Fry sat down with Luke Irvine. The job wasn’t done yet. She reminded him about the interviews they’d done with Charlie Dean and Sheena Sullivan when Dean’s BMW was first traced. There was that frightening stranger in the red, hooded rain jacket.
‘Luke – in her statement, Sheena Sullivan said something about the stranger breathing heavily.’
‘He was helping to push their BMW out of the mud,’ said Irvine. ‘It’s a heavy vehicle. I think anyone would be a bit out of breath—’
‘No,’ said Fry. ‘Before that. When he first got out of his car. And she mentioned his voice. Where are those statements? Can you dig them out?’
‘Here.’
Irvine passed across the files, and Fry flicked through them until she found the page she was looking for. It was a small detail, so apparently unimportant that it might have been left out of Sheena’s written statement altogether by another interviewing officer. But Becky Hurst had recorded it word for word.
‘And there was something about his voice,’ she read.
Irvine shrugged. ‘What does that mean? Nothing.’
He was right, of course. Hurst had done the right thing, recording the comment on the statement form, but she should have followed it up. Perhaps she’d thought it was just a bit of imaginative over-dramatisation on Sheena Sullivan’s part, trying to make the stranger sound more menacing in hindsight. But still, Hurst ought to have asked the obvious question. What was it about his voice?
‘Has Ben Cooper left yet?’
‘Yes, I’ve just seen him driving out of the gate.’
Ben Cooper had barely been in his flat for five minutes, when there was a banging on the door. He opened it and was astonished to find Diane Fry standing on his doorstep again.
‘We must stop meeting like this,’ he said.
‘Right.’
‘Do you want to come in?’
‘Just for a few minutes.’
‘I was going to ask why you didn’t phone first this time,’ said Cooper. ‘But there doesn’t seem much point. It’s not twenty minutes since I saw you.’
‘No, that’s right.’
‘I suppose you forgot something? Is there…?’
Cooper hesitated. Fry was looking at him oddly, her head cocked slightly to one side as if she was listening hard, waiting for him to speak again. He’d never known her to be so intent on his words, so eager to hear what he had to say. Normally, she treated him like an idiot. She dismissed his ideas instantly and just went her own sweet way no matter what he said.
So what had changed? Was she humouring him because she thought of him as an invalid? He could almost work out her thought processes. Poor old Ben, still on extended sick leave. You’ve got to feel sorry for him. Shut up in here, he’s probably desperate for someone to talk to. I’d better pretend I’m interested in what he has to say.
‘Diane, was there something you wanted to ask me?’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘No, it’s just good to hear your voice.’
Cooper laughed. And, as so often happened, the laugh caught the rawness in his throat and turned into a cough. It was the dry, irksome hack that made him step into the kitchen for a drink of water to ease the irritation.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Fry when he returned.
‘Fine. It’s nothing.’
‘So,’ she said, ‘you’re still suffering a few after-effects, I suppose. From the smoke inhalation.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, that’s what causes the cough now and then.’
Fry tilted her head, waiting for him to speak again, listening for his voice. Sheena had said: There was something about his voice. It wasn’t right. It made me shudder.
‘But it will pass,’ he said.
Fry opened her mouth to speak again, but her phone rang. She answered it automatically. She always did during a major inquiry. Nothing reflected more badly on you than being out of touch when you were needed. It was Gavin Murfin.
‘I thought you’d want to know, Diane. We’ve got test results.’
‘I’m on my way,’ she said.
Fry looked out of the door of Cooper’s flat. His Toyota stood at the kerb. She’d seen his car often enough. So why had she forgotten that it was red?
‘Ben, did you say that you sometimes drive around the area at night?’ asked Fry.
‘Yes. So?’
‘Even in the rain? And you don’t really know where you are, or where you’ve been?’
‘When you put it like that, it makes me sound a bit crazy.’
‘Yes.’
Fry looked down at the cat as it walked into the room. It gave her a hard stare and turned its back on her. It was time to leave.
‘Okay. Well, I suppose that’s all.’
Cooper shrugged. ‘Whatever it was.’
‘I hope we see you back permanently before too long.’
‘I think it will be soon now.’
But before she reached the street, Fry stopped in the hallway of the flat. A coat rack was fixed to the wall just inside the door. It was an unusual design, made of polished steel and shaped like the head of an upturned rake. Over the prongs were hooked jackets, a scarf, even a set of keys.
‘It was a flat warming present from my uncle when I first moved in,’ said Cooper, noticing her interest.
‘I think I remember.’
Fry had been here that day herself, briefly. She’d called in at the flat with a gift for Cooper, thinking it was something you were supposed to do, a gesture to a colleague, a minor effort to oil the wheels of social interaction. A nuisance, but not a huge commitment of her time. She’d bought him a plant, she recalled. No idea what species. She almost looked round to see if it was still there in his flat, thriving. But in the next instant it dawned on her that she couldn’t remember what she’d bought, and wouldn’t recognise it if she saw it.
‘It’s a bit of a joke, I suppose,’ said Cooper. ‘The design is called Harvest. I moved here from the farm, you see—’
‘Yes, I know.’
Still Fry hesitated, knowing she would have to ask the question that was burning in her mind. Her professional instincts wouldn’t let her leave the flat in Welbeck Street without making the inquiry. It was as if her feet were literally nailed to the floor. She couldn’t make it to the door without releasing herself with the question. She knew without turning round that Cooper was watching her curiously. She could feel the silence between them growing, becoming more and more uncomfortable until it had to be broken.
Finally, she laid a hand lightly on one of the garments hanging from the rack. She could feel the dampness still in its fabric. Her fingers came away with traces of mud.
‘Can I ask you …?’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Where did you get the coat?’
It was Cooper’s turn to let the silence develop. Fry had the feeling she sometimes got in an interview room, when a routine question struck a nerve, drew an audible gasp from the suspect, and filled the the room with a sudden charge of nervous static. The times when she’d knew she’d scored a hit.
She forced herself not to meet Cooper’s eye, though she could sense him tensing, knew that he was considering his reply, trying to steady his voice before answering.
‘It was a present,’ he said. ‘It was the last thing that Liz ever bought me.’
Fry turned the garment over and opened it. It was just what she thought. Hanging behind Cooper’s front door was a dark red rain jacket with a peaked hood and a storm flap. It had the Berghaus logo above the left chest pocket.
When Fry had gone, Cooper took down the coat. It was a Berghaus Hurricane with a two-layer Gore-Tex shell and a roll-away hood, adjustable cuffs and shock cords, with dual zip fastening to allow a fleece layer to be attached. Liz had known that he liked lots of pockets. The coat had two on the front, zipped internal and external pockets on the chest, and an internal map pocket. But best of all was its double-layered storm flap. It was vital in this weather. Especially if you didn�
�t want people to see your face.
Liz had bought him the Berghaus because the old waxed coat he’d worn for years hadn’t been smart enough. Perhaps it was too rustic, or too ingrained with dog hairs and the smell of cows. It had lasted him well, and would be perfectly fine for a good few years yet. But he’d put it aside without regret. It was one of the symbols of a life he was leaving behind.
But he hadn’t worn the Berghaus for a week, not since last Tuesday. It had been spattered with mud that night, and somehow he’d never got round to wiping it off. Hanging in his hallway, it hadn’t even dried properly. It didn’t seem right to wear it in that condition, so he’d reverted to the waxed coat for a few days, intending to get the rain jacket properly cleaned.
Why had Fry been so interested in it? What was she looking for? There must be lots of them around, like white vans.
Cooper looked at the cat, feeling bemused.
‘What was all that about, do you think?’
The cat seemed to shrug, but it was probably just his imagination. Perhaps a flea was bothering her. Yes, that was most likely. It was time to get out the Frontline. Sometimes it was necessary to dispose of the irritating parasites.
When he thought about Liz, he still experienced a stab of fear. It wasn’t the usual form of dread any more. It was a fear that he might be remembering her wrong.
Diane Fry had known she would have to wait until this week for test results. It was five days after the body of Glen Turner had been found in the stream. But it seemed to Fry that she’d been talking about him for much longer than that.
When she was back at divisional headquarters in West Street she stared out of the window at the sheets of rain blowing across the west stand of Edendale FC. It had been raining continuously since last Thursday, too.
On her desk were two reports, one from forensics and the other from the pathologist, Juliana van Doon. Even though the case had passed into the hands of the Major Crime Unit, Mrs van Doon had sent her a copy of the final post-mortem report. It was about the first courtesy that Fry could remember receiving from her.
‘Luke, what do forensics have to say?’ she asked.
‘They’ve been going over that BMW belonging to Charlie Dean,’ said Irvine. ‘You know they’ve been investigating the cause of the crash, looking for mechanical defects. But the first thing they found was a hand print on the boot. Sharp eyes, one of those forensic examiners has. He realised there was something iffy about the print, and ran a few appropriate tests. Lucky for us that he did. Whoever that hand print belonged to, it left traces of blood on the paintwork.’
‘Really? So someone injured themselves when they interfered with the vehicle?’
‘It doesn’t seem likely. There was enough blood scraped off the car by the examiners to get a DNA match in the database. That DNA – well, it seems it came from our earlier murder victim. It was Glen Turner’s blood.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
Sheena Sullivan twisted her hands anxiously on the bed. Watching her, Fry guessed she was probably longing for a cigarette, if only to give herself something to do with her fingers. But there was no smoking in a hospital ward. This was one place the law couldn’t be overlooked.
Sheena had one leg in plaster as a result of a compound fracture, and a few broken ribs. She’d been under observation for a possible concussion, but now the bandages had been removed and a series of stitches were visible running through her hair where her scalp had been lacerated by broken glass. Her eyes were blackened, but Fry could see that the bilirubin was already starting to turn the bruises yellow. Mrs Sullivan had been very lucky that her face was otherwise untouched.
‘Charlie Dean had a good scam going,’ said Fry. ‘And Williamson Hart seem to have known about that. They were about to sack him.’
‘Were they?’
‘What they didn’t know is that he was being blackmailed. His activities came to the attention of Ralph Edge at Prospectus Assurance. That would all have come apart when he lost his job, wouldn’t it?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘It’s so difficult to avoid getting drawn further and further in when someone is able to put pressure on you like that. Before you know it, you’re in too deep, and it’s too late for you. Charlie was given a role in what happened to Glen Turner, wasn’t he?’
Sheena stared at the wall. She was pale, but Fry couldn’t be sure whether that was from the pain of her injuries, or the shock. It didn’t matter. She was happy to carry on talking for a while, sorting out the facts in her own mind.
‘I bet Charlie thought they were just trying to get information,’ she said. ‘But maybe the Gibsons always intended to kill Turner, or didn’t care. How was Charlie involved exactly, Sheena? What was he supposed to do? Whatever it was, the man in the red rain jacket turned up and scared him so much that he cleared off and didn’t go back. He was terrified that there was a witness who’d be able to identify him. So he just drove away and prayed.’
Sheena blinked a little. Fry thought she might be getting close to the truth.
‘So – Charlie. He sounds like a man who was able to compartmentalise his life pretty well. He had everything separated out, didn’t he? His job, his wife, his mistress, his criminal activities. He must have worked out a set of roles for himself, changing into a different Charlie Dean according to the circumstances. Who said men can’t multitask, eh?’
Sheena even smiled a little at that.
‘The only wonder is that he managed to juggle all those balls for so long,’ said Fry. ‘His wife was getting nearer and nearer to the point where she would have divorced him, I think. That would have been a shock for Mr Dean. I bet he thought he was the only one who could do that, and his marriage would last for as long as he decided it would. And there were his employers at Williamson Hart. Ursula Hart told me they were planning to sack him. That would have brought the whole pack of cards tumbling down too. But your husband Jay got to him first.’
Sheena had listened long enough. Finally, she decided to talk. Perhaps Fry had just driven her to it.
‘There were these two men that Charlie met,’ said Sheena.
‘Yes, the Gibson brothers.’
‘That’s them. Ryan Gibson was on a driving course that we both did in Chesterfield. I didn’t like him at all. And his brother was even worse. I can’t remember his name, but he was horrible.’
‘The brother is called Sean,’ said Fry.
‘Well, they were doing the job on this Glen Turner character. Charlie and me, we were supposed to go back and get him after a while. We were only going to scare him, you see. Charlie said what they were doing was only like waterboarding. No worse than that.’
‘Waterboarding?’
‘The CIA do it with al-Qaeda suspects. Turner would never have gone to the police and reported us. He would have had to explain why it happened. Charlie had all that figured out. He’s a clever bloke, Charlie. I mean, he was.’
Fry stared at her. Yes, waterboarding was clever, but simple. Among torture methods, it had a history as old as civilisation itself. She had no idea who invented it, but she knew it had been popular across the world, from the Spanish Inquisition to the Khmer Rouge. The Americans had executed Japanese soldiers on war crimes charges for using it during the Second World War, then decades later had used it themselves. It needed so little equipment. Just a cloth and a bucket of water – and someone to hold your victim down.
Layers of cloth were placed over the face, the head tilted back and downwards, and a slow cascade of water was poured over the cloth. You would hold your breath for a while, and then you’d have to exhale. The next inhalation brought the damp cloth tight against the nostrils. She imagined it would feel something like a huge, wet paw suddenly clamped over her face. They said you were unable to tell at that point whether you were breathing in or out. You were flooded more by sheer panic than by water. No one lasted long, they said. You would pray for the relief of being hauled upright and havi
ng the stifling layers pulled off.
As the prisoner gagged and choked on the water, they said, the terror of imminent death was overwhelming, with all the physical and psychological reactions. An intense stress response, a rapid heartbeat, the gasping for breath. There was supposed to be a real risk of death from actually drowning, or from a heart attack, or from damage to the lungs by the inhalation of water. As a result of physical fatigue or psychological resignation, the victim might simply give up, losing consciousness as water was allowed to fill the airways. Waterboarding could cause the sort of ‘severe pain’ prohibited by the United Nations Convention against Torture. Long-term effects for survivors included panic attacks, depression and post-traumatic stress disorder. People would panic and gasp for breath whenever it rained, even years afterwards.
There were instructions for waterboarding on the internet now. You could even watch a video of the journalist Christopher Hitchens going through it himself and managing to last only sixteen seconds before he capitulated – but at least he’d volunteered for the experience. Once you made information like that generally available, people were bound to use it. Not long ago, in another part of the country, burglars had broken into an expensive house and waterboarded an elderly woman to get the combination of her safe.
Like them, Charlie Dean and his associates hadn’t felt bound by the United Nations Convention. Who did, these days?
Fry thought about the position of the body, the doubt over whether Glen Turner might have died from drowning. There had been a two-litre Coke bottle, perfect for pouring a controlled flow of water. And the towels. Oh, God the towels. They would have been put over Turner’s face and soaked with water. When he was finally forced to breathe in, his body would tell him he was drowning, whether he was or not.
‘Like waterboarding?’ she said. ‘It undoubtedly was waterboarding.’
Already Dead Page 30
