Dead And Buried (Cooper and Fry) Read online

  ‘So Maurice and Nancy would have been looking forward to a quiet time on their own with the kids.’

  ‘Right. They certainly wouldn’t have expected the police and mountain rescue teams all over the place two days after the pub had closed for Christmas.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  Lane laughed. ‘I can just imagine what Mad Maurice must have said to them. In a way, I wish I’d been there to hear it. I bet it was priceless.’

  ‘Yes, he’s known as quite a character.’

  ‘You can say that again. Everyone talks about Maurice Wharton. Even some of the staff here know of him.’

  Lane arranged some glasses on the shelf above his head, and cast an eye around the lounge to see if there were any customers requiring attention. But all was quiet. It was a little too quiet for Cooper’s liking, but that was probably why people came here.

  ‘Have you seen the Whartons since they left the pub, Mr Lane?’ he asked.

  ‘A couple of times. It was sad to visit them in that little council house. Losing the pub hit Nancy hard. I think Kirsten and Eliot were the worst affected, though. It was their life, the place they’d grown up in. They used to love being able to walk out of the door and wander about on the moors. And both of them detested the idea of moving into town and living on that housing estate. They even had to get rid of the dogs. To be honest, I’m surprised Eliot’s still there. But of course he was always devoted to his dad. He wouldn’t leave Maurice.’

  ‘I see. You must have got on all right with the Whartons. You worked at the Light House quite a while.’

  ‘Yes, it was fine once you got used to Mad Maurice. Everyone liked Nancy, and Eliot and Kirsten are nice kids. People could take or leave Maurice, I suppose. But he was the one who got all the attention.’

  ‘So what do you think went wrong at the Light House?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘Wrong? Oh, you mean the reason for it closing down?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Lots of things. I think it began when we had fewer pumps on the bar than there used to be. That’s a bad sign.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The number of pumps reflects your throughputs. You’ve got to shift lager and keg ale within five days, and cask in three. Beer is a living product, you see. Overstocking leads to fobbing and deterioration in quality. If you’re not going to sell the beer, you have to reduce the number of pumps. Maurice’s throughputs had been going down for years.’

  ‘Fobbing?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘Too much foaming when the beer is pulled through.’

  ‘Is the quality of beer that important?’

  ‘Of course. What do you think – that people just drink any old rubbish? Have you never heard of CAMRA?’

  ‘I suppose so. It just never occurred to me that beer quality might have contributed to the failure of the business.’

  ‘Well, there were other factors. All kinds of things might have affected the bottom line. Stock going out of date because of overordering, credit lost because goods were returned after their best before date. You can see there’s a cumulative effect.’

  ‘A slippery slope,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Exactly. I think it must have been difficult for the Whartons to get good staff, too. The students who worked there never had proper training. They were constantly spilling beer into the drip trays. Filling one tray a day with wasted beer is like losing fifteen thousand pounds’ worth of sales over the course of a year for a pub that size.’

  Cooper was impressed. ‘You’re very well clued up about the business.’

  ‘I’ve got qualifications, my friend. NVQ Level Three and a National Certificate.’

  Reluctantly Cooper put his empty cup down on the counter. ‘Thanks for the coffee. It was very good. All we get at the station is something hot and wet from a machine.’

  ‘No problem. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.’

  ‘Can I contact you here?’

  ‘I’ll write my mobile number down for you.’

  Lane scribbled the number on a sheet from an order pad and handed it to Cooper.

  ‘Of course, you realise it was all show,’ he said. ‘I mean that “mad Maurice” business. Maurice Wharton was a top landlord in his time. Good at his job, loyal to his customers. They were like a big family to him. If you showed that you were willing to fit in at the Light House, he’d do anything for you.’

  ‘Anything?’ said Cooper.

  Lane hesitated. ‘Well, yes – I think so.’

  At West Street, Luke Irvine had been busy tracking down the information that Cooper had asked him for.

  ‘Ian Gullick is a market trader. Forty-five years old, married with one grown-up child, a son. They live close by, in Lowtown. Nothing on him in the way of a criminal record. Vince Naylor is a couple of years younger, and has a house right here in Edendale. He seems to be a jack-of-all-trades. He’s had all kinds of work, mostly driving jobs. But he got a twelve-month ban for a drink-driving offence, so he had to take labouring jobs on local construction sites for a while. Now he’s set up his own business doing small-scale property maintenance – kitchens, bathrooms, driveways, patios. You know the sort of thing.’

  ‘What kind of vehicle does he drive?’

  Irvine looked up from his notes. ‘I don’t know. But I’ll find out.’

  ‘Gullick, too.’

  ‘I’m on it.’

  There was no escaping the fact that the night after the argument with Naylor, the Pearsons had left the George and were never seen again. Their behaviour up to that point had seemed perfectly normal. The original inquiry team had traced their movements over the previous couple of days before their evening in Castleton, hadn’t they?

  ‘Where else had the Pearsons been in this area, apart from the Light House?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘Earlier on the day they went missing, they’d stopped for petrol at the Sickleholme service station near Bamford,’ said Irvine. ‘They’d bought a hundred litres of unleaded, which was close to a full tank on a Ranger Rover III series.’

  ‘Sickleholme service station?’ said Cooper.

  ‘You know it?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  Everyone who drove up the Hope Valley towards Castleton knew the service station. It was located at the bottom of the road up to Bamford, right by the traffic lights on the A6187. But the name was particularly familiar to Cooper at the moment. The garage at Sickleholme had a fleet of wedding cars, including classic Bentleys. They were on a list.

  Irvine looked up, and Cooper nodded for him to continue.

  ‘When the car was found at the cottage after the Pearsons were reported missing, it still had almost a full tank,’ said Irvine. ‘From the service station they visited the Riverside Herb Centre just across the road, where the credit card receipt showed they bought cheese, olives and some herbal tea. Only the tea was found in the cottage when it was entered two days later.’

  He stopped speaking again, and Cooper realised that Irvine was looking at someone over his shoulder. There was only one person who could arrive so silently and immediately create such an air of tension around her.

  Diane Fry stood in the doorway with her shoulders hunched as if she was cold.

  ‘So where do you stand on this case, DS Cooper?’ she said. ‘What theory are you pursuing?’

  Cooper could tell by her tone that she welcomed the opportunity to put him on the spot. And not just her tone either, but the use of his rank and surname. It was too formal, as if she was deferring to his position, respecting his opinion. But everyone in the room knew different.

  ‘Would it surprise you if I said I was keeping an open mind?’ he said mildly. ‘We need more evidence one way or the other. At the moment, the bloodstained clothing is definitely leading towards the conclusion that foul play is involved in the disappearance of the Pearsons.’ He saw Fry beginning to smile. ‘But it’s not enough without some confirmation.’

  ‘You want a body?’ she said.

&
nbsp; ‘That would help.’

  ‘What about these other visitors who spoke to the Pearsons the previous night?’ asked Irvine tentatively. ‘We haven’t even made a start on trying to trace them.’

  Fry shook her head. ‘I think they’re a red herring. Four red herrings, in fact. I mean, four unidentified strangers? It seems a bit like overkill to me.’

  ‘You don’t think they’re important at all?’

  ‘No, of course not. In my opinion, it’s a deliberate effort to distract our attention. We could be chasing our tails for months trying to find those people.’

  ‘But they could have information that would help,’ said Irvine. ‘One of the Pearsons might have let something slip about what they intended to do.’

  ‘Seriously? If the Pearsons were plotting to do a bunk, I can’t imagine they would have said anything to give the plan away. Especially not to complete strangers they met in the pub.’

  ‘If they were strangers. We don’t know that for sure. Whoever these people were, they might have been part of the plan.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. Their role could have been to pick David and Trisha up at a quiet spot where they wouldn’t be seen, and whisk them away.’

  But Fry was still shaking her head. ‘It doesn’t make any sense. Why let themselves be seen talking to the Pearsons at the Light House, then? If the plan was so good that two people were able to just vanish off the face of the earth without leaving a trace, that incident doesn’t fit. It would be a major flaw in the planning.’

  ‘Something could have gone wrong,’ said Irvine uncertainly.

  ‘I don’t buy it.’

  ‘Well that’s a shame.’

  Fry looked at him.

  ‘So you’re not even convinced by the bloodstains on the anorak found buried in the peat on Oxlow Moor?’

  ‘It could be part of the plan.’

  ‘Even if the blood is identified as David Pearson’s?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be too difficult for Pearson to smear some of his own blood on his clothes and leave them for us to find.’

  ‘But he didn’t do that. They were buried.’

  ‘Our hopes are resting on forensics, then,’ put in Cooper. ‘As always.’

  ‘Not quite always. But still …’

  ‘They ought to get something off the items dug out of the peat,’ he said. ‘I know there will have been some deterioration, but we’d be very unlucky to get nothing at all. Haven’t we had any results back yet?’

  ‘Still waiting.’

  Cooper stared at Fry. He found he just didn’t believe her. Forensic results could be slow, it was true. But he was sure that she was lying to him in this instance. Why would she do that?

  Henry Pearson was almost exactly as Cooper had pictured him. He was a tall man, with grey hair and sharp, intelligent eyes that turned to deep pools of sadness when his face was at rest. Most of the time he was far from at rest. Pearson fixed his gaze on each of the officers in the room by turn, studying them as if he was trying to see right into their hearts. When he’d been round the room once, he started all over again, perhaps hoping he might see something different next time.

  At the same time he was listening intently to everything that was said. He’d brought a briefcase with him, and opened it to pull out a leather-bound pad. Cooper watched him write a careful note of the date and time, and the place of the meeting. Underneath, he listed the names of the police officers present. He made notes as Superintendent Branagh spoke, but still looked up periodically to examine the reactions of the people round him.

  ‘Naturally, Mr Pearson, in light of the new evidence, we’re reopening the inquiry into the disappearance of your son and his wife,’ said Branagh, seeming a little unsettled by Pearson’s manner.

  ‘Reopening?’ said Pearson. ‘I was under the impression that the case was never actually closed. Am I wrong in that?’

  ‘No, sir. The inquiry is active, and always has been. But the fact is, we exhausted all the avenues. It’s only the new evidence we’ve turned up that has given us fresh leads to follow.’

  ‘Is there a question of resources?’

  ‘There’s always a question of resources.’

  ‘If money would help …’ said Pearson.

  As one, the officers in the room bristled, their faces a mixture of indignation and panic. The mere suggestion that someone had offered financial inducements was enough to cause consternation. Cooper imagined the investigations that might follow. A neighbouring force sent in to examine procedures and records, probing questions about bank balances … It was everyone’s worst nightmare.

  But that wasn’t what Mr Pearson meant. He scanned the shocked faces, and almost smiled. It was no more than a twitch of the lips, which disappeared as quickly as it had come. But in that one second, Cooper saw that their visitor had a sense of humour, and he began to warm to him a little.

  ‘I mean, in order to encourage witnesses to come forward, of course,’ said Pearson. ‘That’s normal practice, isn’t it? I’ve seen it done in other cases.’

  ‘A reward?’ asked Branagh, an audible hint of relief in her voice.

  ‘If that’s what you call it. If it might help to overcome the reluctance of certain individuals, I would be happy to put some cash up. If someone is still hesitating over what they should do, a reasonable amount of money could tip the balance in our favour, couldn’t it?’

  ‘It’s true,’ put in Hitchens, with a glance at Branagh. ‘We’ve had results that way in the past.’

  ‘Perhaps we can make a decision on that in a few days’ time. Let’s see what progress we can make in the meantime, shall we?’

  ‘All right. I suppose I’ll have to accept that.’

  ‘Mr Pearson, can I ask you something? Do you remain convinced that your son and his wife have met with a violent end?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He hesitated. ‘Obviously I’m very well aware of the stories that have been going round over the past couple of years. All that nonsense on the internet, all those wild theories. Every one of them is ludicrous. It’s inconceivable that David and Patricia would have somehow managed to disappear and change their identities. If my son had known he was accused of doing something wrong, he would have stayed to face the music. He would have wanted to clear his name. He is not the type to run away.

  ‘There’s one more thing I want to say,’ added Pearson.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Unlike most of you, I’ve spent every day and every week of the past two and a half years looking for my son and his wife. I’ve given every minute of my time to trying to locate David and Patricia, wherever they may be.’

  Pearson looked around the room again, giving them the benefit of his steady gaze.

  ‘And that,’ he said, ‘is despite the fact that I’ve never been entirely sure, deep in my own heart, that there was still someone alive to look for.’

  18

  The sense of isolation struck Cooper every time he got out of his car at the Light House. It wasn’t just the feel of the wind on his face as it swept over the bare acres of moor. It wasn’t the silence either, which was almost unnatural given the attention the old pub was getting. The isolation seemed to be a quality in the character of the building itself.

  It wouldn’t always have been like this. The old roads had come this way, the packhorse ways and traders’ routes – all the local foot and cart traffic that had followed the departure of the Romans from Britain. The Light House would have gradually grown up to service the passing trade, becoming a place to rest and change the horses before crossing the moor to markets in Chapel-en-le-Frith and Buxton.

  But the people who’d come along later and built the modern road system had different ideas. They preferred to travel in the valleys, and take a more circuitous route to their destination. So the A625 and the A623 had developed, and taken all the traffic away to the north and south of Oxlow Moor, leaving the Light House isolated despite its prominent location.

>   From the first-floor windows the Whartons could have looked out and seen cars moving on both main roads in the distance, knowing that very few of those drivers would ever find their way to the pub.

  Right now, a crime-scene tent stood incongruously in the middle of a vast expanse of blackened vegetation, like the aftermath of a nuclear blast. Black dust covered everything, and wisps of smoke and steam trailed into the air. The heat from the ground could still be felt, yet the peat squelched wetly underfoot.

  There had been more than twenty pumps on site for over a week as the fire continued to burn. United Utilities staff were out in two Argocats with fire fogging units. Fogging had been developed to fight fires with low water volume, producing a high-density fog of water droplets that turned very quickly to steam and absorbed large amounts of heat.

  Digging in the peat was going to be a long, laborious job. The smoke rolling across the moor made it look more dangerous than it probably was.

  ‘If the wind changes and the fire begins to move this way, the fire service will have to abandon the moor and concentrate on protecting these buildings,’ said Wayne Abbott, pulling off his face mask.

  ‘Any more finds?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘Not so far.’

  ‘I’m not sure if that’s good news, or bad.’

  Cooper gazed into the trench that was slowly being dug into the peat. He half expected to see a human hand or foot protruding from the ground, stained brown but perfectly preserved. If the Pearsons were buried here, theirs wouldn’t be the first bodies to emerge from the peat bogs.

  In the village of Hope, legend had it that the corpses of a grazier and his maidservant who had died from exposure on the moors thirty years previously were once put on public display. The two bodies had been so well preserved by the peaty soil that they were kept on show for twenty years before eventually being given a decent burial.

  Inhabitants of the Peak District seemed to have had an interest in preserving bodies. According to one old Peakland custom, the soul of a dead person could be purified by laying a heap of salt on the corpse’s chest. A parson who called at a Calver farmhouse on the death of one of his parishioners was said to have been horrified when he found the whole body pickled in salt.