No, it was the house that made him feel like this. He couldn’t escape the suspicion that the ghosts of his parents were still lurking in the dark corners of the hallway, peering out from behind the door of the snug, looking down from the banisters on the landing. Wherever he looked, his father and mother were almost there, but just out of sight. In a way, he still needed their approval, to know what they would have thought of the new woman in his life.
Chloe had raised an eyebrow in surprise when Ben led her to the back door of the farmhouse and entered without knocking. He paused for a moment, realising how odd it might look to some people. He’d never stopped thinking of Bridge End as his home, even though he’d lived in Edendale for years and now had his own house in Foolow. It would never have occurred to him to use the front door, or to knock and wait for someone to answer, the way visitors did. And he was certain Matt and Kate would have thought it very strange if he started to do that. They would take it as an insult. He’d be treating them as strangers instead of family.
‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘This is what we do here.’
‘Good job we’re not burglars, then.’
‘Oh, Matt would have his shotgun pointed at us by now.’
A look of concern crossed her face.
‘I’m joking,’ said Ben.
‘Right.’
He hoped he sounded convincing. The trouble was, Chloe knew perfectly well that Matt Cooper had been involved in an incident a few years ago when a would-be burglar had been shot and wounded right here in the farmyard. Matt had faced the prospect of prosecution for a while until the CPS had taken the view that it wasn’t in the public interest. There had been too many cases of that kind already, particularly in rural areas, and everyone knew what kind of outcry could be expected.
They stepped into the back hall, and Ben closed the door behind them.
‘Hello!’ he called. ‘We’re here.’
‘Come on in,’ answered Kate’s voice from the kitchen.
Ben put his head round the door. ‘Something smells good.’
Kate laughed, wiping her hands on a towel. ‘That’s what Matt always says.’
‘This is Chloe.’
‘Well, I thought it must be.’
The two women shook hands and appraised each other with that quick wordless assessment Ben had seen so often. It always made him wonder what passed between two women at a moment like this. It was as if they were communicating through some extra sense that he didn’t possess, like two dogs sniffing the air and reading everything in a scent.
The test seemed to be passed on both sides. Kate and Chloe smiled at each other.
‘We’re so glad to meet you at last,’ said Kate.
‘I hope you’re not going to say you’ve heard so much about me. I know none of it would be good.’
Ben heard an overly dramatic cough at his elbow and turned to find his niece Josie.
‘Oh, and this is—’ began Kate.
‘I’m Josie. Are you the one who cuts up dead bodies?’
‘Well, I suppose I am,’ said Chloe.
‘Brilliant.’
Over dinner, Josie couldn’t be restrained from bombarding Chloe Young with questions about death, body parts and mortuary instruments. Matt began to look increasingly unhappy as he ate. But he’d never had much control over the females in his family.
‘I blame you for this, Ben,’ said Matt afterwards, when they found themselves alone in a quiet moment.
‘For what?’
‘First Josie said she was going to join the police, and now apparently she wants to be a pathologist.’
‘She’ll grow out of it. She just gets enthusiasms.’
Matt grunted. ‘Always the wrong kind, though.’
‘She doesn’t want to come into farming, then?’
His brother’s expression turned sour again.
‘Nobody wants to come into farming,’ he said. ‘All everybody wants to do is get out.’
‘But you’ll never get out,’ said Ben. ‘Never.’
His brother scowled. ‘One day,’ he said, ‘they’ll carry out me out feet first. And what will become of Bridge End then?’
Ben couldn’t answer that. There was no vision of a rosy prospect he could offer Matt. He knew what his brother said was true. Bridge End Farm would have no future without Matt Cooper.
It was one of the leafier suburbs near Solihull, a road where the trees grew denser and street signs became fewer and further between.
As Diane Fry headed out into the countryside, Angie phoned. The line was very poor, with a lot of noise in the background.
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m driving,’ said Angie. ‘Listen . . .’
‘What is it?’
‘I forgot to say, don’t use your locker.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Your locker at the service station. Stay away from it for a while, that’s all.’
‘Why?’
But Angie had gone. Diane tried to dial again but got her recorded message. Her sister always liked to be a woman of mystery.
Fry drew her car onto the sweeping drive beyond the wrought-iron gates. The gates were open, because he was expecting her. But she knew the CCTV camera would be watching her as she approached. This was a man who didn’t take risks.
Looking at his house and picturing his grey skin and skeletal hands as he sat waiting for her in his study, she couldn’t help reliving for a moment her last visit here, when she was still trying to piece together what had happened the night of her rape, and why the case had collapsed so mysteriously despite a DNA match.
For some reason, within minutes of her arrival, William Leeson had been talking to her about blood.
‘That’s what we have to talk about, you and I,’ he’d said. ‘It’s all about blood.’
She hadn’t understood what he meant at first.
‘What blood?’
‘Mine,’ he said. ‘It was my blood at the scene of your assault. My blood the police got a DNA profile from. I pulled one of those boys off you, and he punched me in the face. I cut my hands on the fence, on the barbed wire. It was my blood, Diane. My blood was on you.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘You know what they say, Diane. Blood is thicker than water. You might not believe it right at this moment. But you’ll learn the truth soon enough, I think.’
‘I’ll tell you what I think. I think you’re the cause I was sacrificed for, the reason my case will never go ahead. I think this whole charade has been about saving your pathetic skin. Well, I guess you must have the right bits of dirty knowledge about the right people in this city.’
He’d provoked her until she’d been on the verge of unacceptable violence and she’d been forced to leave the house. She’d been able to sense some awful event about to happen, something that was completely out of her control. Reluctantly, Fry got out of her Audi. The soft-topped sports car she’d glimpsed in the garage on her previous visit now stood on the gravel at the side of the house, as if for a quick getaway. A classic car, with leather seats and a noisy exhaust. Hardly inconspicuous if you wanted to disappear.
William Leeson was in his mid-sixties, but he looked a lot older. His face was gaunt and grey, and his suit jacket hung as loosely from his shoulders as it would from a wooden clothes hanger. The life had gone from his hair, which had thinned so much she could see his pale scalp, speckled with liver spots. His bony fingers moved restlessly, jerking spasmodically as if jolted by a burst of electricity.
Fry could remember picturing him as an undertaker, because of his height and cadaverous appearance. Now he looked as though he belonged in the coffin rather than driving the hearse. His skin looked so brittle, as if it might flake away at any moment and expose the bone. There was no doubt some serious illness was sapping his life away.
But Leeson knew her, of course. She hadn’t changed that much.
‘I didn’t think I would ever see you again,’ he said.
‘That
’s the trouble with your mistakes. They keep coming back to haunt you.’
‘So are you going to keep haunting me for ever, Diane?’
‘I hope not. If I’m your nightmare, then you’re definitely mine.’
He smiled thinly. ‘Sit down. Can you at least bring yourself to do that? Would you like a drink? A gin and tonic? Or I have a nice Pinot Grigio.’
‘No, thank you. I’m driving.’
‘We wouldn’t want to break any laws, would we?’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time, for some of us.’
He poured himself a large whisky. ‘A fruit juice, perhaps? Something sharp but not too bad for your health.’
‘All right, if you insist.’
Fry looked around the room as he opened a bottle of J2O orange and mango. She didn’t know whether Leeson lived alone, if he was married or in a relationship. It was a big house for one person to live in alone. Five or six bedrooms, she imagined.
She gave an involuntary shudder. She’d just imagined William Leeson inviting her to stay overnight in one of his spare bedrooms. If she’d accepted a gin, that might have been the inevitable outcome. Her nightmare could have become a reality. What a narrow escape.
Suspiciously, Fry sniffed at the glass he gave her and took a tentative sip. It tasted OK.
Leeson was watching her expectantly.
‘So I imagine this is isn’t purely a social call,’ he said. ‘Speaking as one nightmare to another.’
‘I’m not sure you’d call it social.’
‘Not sure? Well, that’s something.’
‘I believe we have some unfinished business.’
‘Really? I thought it was over and done with myself.’
‘Apparently not.’
‘Go on.’
‘I have a problem. I think you might know something about it.’
He ran a finger round the rim of his glass. ‘I know about a lot of things. You have to ask me a specific question if you want to get answers.’
‘How did Professional Standards in Derbyshire get information about that time I came to Birmingham when my cold case was reopened? How did they know I met with Andy Kewley?’
He steepled his fingers. ‘That’s what you want to know?’
‘It’s what I asked.’
‘One of your former colleagues,’ said Leeson.
‘You know that? It sounded like a guess.’
‘It would seem to be a logical conclusion.’
‘Why do you have to make this such hard work?’
He’d finished his whisky and poured himself another. Fry saw then how badly his hands shook. A trickle of liquid missed his glass and splashed onto the table, where it lay glistening accusingly.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It makes me angry.’
She watched his skeletal hands twisting and turning restlessly.
‘You? What do you have to be angry about?’
‘They have no right. You do what you have to do, but some of them will still pursue you out of spite.’
‘Are you talking about me now? Or about yourself?’
He looked at her, his eyes cold and watery, his face an unhealthy pallor. Fry had a sudden flash of insight. She knew exactly what he was going to say next.
‘I don’t have much longer left to live,’ he said. ‘That sounds like such a cliché, doesn’t it?’
‘Totally. Is it true?’
‘Do you want to see my medical notes? I was diagnosed—’
‘I don’t want to know,’ interrupted Fry.
He smiled again. ‘And why should you?’
‘I suppose you’re going to say that knowing you’re dying makes you think differently about what you’ve achieved in your life?’ she said.
‘Achieved or not achieved. We all have failures. We’ve all made mistakes.’
‘I’m not going to feel sorry for you. You’re wasting your breath if that’s what you’re hoping for.’
‘I’d be disappointed in you if you did. You wouldn’t be the woman I know.’
Fry squirmed uncomfortably and put down her glass. Was it her imagination again or had he been about to say something else, use quite a different phrase to describe her? This time, he was the one who’d had a lucky escape. If he’d said those other words, the ones she never wanted to hear, she would have had no option but to punch him on the nose, sick or not. Her body had already tensed, her fist clenched instinctively. With an effort, she forced her hand to relax.
Leeson stood up, as if recognising the moment had come for her to leave. They no longer had anything left to say to each other.
‘I’m glad you came, though, Diane,’ he said. ‘If there’s one thing I can do for you, this may be it.’
Fry turned towards the door. She had no reason to feel grateful. He wasn’t doing her a favour, merely going a small way towards repaying a huge debt.
‘After all,’ he said, ‘I am your father.’
Fry flinched. But the moment had passed. She no longer felt like hitting anything, even him.
‘Not in any meaningful sense of the term,’ she said.
Leeson came to the door and watched her open her car.
‘Will I see you again, Diane?’ he said.
‘Not if I can help it.’
‘We’ll speak, then?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
Fry glanced in her rear-view mirror as she put her car into gear. She could see William Leeson standing in the doorway of his house, unnaturally pale and fragile. He looked nothing more than a ghost, haunting her from the past.
For a moment, she thought he would raise a hand to wave goodbye. But Leeson didn’t move. And his image gradually faded away as she drove towards the gate.
It had been Ben Cooper who broke the news to her that the DNA hit from the scene of her assault had been a familial match, indicating a close relative of the victim’s. A relative of hers.
‘A brother or a son,’ Cooper had said, ‘or—’
‘No.’
Fry shook her head, even as she thought about that moment.
A familial match. But to a family member she didn’t even know existed then. Of course, she’d known she had a biological father, but not who he was, or where. And she never had any interest in finding anything out about him. She’d hated him without even knowing who he was.
And now that she’d found him, she detested him even more.
It was late when Ben Cooper returned to his home in Foolow. There were no street lights in the village, only a few windows still lit at the Bull’s Head.
As he drew level with the cross on the village green, Cooper noticed the rear lights of a car pulling away from the kerb near his cottage. It looked like a small four-by-four. As it passed under his neighbour’s security light, its paintwork gleamed an eerie red for a moment before it disappeared up the hill towards Grindlow. Something about the car caught his attention, but it was too far away to get a registration number. Probably he was just being paranoid. Spending too much time with Diane Fry could do that to him.
Cooper parked his Toyota behind the cottage and let himself in through the back door. He listened for the bang of the cat flap, but realised he was much later home than usual and out of routine. Hope was already curled up in her basket by the radiator. She opened one eye, gave him an accusing glare, then went back to sleep.
‘Suit yourself,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a hard day too.’
He shrugged off his jacket and turned towards the kitchen to make himself a drink. When he came back, the cat was out of her bed and sitting in the middle of the rug, staring at the front door, her ears tilted forward like a pointer.
‘What’s up?’ said Cooper. ‘Mouse?’
He opened the door into the entrance hall and saw a large envelope stuck halfway through his letterbox.
‘That’s odd.’
He inspected the envelope carefully before sliding it clear and jumped as the letterbox sprang shut behind it with a loud clang.
It was mo
re than just an envelope. It was quite a thick package, which had only just fit through his door. The edges were scraped and torn where it had been pushed through with some force.
Cooper glanced out of the window at the darkened village, remembering the small red car that had pulled away as he entered Foolow. The post was often delivered late in the day in these rural villages. But not this late.
He took the package back into the sitting room and laid it on the table. Slowly, he slit one end open with a knife and slid out a pile of A4 sheets fastened together with a rubber band. He looked at the title on the top page.
‘Interesting,’ he said.
Behind him, the cat ran a paw over her whiskers and began to purr contentedly.
30
Thursday
Ben Cooper was out and about early next morning, just after dawn. It was his official rest day, and he had a few hours to kill before an appointment at four o’clock that afternoon. The weather was fine, and there was only one place in Derbyshire he thought of going.
The roads were quiet on the way into Hayfield. The white streams lying in the hollows like trails of smoke were only an early morning mist, not a sign of returning fog. It would soon burn off when the sun reached the valley.
In Hayfield, Cooper parked at Bowden Bridge and changed into his walking boots. He set off to climb onto White Brow, having decided to avoid the path to the south, where part of the River Kinder had found its own route down the hill from the dam and was flowing over the footbridge.
Even in summer Kinder Scout was no place for a solitary rambler. Pools formed deep enough to drown in. As the New Trespassers had found to their cost, a strong walker might leap from hag to hag before finally twisting an ankle or becoming exhausted. It could be days before another rambler passed that way.
Of course, it helped to be able to read a compass. You could get so disorientated traversing the bogs that you had no idea which direction you were heading, or where you were on the map. It was a truly unsettling feeling, especially if you were aware of the precipitous cliffs and steep drops onto shattered rocks. These days, people relied on mobile phones to get them out of trouble. But there were no phone masts on Kinder.
Fall Down Dead Page 24
