Dead And Buried (Cooper and Fry) Read online

  For a moment Cooper had a sense of déjà vu, as if he was listening to the familiar litany of complaints from farmers like his brother. Things were always bad in the farming industry. Prices were never right, costs were always too high, the weather was either too dry or too wet. Small farmers were going bust for much the same reasons that Nancy Wharton was giving him. In a nutshell, they couldn’t make their businesses pay any more.

  ‘We’re not alone,’ said Nancy. ‘Not by a long way. Jobs are being lost throughout the industry. The pub trade is being decimated.’

  ‘My colleague Detective Sergeant Fry came to talk to you about Aidan Merritt,’ said Cooper tentatively.

  ‘I can’t tell you any more than I told her.’

  ‘I’d particularly like to know about any contact Mr Merritt had with other customers.’

  ‘You know what? Aidan kept himself pretty much to himself.’

  ‘Could there have been anyone who had a grudge against him?’

  ‘A grudge? Like who?’

  ‘Ian Gullick is a name that’s been mentioned.’

  Nancy looked away, no longer willing to meet Cooper’s eye. It was a perfectly natural reticence, he supposed. Who would want to criticise their own customers? It was a kind of loyalty – and Cooper understood loyalty.

  ‘I wouldn’t know anything about it,’ said Nancy finally. ‘I’m sorry, really I am. It’s horrible what happened to him, but what else can I say?’

  Cooper nodded. A roadblock, then. Move on.

  ‘I understand.’

  She looked at him steadily. ‘And I suppose you’re going to ask me about those tourists, too – like the woman did?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. The Pearsons. They were in the Light House the night before they disappeared.’

  ‘Yes. We went through it all with the police when it happened. They spoke to everyone who might have had any contact with them, including me. It seems I served them at the bar.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen your statement.’

  ‘Well, then. I don’t know what earthly use it could have been. Those two people were certainly alive and well when they left the pub. What good does it do going over every minute and every second of what they did in the days before they skipped off?’

  ‘In case someone noticed anything about them, or the Pearsons gave away a clue of some kind about what they were going to do.’

  Nancy picked up a woollen sweater and pulled it around her shoulders, as if she was cold.

  ‘Well, there was nothing. Nothing at all. For heaven’s sake, I didn’t have a clue who they were. They came in the pub, and they were just some tourists, that’s all. We used to get hundreds of them every week. Thousands in the summer. I had no idea they were going to be in the least bit different to any other tourists. When they came to the Light House, we didn’t even know their names.’

  ‘And then there was the previous night,’ said Cooper.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The night no one ever talked about.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand you.’

  ‘The night before,’ repeated Cooper. ‘It was the night of the Young Farmers’ Christmas party.’

  ‘Party? Oh yes, that. Of course it was. But no one ever mentioned the Pearson people being there.’

  ‘Did you not see them?’

  ‘Why would I? The place was packed. It was just before we closed for Christmas. On a night like that, you never really noticed anybody. It was head down over the bar, trying to remember what drinks to ring up on the till.’

  ‘You have two children, don’t you?’ said Cooper.

  ‘Yes, Eliot and Kirsten. They’re seventeen and fifteen. I don’t know what I’d do without them. Kirsten is at Hope Valley College. She’ll be doing her GCSEs this summer. She doesn’t want to stay on after that, though. She’s interested in becoming a beautician or a hairdresser.’

  Cooper thought she sounded vaguely disappointed.

  ‘Nothing wrong with that, Mrs Wharton.’

  ‘No, no. Of course not, Well, Eliot is the clever one, anyway. He’s in the sixth form at Lady Manners in Bakewell.’

  ‘I wonder if we could speak to them?’

  ‘They’re not here.’

  ‘Pity.’

  Just then, they both heard a key turn in the front door, and a male voice calling through the house.

  ‘Mum?’

  Eliot Wharton was a tall young man, with short fair hair, flushed cheeks and large hands that dangled by his sides. Cooper wondered if he was a rugby player.

  He looked at his mother, and then at Cooper and Murfin with the beginnings of hostility.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he said.

  ‘The police, love.’

  ‘Oh. Again.’

  ‘Is Kirsten with you?’ asked Nancy.

  ‘Yes, I’m here,’ said Kirsten from the hall.

  Cooper realised that there was hardly any room for anyone else in the lounge since Eliot had entered. They seemed to be uncomfortably close together, too close for anyone who might have problems over their personal space.

  Nancy explained to her children what Cooper was asking. They both began shaking their heads simultaneously.

  ‘That night, the night before the people went missing,’ said Eliot. ‘They were in the pub then, weren’t they? The police asked us questions. But other than that …’

  Cooper turned to Eliot’s sister. ‘Kirsten?

  She shrugged. ‘How would I know? I wasn’t even old enough to be in the bar, was I?’

  He wasn’t sure about that. Too young to drink alcohol, or serve it to customers, yes. But not too young to be in the bar. Children under sixteen could go anywhere in a pub as long as they were supervised by an adult.

  ‘I know your husband is very ill,’ said Cooper. ‘And there’s nothing I can say that will help.’

  ‘Maurice has good days and bad days,’ said Nancy. ‘Of course the bad days can be very bad indeed. The drugs control the pain, but they have a lot of side effects.’

  ‘I understand.’

  She studied Cooper closely for a few moments, pursing her lips and frowning, as if trying to make a difficult decision.

  ‘Your colleague who came here asked if she could talk to Maurice,’ she said at last.

  ‘I’m sure she did, but if it’s impossible …’

  ‘I could ask him, if you like,’ said Nancy. ‘He might like to see someone who knew the Light House. It would only be for a few minutes. He gets terribly tired.’

  Cooper realised that he must have achieved some kind of honorary status as a pub regular. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to earn that honour, whether it was his own infrequent visits to the Light House, his presence at the YFC booze-up with Matt, or maybe even the fact that he’d chosen Gavin Murfin to accompany him to the Whartons’.

  Whichever it was, he felt grateful for the results.

  ‘That would be very kind of you,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll see.’

  He looked round, and saw both Eliot and Kirsten watching disapprovingly. He wondered if there would be a family argument after he’d gone. They clearly didn’t trust him the way their mother had decided to.

  ‘The Light House was a good pub,’ said Cooper. ‘I remember when I was a teenager, the beer there was a revelation.’

  ‘Greene King,’ said Murfin.

  Cooper looked at Eliot Wharton for confirmation, forgetting the young man’s age because of the size and maturity of him.

  ‘Eliot doesn’t drink,’ said Nancy.

  ‘Because you’re not old enough?’ he asked in surprise.

  ‘No, I’m just not interested,’ said Eliot.

  ‘It must have been tough growing up in a pub, then. Or perhaps that’s why you don’t drink?’

  Eliot shrugged. ‘I can do without it. I see plenty of people who drink a lot making idiots of themselves all the time. What’s the point of it?’

  Then Cooper remembered what Niall Maclennan had told him, and re
alised that this young man would have seen his own father deteriorating through alcohol consumption. It was a bit too close to home when it was within the family. He decided it was probably best not to ask any more questions on the subject.

  ‘Still, you must all have found it very difficult moving from the Light House,’ he said, as he got ready to leave.

  Mrs Wharton winced, as if at a sudden pain. ‘It was awful. We knew we’d never be able to find anywhere else that would suit us. And this is where we ended up. Look at it. I know the town isn’t so bad, but this estate …’

  ‘Not so bad?’ said Eliot, a sudden anger in his voice. ‘I never wanted to live in Edendale. It’s a place where people come to die.’

  Cooper looked up sharply at the expression. He’d heard it often before. He knew it as a reference to the number of retired people who moved into the area when they wanted a bit of peace and quiet in their declining years. But said out loud, it sounded odd, as if Eliot was referring to something else entirely.

  Before he left the Whartons, Cooper paused in the doorway and turned.

  ‘I was in the pub earlier that week, Mrs Wharton,’ he said. ‘The night the Young Farmers’ party was held.’

  ‘Oh, I know you were,’ said Nancy. ‘I remember you very well. I almost had to get Maurice to throw you out. You were, well … how should I put it?’

  He held up a hand. ‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry.’

  She shrugged. ‘Well, there’s no point in apologising now, is there? It’s all water under the bridge. All just history.’

  ‘Was I …?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Was I very obnoxious? When I had too much to drink, I mean.’

  Nancy smiled sadly. ‘Don’t worry. You could never be as an obnoxious as some. There are people born into the world just to be a pain in the arse. You soon learn that in the pub trade.’

  As he left the house and walked the short length of scrubby garden to the gate, Cooper looked at the street packed with old council houses. Both sides of the road were lined solidly with cars for which there were no garages or off-road parking spaces.

  For a moment he was overwhelmed by the difference between this and the setting of the Light House – the wild open landscape, the sense of absolute isolation. Nature was right on the doorstep as you left the pub. All he saw here were clusters of wheelie bins, and motorbikes shrouded in multicoloured polyester covers.

  From Oxlow Moor, the views stretched for miles in every direction, to the glowering presence of Kinder Scout in the distance. Here, he saw no further than an identical house twenty yards away across the street.

  DI Hitchens tapped Cooper on the shoulder as he arrived back in the CID room at West Street.

  ‘Ben, don’t forget Henry Pearson is due to arrive with us this morning.’

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ said Cooper. ‘Is Mrs Pearson coming too?’

  ‘No, I understand it’s just her husband. I’m sure he will have planned it that way.’

  ‘To minimise the emotional complications, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What have we told Mr Pearson?’

  ‘Just that some items have been found that we believe belonged to his son and daughter-in-law, which we’d like him to help us identify. He didn’t question that; he hasn’t even asked what items we found. But he seems to have dropped everything to come straight up from Surrey.’

  ‘He’ll want to know more when he arrives.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure he will. But we need to be a bit discreet, Ben.’

  ‘Discreet? You mean we’re going to hold back some information?’

  ‘Yes. Until we’re, you know … sure.’

  ‘Sure about the identification of the items? Or sure that Mr Pearson hasn’t been involved in some kind of conspiracy over these last couple of years?’

  ‘It never does any harm to be certain,’ said Hitchens.

  Cooper felt a spasm of discomfort. That was going to be an awkward encounter. Relatives of victims often wanted to be told everything. It put a police officer in a difficult position to know far more than he was able to share.

  17

  Sometime during the past six months, Josh Lane had found himself a job at one of the biggest hotels in Edendale. Cooper had thought he might have moved on to a different industry altogether. Bar work wasn’t the best-paid occupation in the world, after all. But he supposed some people enjoyed it. Lane had stayed on at the Light House right to the end, so why shouldn’t he have looked for a similar job elsewhere?

  But the hotel he was employed at now was rather more upmarket than the Light House had ever been, not to mention much easier to find. It stood on a rise overlooking Edendale town centre, with a view over Victoria Park towards the town hall and the market square. It was favoured by the more well-heeled tourists, and by production companies filming at locations in the area.

  Lane was polishing glasses in a plush lounge bar behind the lobby. A few hotel guests sat around on sofas drinking coffee, rather than anything alcoholic. Cooper couldn’t recall the Light House ever serving coffee. Anyone who asked for it would have been pressing one of Mad Maurice’s red buttons.

  It smelled very good, though, and Cooper was pleased when Lane offered him one.

  ‘Latte?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘A pleasure.’

  Cooper sat on a high stool at the counter to drink his coffee. Lane was older than he’d expected. Another mistaken preconception perhaps. He’d imagined a young man in his twenties, maybe Australian, doing a bit of bar work before finding a real job in marine biology or whatever his degree had been in.

  But Lane was probably in his late thirties, a little over-weight, a discreet piercing in one ear, his hair gelled into short blond spikes.

  ‘Yes, I remember Merritt,’ he said when Cooper opened the subject.

  ‘Was there ever any trouble?’

  ‘With Aidan Merritt? No.’

  Cooper detected a subtle hint there. He felt he should take that reply as an invitation to ask a different question. There was a bit of information that Lane wasn’t going to volunteer, but it was there to be obtained if he persisted.

  ‘Who, then?’ he asked.

  ‘There were other customers who weren’t so well behaved as Aidan Merritt.’

  Okay, so that was the deal – Cooper needed to produce a name. He tried the first one that came to mind.

  ‘Ian Gullick?’

  ‘You’re close,’ said Lane.

  ‘This isn’t a guessing game,’ snapped Cooper.

  He immediately regretted losing his patience. Many individuals would clam up when they were spoken to the wrong way.

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ said Lane. ‘I’m just … well, I know we’re not exactly doctors or priests, but if people thought we were gossiping about them, it wouldn’t be good for business. I like to chat to my customers a bit – it makes them feel at ease. So they often end up telling me things they wouldn’t want to be passed on.’

  ‘Vince Naylor?’ said Cooper.

  Lane visibly relaxed.

  ‘So there was trouble involving the two visitors, the Pearsons?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘A customer who’d had far too much to drink started trying to chat up … what’s her name? Trisha. I’d rather not be too specific, but you’ve mentioned the name already, so you’re halfway there.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Anyway, he became a bit persistent, and it turned nasty very quickly. Her husband got into an argument with him. There would have been punches thrown, but Maurice stepped in.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He threw the drunk out, along with a couple of his friends who stuck up for him.’

  ‘But not the Pearsons.’

  ‘No, he let them stay. It wasn’t their fault, what had happened. Not at all. Though I think her hubby had a bit of a temper on him, you know. He looked like a man who’d try to sort out a problem with his fists, even if he was likely to come off worst. You
understand what I mean, don’t you? You can see it in their eyes sometimes. You can tell someone who is a little bit too close to the edge, and won’t take much pushing to go over.’

  ‘Yes, I know what you mean. I’ve seen people like that, especially when they’ve got a bit of alcohol inside them. Do you think Maurice Wharton could see it too?’

  Lane shrugged. ‘He’d run pubs for a long time. He must have seen plenty of customers like that. You develop a nose for trouble after a while, I reckon. You learn to spot the type.’

  ‘He had a pub over in Chesterfield for a while, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, and in a pretty rough area, not far from the football ground. Now that place was never known for its food and accommodation. It’s a real drinker’s pub.’

  ‘So Maurice had enough experience to judge the situation and step in at exactly the right moment.’

  ‘Yes, I reckon that would be a fair summary. His word was enough to sort it out at that point. He didn’t need to call the dogs.’

  ‘Dogs?’

  ‘He had two Alsatians that lived out the back of the pub. He’d call them if there was real trouble. Not that it happened often at the Light House. They came with him from the Dragon.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘The pub in Chesterfield. He needed them there.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I wasn’t up there at the Light House when it all kicked off, of course,’ said Lane. ‘I mean, the fuss about that couple going missing in the snowstorm. When the police arrived, it was Christmas Eve, as I recall – a Thursday. I’d done my last shift on the Tuesday night.’

  ‘Tuesday? Oh, and the pub wasn’t open after that, am I right?’

  ‘Yes. The Whartons liked to spend Christmas Day and Boxing Day on their own, as a family. So they always gave the staff a couple of days off. No one wants to work over that period anyway, if they can help it. And very few customers are interested in driving out on to the moors for their Christmas dinner, even when the weather isn’t as bad as it was then.’