And there he was, stepping out of his door and looking up at the sky, smoking a cigarette. Lane looked the way he always had, since Cooper first met him at the Grand Hotel in Edendale. He was thirty-seven years old, a little overweight, with that discreet piercing in one ear, and his hair still gelled into short, blond spikes. From his appearance, you might think that nothing much had happened in his life during the last few months, except for a trip to the chemist’s to buy a new tube of hair gel.
He was dressed in much the same way Cooper had last seen him too, denims and a sweatshirt. The casual gear had never suited him – he was a little too close to middle age to carry off the jeans. But his hair was still as neatly groomed, the discreet piercing in place, his smile permanently affable. He still looked like the member of staff he’d met at the hotel, ready to be of service, more than willing to help with Cooper’s questions about his time at the Light House. The co-operative Josh Lane.
He no longer had the bar job at the Grand, though. Now he was living on benefits, and staying in this mobile home park, which looked much more downmarket than the one across the river that Cooper was familiar with, the park where they didn’t even allow children. There were plenty of kids here, some of the younger ones running about between the pitches, jumping over fences where there were any, making the dogs bark in excitement.
It was no surprise that the hotel had dispensed with his services. Lane had a criminal record. A couple of convictions under the Misuse of Drugs Act, when he was fined for possession of Class B drugs. Cannabis and amphetamines. There were indications from intelligence that he’d also been involved in a small-scale Ecstasy trade at the Light House after it began to attract a younger clientele. He’d been investigated for supply, but never brought to court.
Lane had been lucky there. Courts could impose a maximum sentence of fourteen years for dealing, even Class B. If only someone had made a decision to put more resources into investigating those allegations more closely, Josh Lane might have been part-way through serving that fourteen-year prison sentence right now. At least the Whartons would have had to look elsewhere for assistance. Cooper knew it might not have saved Liz’s life – but at least he wouldn’t be looking at a situation where justice blatantly hadn’t been done.
He shook his head quietly. There were far too many ‘if onlys’. No matter how many of them you piled up in your imagination, they were never going to amount to anything useful.
Whenever there was a gap in the traffic on the A6, Cooper could hear the river. The Derwent was in spate, many thousands of gallons of water added to its flow by the rainfall running off the surrounding hillsides and crashing downstream from Matlock towards the mills in Cromford and Belper.
Today, news reports said that there were flood alerts in place right across the region, the last stage before a full-scale flood warning, when people were advised to take immediate action against the threat of flooding. Monitoring sensors located in the rivers at key points measured changes in the water levels. Data was recorded at fifteen-minute intervals, so the flood alerts were usually pretty accurate.
But high levels in the rivers weren’t the only problem. Cooper knew how difficult it was to predict the exact location of flooding from groundwater, which was often related to local geology. No one could say for sure which properties were at risk of groundwater flooding. Add the complication of blocked culverts and drains, and thousands of acres of land already sodden from weeks of heavy rain, and flash floods could happen anywhere.
All of this stretch of the River Derwent was at risk. Just downstream was the Wigwell Viaduct carrying the Cromford Canal over the river, close to High Peak Junction. The lowlying fields on either side of the Derwent had flooded regularly in the past, and no doubt they would again. Millions of pounds had been spent on flood defences in the region, but only for the cities.
Cooper waited until it was dark, then turned the Toyota on the verge and spun his tyres deliberately in the mud as he accelerated away from Derwent Park. He crossed the river at Whatstandwell and let the car take its own direction through the network of roads around Wirksworth.
The rain began to come down harder, and cars became fewer and further apart. Very soon, he was driving too fast for the conditions. Water sluiced across his windscreen in torrents, the rain obscuring his view much faster than his wipers could clear it. The road was wet, with pools of standing water that appeared suddenly in the flash of his headlights and disappeared again a second before he hit them. Poor visibility and a dangerous road surface. It was a lethal combination that drivers were warned about constantly.
He had no idea where the figure came from. One second, he could see nothing but an empty road through the streaked glass, a bend a hundred yards ahead and overhanging trees cascading sheets of water on the muddy verges. In the next instant there was something moving in front of him, a shape slithering down the bank on his right and running into the roadway. It wasn’t a dog or a fox, or even a deer. It was upright on two legs, arms thrashing wildly in the air as it ran, light reflecting off wet clothes, spray flying from the tarmac as its feet hit the surface.
‘What the—!’
Cooper’s foot hit the brake pedal and the car began to slide, the tyres pushing up a surge of water that hit the stone wall like a tidal wave. Steer into a skid. He swung the steering wheel, aware of his headlights swaying crazily from side to side, illuminating the trees, and then the road, and then a figure standing on the white line, a white face turned towards him in astonishment, not knowing which way to run. As he fought to get the car under control, he lost sight of the figure again. When he finally slithered to a halt, cursing loudly at the windscreen, the runner had gone.
Cooper sat for a long time, gripping the wheel tightly, staring out at the rain pouring down on his car out of the darkness. The engine had stalled, but the wipers were still thrashing backwards and forwards, their insistent rhythm the only sound in the night. His heart was thumping as fast as the wipers, and his eyes strained to see anything that might be lying in the road. He twisted in his seat to look behind the car, but there was nothing.
After a while, his heart began to slow, the adrenalin surge subsided, and he realised the Toyota was sitting diagonally across the narrow road, blocking both carriageways. Lucky that there was no traffic tonight. Only a solitary person, who’d been running somewhere in the rain.
Cooper started the engine. His headlights flickered and brightened. The angle of the stationary car meant the lights on full beam were pointing at the woods on the far side of the road. They fell directly on a white painted sign, which leaped out of the night like a barn owl opening its wings for flight, the brightness startling and uncanny in the surrounding darkness. What did that sign say? He couldn’t make out the words from here.
He put the car in gear and pulled it into the side of the road under the trees, where it was out of the way of traffic. Then he dug his Maglite out of the glove compartment, opened the door and walked across to the sign. Oblivious to the rain soaking his hair and clothes, Cooper pointed his torch at the board and read the words written carefully in black paint.
A.J. MORTON & SONS, NEXT TURNING ON THE RIGHT.
Where had he seen that before? A.J. Morton & Sons. It was strange how memories suddenly swam out of the darkness, appearing as half-seen shapes from a cloud of mist or smoke. It felt as though his mind was trying to suppress the memory of more recent events by tossing up random fragments of recollection to distract him, like the metallic chaff discharged by military aircraft to confuse a guided missile.
Cooper shook his head in bewilderment, scattering raindrops into the night. A.J. Morton & Sons. It came from way back.
He flinched in pain as something dripped on to his face. It was hot and scalding, like melted wax. He brushed the blob from his cheek and saw a smear of green, molten plastic on his fingers. Shielding his eyes, he looked up at the ceiling. The light fittings were melting. They had once been shaped like candles, but now they were drooping, slowly dissolvi
ng into liquid that spattered his scene suit and landed in his hair.
He pulled his jacket over his head, conscious as he did it how futile a gesture it was. His protection wouldn’t last long once the flames touched him. He had to keep moving.
Cooper turned back towards the bar. Glowing embers faced him. Before he could move, a shelf bearing a line of optics tore away from the ceiling with a shriek and crashed to the floor. Glass flew in all directions, shattering into fragments, glittering in the flames like a shower of meteorites.
He pulled open the blackened door, keeping his body behind it in case of a back blast caused by a rush of air. The door handle was almost too hot to touch. Cooper looked at his hands, and saw that his fingers were red and blistering. The pain hadn’t hit him yet, but it would.
He glimpsed something red on the wall by the door. A fire extinguisher. He grabbed it from its bracket, thumped the handle and sprayed foam towards the heart of the blaze. It subsided a little, and he kept spraying until the extinguisher was empty. Immediately, the fire flickered and sprang back to life.
‘Liz! Where are you?’
Chapter Seventeen: Friday
The smell of disinfectant, the gleam of polished steel, an echo of footsteps off the cold tiles. Nothing spoke more clearly of death. The sensations of the mortuary had become so familiar to Diane Fry that she knew she’d experience them all over again one day, in her own dying moments. She was convinced she’d smell that odour on her deathbed, hear the echo of approaching footsteps as she breathed her last. The glint from a steel table, the flash of light on a scalpel – they were the last images she would see as her eyes closed in death.
Yes, and probably the person who’d be waiting for her on the other side would be the Edendale pathologist, Dr Juliana van Doon. The angel of death in a green apron and a medical mask. Then she would know whether she was in heaven or hell.
‘Detective Sergeant Fry,’ said the pathologist. ‘Interesting to see you back here again.’
‘Interesting in the sense of the Chinese curse?’ asked Fry.
‘Well, you can’t deny we live in interesting times.’
‘No.’
Fry thought the pathologist was looking older these days. Her face was harder, the creases around her eyes noticeably deeper. And she seemed very tired. It was the sort of tiredness that made her more spiky, more inclined to look for a target to take it out on. In other circumstances, Fry could have empathised with her. She suspected she might be like that herself sometimes.
But Mrs van Doon had long since taken a dislike to her for some reason, and they were well past the point where they might ever become friends.
‘But if this is your latest career move, DS Fry, it has me mystified,’ said the pathologist.
‘I hate to be predictable,’ murmured Fry.
‘Oh, really?’
The body from the woods lay on the autopsy table. Like most victims of sudden death, the man’s face had sagged into an empty mask, devoid of character or expression. Fry had seen relatives of murder victims have initial difficulties identifying a body in the mortuary. It was because the person they’d known in life was gone. Robbed of its animation and personality, the physical shell was blank and meaningless.
The victim’s skin was pale and waxy, his lips shrivelled away to expose uneven teeth. He looked like a movie vampire sleeping in his coffin, waiting for a stake in the heart to destroy him, or a drop of fresh blood to bring him back to life. It wouldn’t work here. No amount of freshly spilt blood would revive this victim.
‘I suppose there’s a sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, Sergeant?’ said the pathologist. ‘There usually is.’
Fry nodded. ‘Yes. Did he drown?’
‘Ah. Well, first of all, I’m afraid there are no universally accepted diagnostic laboratory tests for drowning.’
‘That’s unfortunate.’
‘Indeed. How remiss of forensic science not to be perfect in every respect. We can perform so many magic tricks for you, yet we can’t tell for certain whether someone drowned or was already dead when he went into the water.’
‘I’ve never expected you to be perfect, Doctor.’
Mrs van Doon looked at her and pulled down her mask. Fry thought perhaps she’d scored a small victory, until the pathologist smiled in satisfaction. Then she realised she’d just been led into making the remark. She’d proved herself to be shallow and predictable after all. Now she was at a disadvantage from the start.
‘And you’re right as usual, Sergeant Fry. So all is well with the world, after all.’
‘Drowning?’ said Fry stiffly.
‘When a victim is dead at the time of submersion, water and contaminating debris can enter the pharynx, trachea and larger airways. Small quantities might enter the oesophagus and stomach. However, water will not reach the terminal bronchioles and alveoli to any significant extent. So if we find a substantial amount of foreign material in the alveoli, that provides evidence of immersion during life. Well – so long as the body is recovered within twenty-four hours, and from shallow water. The water was shallow in this case, I believe? Less than three metres deep?’
‘Certainly. But twenty-four hours—?’
‘Yes, that’s our problem. Our victim was in the water a little too long before his body was recovered.’
‘Any other way we can tell?’
‘Well, if there was a large quantity of water and debris in the stomach, that might suggest immersion during life. But my examination shows very little in the stomach in this case.’
‘So…?’
‘So what I can tell you is that I can’t tell you for certain whether he drowned or not.’
‘Great.’
‘Basically, what we have here is a white male aged thirty-five to forty years, five feet ten inches in height, weighing around a hundred and ninety-five pounds. The subject was in good general health – though I would suspect a rather sedentary lifestyle. Cause of death unknown at this stage. We’ll have to await test results. The blood alcohol level might be interesting. Accidental drowning in adults is usually associated with alcohol consumption or drug use. The literature says two-thirds of adult males found drowned have consumed alcohol.’
‘But we don’t know that he drowned.’
‘And we don’t know that he didn’t.’
Fry bit her lip. ‘Other injuries?’
‘Well, these contusions are puzzling me,’ said Mrs van Doon.
Reluctantly, Fry leaned forward to follow the pathologist’s gesture.
‘Yes, I see.’
Trust the woman to save the best detail for last. There were red welts on the body, each one a round mark surrounded by a halo of bruising. They looked almost like cigarette burns, but larger in diameter. And cigarette burns didn’t cause bruises.
‘Perhaps about four days old,’ said Mrs van Doon. ‘The colour of the bruising is starting to turn to yellow on the inner edge, look. Bilirubin.’
‘Who?’
The pathologist restrained a smirk. ‘Not “who”, but “what”. The yellow colour is a waste product called bilirubin. It’s the same substance that turns your urine yellow.’
‘I always learn something from you that I didn’t want to know,’ said Fry.
The pathologist took no notice. She rarely did.
‘Bilirubin is the last bit of congealed blood to be broken down and dispersed by the white cells,’ she said. ‘First the dark purple – that’s the colour of oxygen in the haemoglobin. Then the green of biliverdin. It’s generally estimated to take about four days for only bilirubin to be left.’
‘Unexplained contusions approximately two centimetres in diameter will appear on my report. Obviously not the cause of death.’
‘The bruising is wider than two centimetres,’ said Fry.
‘Ah, yes. Well observed.’
A compliment was never what it seemed when it came from Mrs van Doon. Although it wasn’t evident in the tone of her voice, she was certainly being s
arcastic. The diameter of the bruising should be obvious to anyone.
‘So?’ said Fry.
‘The bruising isn’t actually at the site of the contusion. With an injury like this, blood is forced away from the site by the impact and forms that circle around the contusion itself.’
‘He was being hit with something.’
‘Yes. But it was an odd choice of weapon, whatever it was,’ said the pathologist. ‘Minor bruising, that’s all. It would have been quite painful at the time, I dare say.’
‘Perhaps he was being tortured.’
The pathologist shrugged, without replying. It wasn’t for her to say. It was speculation, and that was the job of the police. The shrug expressed a degree of professional disdain, her scorn for a lack of scientific rigour.
‘Four days ago?’ asked Fry.
‘An approximation only. There’s no way we can fix time of death from the temperature of the body when it was found. A body cools in water about twice as fast as in the air – about five degrees Celsius per hour. It reaches the temperature of the water usually within five to six hours. So all I can tell you is that he was dead in the water for at least that long. You’ll have to rely on circumstantial evidence to establish the time more accurately.’
‘Dead in the water?’ repeated Fry.
‘I always like to use that phrase. It has so many layers of meaning, don’t you think?’
‘I believe it refers to a ship when it loses power.’
‘And metaphorically to someone’s career,’ said the pathologist.
‘So he was tortured?’ asked Luke Irvine when Fry reported on the post-mortem results.
‘It looks like it.’
‘It’s more than just a simple robbery, then.’
‘It never was a simple robbery,’ said Fry. ‘You don’t dump your victim dead and naked in a stream if you’re just robbing them for a few quid.’
‘A robbery gone wrong,’ said Hurst. ‘It happens all the time.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ scoffed Irvine. ‘On TV it does.’
‘It happens,’ insisted Hurst.
Already Dead Page 13
