But it had been impossible to escape completely. Ben had read in the papers that the church had been full. Many of the mourners had been former customers of the Light House, who wanted to remember the old Mad Maurice they’d known and treasured for his famous irascibility. Others in church were merely curious, or ghoulish. Some were anxious to get a glimpse of the widow, or of Eliot himself and his prison escort – hoping to see him in shackles perhaps, like a Death Row inmate on the chain gang. A few just wanted to be present at an event they regarded as a piece of history – no different in essence from attending the London Olympics, or taking part in a Diamond Jubilee street party. It was in the papers and on the news. The TV cameras were outside. They might get interviewed by the BBC. And that was enough of a draw. Maurice Wharton had attracted attention, even in death.
The Crown Prosecution Service had yet to decide how many charges they would finally proceed with against Eliot Wharton. There might be two allegations of murder, and one of attempted murder. If a guilty plea was agreed with the defence, one of the charges might be reduced to manslaughter. That would suggest Liz’s death had just been an unfortunate outcome, the unintended consequence of arson and criminal damage.
Well, at least the young Wharton would end up in prison, somewhere like Dovegate or Gartree. That much was pretty certain. Risley wasn’t a pleasant place to spend your time on remand, but it was nothing compared to some of the Category B prisons that a lifer could be sent to. In the final reckoning, the system would have enacted its flawed version of justice.
‘You don’t still believe in the justice system, do you?’ said Matt. ‘You can’t now, not after everything that’s happened.’
He picked up a lump of rock and squeezed it tightly. It filled his huge fist and Ben expected to see it shatter into fragments at any moment. Instead, his brother drew back an arm and hurled the rock as far as he could. It bounced off the top of the massive wall and flew out into space. Ben heard it a few seconds later, rattling down the slope, the sound getting fainter and fainter until it finally stopped.
‘I mean,’ said Matt. ‘That barman. How can he not be locked up? It’s a travesty.’
Yes, there was the barman. Josh Lane. That was a different case entirely. The CPS had concluded there wasn’t enough evidence to make a charge of murder stand. No one involved in the incident at the Light House could be persuaded to testify that the barman had taken part in the fatal assault on two tourists, David and Trisha Pearson, who had died at the Light House more than two years ago.
He had certainly been present at some stage in Room One, the Bakewell Room, where the Pearsons had been staying. But the tiny quantity of his blood recovered from the crime scene was too little to prove that he’d been involved in a fight. Lane had confessed to helping to deal with the aftermath. The DNA profile obtained from the blood trace by forensics put him at the scene, so he had little choice. But the blood was only from a scratch, he said.
After the amount of time that had passed, and as a result of the clean-up carried out by the Whartons in Room One, nothing else could be proved. There were too many evidential weaknesses. No realistic prospect of a conviction. It was in the nature of the criminal justice system that the outcome of a case depended on the way a story was told. The prosecution presented a narrative which depicted the defendant as guilty. But the defence would tell a very different story, an alternative version of the same real-life events. They would dwell on the possibilities, highlight the ambiguities that the prosecution had tried to ignore. A change in emphasis was all that was needed to cast new light on a situation, to suggest a defendant’s innocence, to put that all-important reasonable doubt into a juror’s mind.
So the more serious charges had failed the Full Code Test at the evidential stage, and the CPS had no choice but to refuse to charge. A case which didn’t pass that stage couldn’t proceed, no matter how serious or sensitive it might be.
Instead, Lane had been charged with two counts of perverting the course of justice, once after the death of the Pearsons, and once for the assistance he’d given to Eliot Wharton in the arson case. And now he was out on bail. Cooper had details of the address specified in the bail conditions, and knew that Josh Lane was currently living in a park home near Cromford.
‘Perhaps we should do something about it,’ said Ben. ‘Don’t you think?’
Matt froze. After a moment, his chin sank and his shoulders hunched up towards his ears. Ben hardly dared to look at him. He knew the expression that he’d find on his brother’s face. A pig-headed stubbornness. He’d been like that all his life, but became more and more stubborn when he knew he was in the wrong. If pushed, he’d dig himself in and become impossible to shift. He was like an old tree stump that needed explosives to root it out of a field to make way for the plough.
It was only what he’d expected. People had become so predictable, and there seemed to be no exceptions. He walked a few paces away, letting the wind blow in his face. He could see the clouds moving over the valley from Mam Tor, growing darker and darker as they came. It would rain again soon.
Chapter Thirteen
Fry had visited Prospectus Assurance before. She recognised the buildings rather than the name. Perhaps the company had changed hands or rebranded itself. That happened all the time, small outfits being swallowed up by bigger and bigger ones, almost always followed by a new name and a different image. All those changes made it difficult to keep track of a company’s history – and perhaps that was the whole point of the exercise.
Nathan Baird was thin and angular, and dressed in a suit that hung all wrong for his shape. He had dark designer stubble and little wings of sideburn which seemed intended to enhance his already sharp cheekbones. Sharp was a good word for him. He was on the young side, too, to be Glen Turner’s line manager and sitting in a separate office of his own, away from the cubicles and rows of computer terminals with operators mouthing their lines into head microphones, like a set of Britney Spears imitators. He clutched at the oak finish desk in front of him as if it was a form of protection or security. A symbol, perhaps, of his position in the hierarchy.
‘Glen, Glen. I can’t get over it,’ Baird was saying. He shook his head, the empty shoulders of his suit jacket flapping like the sides of a tent in a stiff wind.
‘Did anything unusual happen here on Tuesday?’ asked Fry, when she and Irvine had been shown into his office.
‘What? With Glen Turner, you mean? No, nothing unusual. Was that the day he died?’
‘It seems so. He came into work as normal, then?’
‘He came in as normal, left as normal at the end of the afternoon. I’m sure he did a normal day’s work in between. That was Glen, really. Nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘Was Mr Turner a good worker?’ asked Fry. ‘He’d been with you for quite a while, we understand.’
‘With Prospectus, yes,’ said Baird. ‘I haven’t been his line manager all that long. Personally, I’m a bit of a high-flyer, you might say. I had my talents spotted. So Prospectus poached me from—’
‘Yes, sir. But Mr Turner?’
‘Ah, well. Glen was never a high-flyer of any kind. But solid enough, I suppose.’ He looked round the office. ‘I can get someone to dig a bit of information out of his personnel file, if you want.’
‘That would be useful, sir. But your personal impressions are more helpful at this stage.’
Baird steepled his bony fingers together and smiled as if she’d paid him a compliment. Did he think that everything was about him? Well, maybe it was. Fry found herself hoping that the inquiry would turn up some form of secret relationship between Glen Turner and his manager, which would allow her the chance to get Baird in an interview room without the security of his office and desk.
First, Baird signalled to someone through the glass partition, and a youth appeared at the door. He had red cheeks and wore a tie loosely knotted round an unfastened shirt collar, as if he was still at school and making a statement about his re
sistance to the uniform. Baird gave him instructions for the personnel file, and he scurried off. A blonde woman seated at the end of the row of desks watched him go, and cast a curious glance into the manager’s office. Somehow, Baird seemed to be aware of her interest.
‘You can’t use one of the girls for that sort of job now,’ he said. ‘It would be considered sexist. We operate on very strict equality guidelines here at Prospectus Assurance.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. I’ll bear that in mind if I’m ever looking for a change of career,’ said Fry.
Baird studied her as if she’d just come in for a job interview. ‘Well, you’d probably bring some unique abilities to the job, Sergeant. Are you interested in insurance?’
Fry swallowed a response, aware of Luke Irvine hiding a smile. There was no point in explaining to someone like Baird that she’d been joking. If he didn’t see it the first time, she was wasting her breath. He probably imagined she was so impressed with such a high-flying manager that she was desperate to work for him.
‘I’m sure you’re busy, sir,’ said Fry. ‘So perhaps we could concentrate on Glen Turner.’
‘Indeed. My personal impressions.’
‘I’m wondering in particular if Mr Turner seemed worried about anything recently. Did he have any problems at work? Any disciplinary issues?’
‘No, no. We’re a happy ship here in Claims. No problems. Or, if there are, I soon sort them out. My door is always open. The staff know that.’
Out of the corner of her eye, Fry could see the flushed youth hovering a few yards away on the other side of the partition. He was clutching a manila file, but he didn’t seem to know what to do with it. Should he wait until he was summoned into the office? Or did the task of fetching the file give him permission to knock on the door and interrupt? She could see the conflict written all over his face and in his nervous body language.
‘Your staff are happy to come and talk to you, sir?’ asked Fry.
‘Of course, any time. Look at my ID. My badge says “Nathan”, not “Mr Baird” or “Team Leader” – even though that’s what I am.’
‘Very good.’
That was using symbolism as a substitute for people skills, as far Fry was concerned. A badge was an awful lot cheaper than employing someone who actually knew how to manage staff. But it was nothing new, and certainly not unique to Prospectus Assurance. Police forces used it all over the country. Everyone did, if it cut costs.
‘So how much do you know about Mr Turner’s personal life?’
‘His personal…?’
‘His life outside the office. His home, family, his personal relationships, his interests?’
‘Well. Er…’
‘Did you ever speak to his mother, for example?’
‘Why would I speak to his mother?’
‘That’s who Mr Turner lived with.’
Baird laughed. ‘Is it? He must have been, what? Thirty-seven? And he lived with his mum?’
‘Mrs Turner was advised by a police officer to phone here when she reported that her son hadn’t come home. So who would she have spoken to, if it wasn’t you, sir?’
He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the cubicles. ‘I don’t know. Someone out there. The switchboard wouldn’t have put a call like that through to me.’
Baird seemed to notice the hovering youth outside for the first time, and gestured to him irritably. The young man came in and handed him the file without a word.
‘Thank you, Aaron,’ he said.
He waited until the boy had gone, and grimaced at Fry. ‘Aaron, I ask you. Why do so many parents give their kids these ridiculous biblical names?’
Fry hesitated. ‘Perhaps they’ve never read the Bible and wouldn’t know a biblical name when they heard one, Nathan.’
‘You’re probably right. Ignorance is everywhere.’
He thumbed casually through the personnel file as if he’d never set eyes on one before and wasn’t really interested in seeing one now.
‘Glen Turner, yes. Glen was a multi-line adjuster.’
‘Meaning what?’ asked Irvine.
‘He handled different types of claim. Some adjusters just deal with property claims, or liability cases like motor accidents or personal injuries. Turner had the experience to handle more than one type. He was multi-line.’
‘I see. Does that mean he was particularly good at the job?’
Baird smiled at Irvine. ‘Well, not necessarily. And certainly not in Glen’s case. I’d say from his employment record that he was competent across the board, but not brilliant at anything in particular. You know the sort of employee I mean?’
‘Yes,’ said Fry. ‘I believe we have that sort of employee in the police service too.’
‘Of course you do. If he was outstanding in any specific area, it’s likely he would have been promoted long before now.’
‘Ah. Well, that’s where our areas of business differ, then.’
He looked at her expectantly, with a faint smile. This time, he’d almost recognised the joke from her tone of voice, but seemed to be waiting for a punchline. When it didn’t come, he continued as if she hadn’t spoken at all.
‘My personal impressions, that’s what you asked for. Well, I think the word I’d use about Glen is “geeky”. He was a hard worker, no doubt about it. He’d studied the business, gained his qualifications and all that. But I never got the impression he had any wider awareness of the day-to-day issues that his policyholders had to deal with.’
‘No personal experience of life, then. And no outside interests, perhaps.’
‘Yes, you’re right. I think that’s what it was. Good insight.’
‘All part of the job,’ said Fry.
‘Well, that meant Glen didn’t have much conversation. It made him a bit boring, you know. And insurance isn’t supposed to be boring.’
‘Isn’t it?’
Baird waved a hand, as if swatting a small fly. ‘Absolutely not. It’s a common misconception among the public. Here in Claims, we deal with claimants in all kinds of difficult circumstances. You’d be surprised, you really would. We have to learn how to deal with people sensitively.’
‘I’m sure you do. None of us ever stop learning, do we?’
He clasped his fingers together in mock delight. ‘I certainly hope not. I look forward to learning new things every day at Prospectus Assurance.’
Fry looked down at the file Baird had handed her. It was pretty thin. Its slimness suggested that Glen Turner’s employers knew as little about him as his team leader claimed. She wondered what new things Turner had been learning during his time at Prospectus. Whatever they were, she suspected they weren’t recorded in this file. Luke Irvine ought to have taken up the questioning when she paused, but Fry realised he wasn’t going to.
‘You have a lot of female employees here, Mr Baird,’ she said.
‘Certainly. They’re good workers. They don’t last very long, mind you. About eighteen months on average. We have quite a bit of churn in this department.’
‘Churn?’
‘Turnover. Old staff leaving, new employees arriving. It’s like a revolving door sometimes.’
‘They go on to do other things?’
‘They take up all kinds of opportunities when they leave Prospectus Assurance. We give them a good grounding in essential work skills, and they go off to make use of them elsewhere.’
Fry nodded. Or more likely they couldn’t stand the job for any longer than eighteen months. She wouldn’t last anywhere near that long herself if she had Nathan Baird as a manager.
She looked at the row of call handlers. ‘Did Glen Turner have any relationships with the female staff?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘It has been known.’
‘It’s against policy. We try very hard to discourage it. During working hours, at least. That would be very inappropriate.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting they were going at it in the stationery cupboard all day lon
g,’ said Fry.
Baird looked shocked. ‘I should hope not. What sort of company—?’
‘But relationships are often formed in the workplace, aren’t they? Everyone knows that. It’s the most common way of meeting a future partner. So it’s a perfectly reasonable question. One of these women working out there in the cubicles, perhaps? They must stop for a break occasionally, since they’re not robots. What about the blonde one at this end, in the blue sweater? The woman who keeps looking this way, wondering what we’re talking about?’
Baird’s eyes flickered rapidly backwards and forwards in a desperate effort not to look at the woman Fry was referring to. Of course, he was afraid she would meet his eye, and that would be a complete giveaway. He began to go faintly pink with the strain.
‘I—’ he said. ‘Well…’
Fry could have put him out of his misery and told him she’d guessed several minutes ago. His reaction to the hook she’d offered confirmed her supposition. But she let him stew for a while, and watched him shuffle uncomfortably on his chair. They were both aware that the blonde woman was staring unashamedly now, no doubt seeing Baird’s discomfort and recognising that something was wrong. Fry turned slightly and gave her a smile. It wasn’t her friendliest smile. The woman flushed, straightened her headset, and went back to her screen.
She looked back at Baird again.
‘What’s her name?’
He cleared his throat nervously. ‘Dawn.’
‘Married?’
‘I … Well, it’s not…’
Fry shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter, sir. We’re not investigating your affairs, are we?’
‘Er, no.’
‘But your friend Dawn might have mentioned something.’
‘I never knew Glen Turner to show any interest in the female employees. And I’ve never heard it spoken about by … well, by any of the staff … that he made approaches of that kind. It’s the sort of thing you do hear about in an office environment, if it happens.’
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