05.One Last Breath Page 17

  ‘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?’

  ‘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.’

  ‘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.’

  ‘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.’

  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 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. ‘I 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.’

  ‘There are ties to a place like this that are difficult to break.’

  ‘Not family ties, in his case. Those have been thoroughly broken.’

  ‘But he’s not unique there,’ said Cooper. ‘Nearly half of prisoners lose contact with their families during their sentence. The prison population is what, seventy thousand? And mostly men. Yet they say a stable family life is the factor most likely to keep a prisoner from re-offending. So if they don’t have families waiting to be reunited with them, where do all those men go?’

  ‘There’s a system to deal with all that, Ben.’

  ‘The system is overloaded. Some of those men are just going to drop off the radar. A few might manage to get a job and settle down, perhaps even make new relationships. But the others … well, who knows?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes, I think it does.’

  ‘Ben, I saw a social worker’s job being advertised last week. Maybe you should apply for it.’

  Cooper flushed. ‘I’m just saying there could be a lot of Mansell Quinns around the country that we don’t even know about. It’s an inevitable outcome of the whole process.’

  Fry seemed to be digesting what he’d said, but Cooper suspected she was merely filing away the statistics. Or was she actually relating them to an individual, the person who was somewhere out there in the Hope Valley, alone and possibly desperate.

  ‘Ben, could you put your foot down a bit?’ she said. ‘We don’t have all day.’

  Cooper sighed. ‘No problem.’

  Further on, he saw the Omega crew again, still training. Now they were practising parking at the kerb near the off-licence in Hope.

  ‘I know one thing anyway,’ said Fry suddenly.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We treated Enid Quinn too damn sensitively the first time.’

  Going north from the village, they crossed over Killhill Bridge and turned past the cemetery into the valley of the River Noe. Cooper had to slow down to negotiate the unmade road, which must make the touring caravans b
ounce a little. Once they were clear of the railway bridge, he could see a number of mobile homes huddled close together, painted in shades of lime green and cream, with little chimneys and carriage lamps.

  He parked on the grass and they walked up towards the house, past a chemical toilet disposal point. They found Raymond Proctor inside one of the mobile homes. According to the sign, it was a Westmorland 2000 two-bedroom model, a twenty-eight footer. Proctor was lying on the floor with his head in a cupboard under the sink unit, tinkering with the connection on a plastic water pipe.

  ‘You lot again,’ he said when he saw them. ‘Still fretting about my health?’

  ‘We wondered what steps you’ve taken to improve your security, Mr Proctor,’ said Fry. ‘And whether you might benefit from some more advice.’

  Proctor snorted, banged a spanner into his toolbox and shoved his head back under the sink. He didn’t notice his wife, who appeared around the corner of the caravan, breathing a bit hard as if she’d run down from the house when she saw the car arrive.

  ‘Are we going to get police protection?’ she said.

  Fry opened her mouth to give her all the reasons why it was impossible, but before she could say anything, Proctor interrupted. ‘We don’t need police protection, thanks very much.’

  His wife didn’t even look at him. ‘There are the children to think about. I’m not having them put in danger. And he’s no use looking after us. He goes out drinking every night and staggers home late. I mean, what good is that? He’s been doing it since Monday, no matter how much he tries to tell you he’s not scared.’

  Proctor sat up and heaved himself out of the door of the caravan. ‘Did you hear what I said?’

  ‘Yes, I heard,’ said Connie, stony-faced.

  ‘I’m afraid it wouldn’t be possible anyway,’ said Fry. ‘We can advise you on precautions and safety measures. If you’re worried, Mrs Proctor, you might want to consider taking the children away somewhere for a short while.’

  ‘Surely, if you think Quinn will come to the caravan park, you should have somebody here watching for him,’ said Connie.

  ‘If we had the resources …’

  Proctor pushed his way in front of his wife. He stood only a few inches from Fry and repeated: ‘We don’t need police protection. Got it?’

  Cooper thought Proctor was probably taking his life in his hands doing that. Fry was perfectly capable of reducing three Raymond Proctors to a quivering heap. But she didn’t move a muscle. He thought he ought to divert attention, all the same.

  ‘Don’t you think you should worry about Mansell Quinn being in the area, Mr Proctor?’ he said.

  ‘No, it’s rubbish. Why should I worry about Quinn?’

  ‘Rebecca Lowe was murdered on Monday night. If Mansell Quinn calls here, it might not be to say “hello” to an old friend.’

  ‘Why me? There’s no reason for him to come here.’

  ‘At his trial –’

  Proctor snorted. ‘That was fourteen years ago. We’ve all forgotten about that now.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘Look, it was a bad time, I won’t deny that. But I put all that behind me. I’ve got a new wife now, and a new family. There’s no point dwelling on the past – it doesn’t do a bit of good.’

  ‘Do you think you might be able to convince Quinn of that?’

  Proctor glowered. ‘If necessary. But you’re barking up the wrong tree. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got this unit booked out to some German tourists, and the water supply had better be working when they arrive. My maintenance man should be doing this, but he’s bloody useless with water.’

  Cooper looked in through the window of the mobile home Proctor had emerged from. It was well equipped, with a kitchen about the same size as his own back at Welbeck Street, plus a toilet and shower, and a separate bedroom at the far end.

  ‘Quinn expected you to give him an alibi for the time of the murder, Mr Proctor,’ he said. ‘The main plank of his defence was that he’d been with you and William Thorpe until nearly a quarter past three, so couldn’t possibly have been home by the time your wife was killed.’

  ‘But it wasn’t true,’ said Proctor. ‘He’d left the pub half an hour before that. I think Mansell expected me to lie for him. But why should I lie for somebody who’d just – well …’

  ‘Murdered your wife?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Cooper watched Raymond Proctor for signs that he really had put the death of his first wife behind him so completely. He would have liked the opportunity to test Proctor’s statement to see if his version of events stood up to questioning after nearly fourteen years. Lies were difficult to sustain under proper probing – and it was even more difficult when you might have forgotten the lies you told the first time round.

  But he wouldn’t get the chance. Diane Fry was already giving him a warning look that told him he was straying into forbidden territory.

  ‘It was all gone through at the trial,’ said Proctor. ‘I don’t see how it matters now.’

  ‘But it matters to Mansell Quinn.’

  ‘Ben, thank you,’ said Fry. ‘Perhaps you could go and wait in the car. We’ve nearly finished here.’

  Reluctantly, Cooper went back to the car. It was parked in the area reserved for touring caravans entering the site at night – three or four pitches with separate points for services, so that late arrivals didn’t disturb the rest of the residents. Beyond the gravelled area was a patch of grass where four older static caravans stood.

  Cooper glanced over his shoulder. He could see Proctor trying to get back into the Westmorland to carry on with his work, while Fry continued to lecture him. A few yards away, an old man in overalls was raking the gravel, but taking a keen interest in what was being said. The maintenance man who was useless with water, presumably.

  Out of curiosity, Cooper strolled towards the old caravans. They all looked a little battered round the edges and not so clean or well cared for as the mobile homes on the main part of the site. They’d been parked too near the trees, and their white panels were green with mould, their roofs spattered with bird droppings.

  The window of the nearest one was badly cracked, too. He couldn’t imagine Raymond Proctor managing to rent these out to his German tourists. They must have been old stock, now obsolete and beyond restoration. But if so, why hadn’t they been scrapped and removed from the site?

  Cooper approached the nearest one and peered through the cracked window. He was trying the second one when Fry came up behind him.

  ‘Ben, what the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Those questions you were asking about the murder of Carol Proctor. You seem to have forgotten which enquiry you’re on. That case was dealt with years ago.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry.’

  ‘There was a trial and a conviction. The man has served his sentence, for God’s sake.’

  ‘I said I’m sorry, Diane.’

  She narrowed her eyes at him.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re up to, Ben. But I always know when you’re up to something.’

  ‘Diane, aren’t Raymond Proctor and William Thorpe old friends?’

  ‘Yes. The three of them were very close – Quinn, Proctor and Thorpe. Why?’

  ‘I wonder if Proctor and Thorpe stayed good friends. If you had spare accommodation like this that you didn’t need, wouldn’t you put up an old friend who had no home of his own?’

  Fry smiled. ‘You’re right.’

  To their surprise, Raymond Proctor admitted it straight away when they asked him. ‘Yes, Will stayed for the winter,’ he said.

  ‘And then he left?’

  ‘Look, he can survive perfectly well on the streets in the summer. In winter, it’s a different matter. A winter spent outside would kill him for sure. That’s why I let him come and stay in one of the ’vans. I didn’t want that on my conscience as well.’

  ‘As well as what?’

>   Proctor shook his head. ‘Nothing you need to know about.’

  ‘It’s good to know you have a conscience, though, sir. Not everyone would have done something like that for a homeless person. Most people would just have said it wasn’t their responsibility and sent him packing.’

  ‘He’s an old mate,’ said Proctor. ‘That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘So where did Mr Thorpe go?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You just kicked him out without any idea where he would go, or whether he had somewhere else to live?’

  ‘I’m not running a homeless hostel.’

  ‘There’s a limit to your friendship, then?’

  ‘I gave Will a place to doss for six months while he sorted himself out. That was the agreement. It was understood that he’d leave at the end of April. If he couldn’t find himself somewhere else to live, it’s not my problem. Will called in a favour for old time’s sake, and I paid up. But now we’re quits. I’m not obliged to be his keeper for ever more.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I needed the caravan. That’s how I make my living.’

  ‘But there’s no one in it.’

  ‘Not now. But there might be. Things could pick up any time.’

  ‘Mr Proctor, are you sure you have no idea where William Thorpe might have gone when he left here?’

  Proctor shrugged. ‘Not my business.’

  He locked the Westmorland and began to walk back towards the house. Cooper followed him, making a show of examining the security lights. He noticed there was only one vehicle parked outside the Proctors’ house – a bright red Renault panel van with white lettering on the side. A business vehicle, presumably. But no car?

  ‘You should think seriously about your security, sir,’ he said. ‘Don’t just hope for the best. Think about your family.’

  Proctor cut across him with weary insistence. ‘I am not,’ he said, ‘frightened of Mansell Quinn.’

  ‘You realize we’re giving you advice entirely in your own interests?’

  ‘Oh, really? Well, thanks and all that.’

  Proctor reached the door of his house. He took hold of the Yale lock and fiddled with it restlessly, rattling the latch in its barrel.