.’

  ‘Nasty.’

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  ‘Yes. Somebody definitely wanted Rebecca Lowe dead. As dead as Carol Proctor was.’

  ‘Where are we going next?’ said Cooper.

  ‘This Raymond Proctor,’ said Fry. ‘Mansell Quinn’s old friend, the husband of his first victim; Gavin and I visited him yesterday, but we couldn’t seem to get through to him He refused to believe he’s at risk from Quinn. We have this guy who’s a convicted killer, on the loose right in this area, yet Proctor doesn’t seem in the least concerned at the prospect of being his next victim. Why would that be?’

  Cooper said nothing, but concentrated on driving for a while, trying to keep his distance from the tourist traffic. After a few moments, Fry noticed his lack of response.

  ‘Ben, do you have any idea why he wouldn’t be worried about Mansell Quinn?’

  ‘None at all,’ said Cooper. ‘I haven’t even met the man.’

  ‘Well, I think maybe you should talk to Proctor. You could be on the same wavelength.’

  ‘I will, if you like.’

  ‘Besides, it won’t do any harm for him to have another visit from us. It might make him realize we’re serious.’

  At temporary lights near Bradwell, they came up behind a silver Vauxhall Omega with three men inside it. Cooper saw a Derbyshire Constabulary crest on the back and realized they were officers undergoing advanced driver training. At the moment, they were being trained in stopping at temporary lights and crawling in traffic at fifteen miles an hour.

  ‘What impression did you get of the Proctors’ caravan park?’ asked Cooper. ‘Did it seem to be doing well?’

  ‘Not according to Raymond Proctor. But we could have a look round while we’re there, if you like. We could say we’re checking his security.’

  ‘Which would be a good idea anyway, if Quinn is planning a visit.’

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  ‘Yes, you’re right. I should have been thinking more of his family. The man himself annoyed me too much.’

  Cooper already felt a little sorry for Raymond Proctor. It didn’t do to annoy Diane Fry, especially not on first meeting. She would never forget it.

  ‘I was wondering if Mr Proctor has had financial problems,’ he said. ‘Business might not be too good.’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you that,’ said Fry. ‘There were quite a few people around.’

  ‘It’s a very seasonal business. If a caravan park isn’t full at this time of year, it never will be.’

  Cooper found it impossible not to have some sympathy for people involved in the tourism trade - their livelihood was so unpredictable. Fewer retired people took trips to the Peak District since their savings and investments income had plummeted. Sixty per cent of visitors came only for a day and spent enough for a visit to a show cavern and an ice cream, or for a couple of hours’ parking and a Bakewell pudding to take home.

  ‘You know,’ said Cooper, ‘I wonder if Quinn understood why his wife stopped visiting him. The thing that often tips a prisoner over the edge is the belief that their wife or partner isn’t waiting at home for them to come out, but has met somebody else. It’s the most common reason for escapes. They get the idea into their minds that if they can just get home for a while they’ll be able to sort things out.’

  ‘Quinn’s wife got a divorce ten years ago, while he was inside,’ said Fry. ‘Besides, he waited out his full sentence. Or until his automatic release date, which is the same thing.’

  ‘Maybe he’s just the patient type?’

  ‘Possibly.’

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p; Cooper thought about Quinn’s thirteen years and four months in prison. Many Category A prisoners were visited once by their families, and never again. The willingness of their wives and children to visit them didn’t survive the

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  humiliation of the first strip search. Some children grew up being told their father was a monster, and learning to believe it. They developed the habit of concealing their identity, evading questions about their parents, escaping the shame.

  And for a prisoner like Quinn, thirteen years was a long time to let the imagination work on why you came to be on your own. Much too long. In that time, a man could develop a vivid fantasy of what was going on in the outside world, and in his own home. Perhaps in his own bed. He might build a convincing conspiracy theory. He could certainly create enemies for himself in his mind - enemies that had to be destroyed.

  But even worse was the idea that Quinn had waited patiently, nurturing his fantasy, waiting for the opportunity to take his revenge. Or retribution, as Mrs Quinn had called it. It was more than patience, though. It seemed like the single mindedness of a hunter, prepared to wait as long as necessary for prey to come within reach.

  Cooper shuddered. He always found the slow, deliberate killers more frightening than those who killed in a sudden rage. They were a less understandable type of killer.

  ‘I’ve got to say, it sounds as if everyone was against Quinn,’ he said. ‘His wife, his friends - none of them did a good job of standing up for him.’

  ‘Maybe they were all glad to get him out of the way,’ said Fry. The think I would be, in their place. But no doubt Quinn thinks everything that’s happened to him has been somebody else’s fault. I bet he has a list of people to blame.’

  ‘So do you think he’s following a plan?’

  ‘There must be a reason he’s staying in this area. If it were me, I’d get as far away as possible.’