Scared to Live bcadf-7

by Stephen Booth

  Faded curtains were drawn across the windows. A pattern of orange flowers, speckled with black dots. By pressing his face close to the glass, Cooper could see a small slice of the interior through a narrow gap where the curtains didn’t meet. He saw the edge of a folding wooden table, a scatter of papers, and two beer cans. Orange cans, to match the curtains. Probably Stone’s Bitter from the supermarket in Matlock. One of the cans had been knocked over, and beer was spilt on the table.

  ‘Police! Open up!’ called Cooper, more loudly. And he gave the door a couple of good thumps that shook the caravan on its chassis. ‘Mr Finney, the occupant appears to be absent. Do I have your permission to enter this caravan?’

  ‘Eh? Well, I suppose so — if you really want to. It won’t be very nice in there, you know. Old Simon, he isn’t the cleanest of folk.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t suppose you have a key, sir?’

  ‘I might have one back at the house. But we probably don’t need one. You could just try — ’

  But Cooper had already tried. The handle turned in his fingers with a faint scrape of metal. ‘You’re right, we don’t need one.’

  He gave the door a yank, but it jammed in the frame where it had warped out of shape. Cooper braced his foot against the step and pulled harder. The soft aluminium began to bend in his hands, and the door screeched as it was forced open. Cooper flinched at the noise, his teeth suddenly set on edge, his muscles tensing instinctively.

  With the door open, the two men were frozen for a moment, suddenly reluctant to enter the caravan, or even take a step closer. A fat bluebottle buzzed through the gap and zigzagged slowly past them, too tired and bloated to escape.

  Finney drew in a sharp breath, as if he’d been punched in the stomach. His involuntary cry of disgust sent a flock of rooks clattering into the air, cawing with alarm, their black feathers rattling through the branches. Then the farmer made a choking, gurgling sound and staggered towards the wall. He hadn’t reached it before he doubled over and vomited into the grass.

  Standing in the doorway of the caravan, Cooper covered his mouth and nose with a hand as he watched a pool of dark, sticky liquid hover on the edge of the step before trickling slowly towards the ground, forming an oily pool on the earth. The sweet smell of it was like a finger pushed down his throat, making him swallow as he fought a surge of nausea.

  Cooper didn’t have to look very far to find the source of the smell. He didn’t even have to enter the caravan, which was a relief. Because Mr Finney had been right about another thing. It really wasn’t very nice in there.

  20

  ‘She must have been a stranger,’ said Brian Mullen. ‘I can’t think who else this person would have been.’

  Mullen was in the conservatory at the Lowthers’ house in Darley Dale. His father-in-law sat near him, perhaps for moral support. Occasionally, Mullen glanced into the house, where his mother-in-law was keeping Luanne entertained. Fry didn’t have much interest in babies, but this one seemed reasonably civilized and quiet.

  ‘Did your wife mention meeting her, sir?’

  ‘No. I knew she’d been out on Saturday, of course. Lindsay left me with the children for a couple of hours. She said she wanted to do some early Christmas shopping, that was all. That was the way she was, you know — she liked to plan ahead.’

  ‘Which shops did she go to?’ asked Fry.

  ‘I don’t know. She wouldn’t have told me that.’

  ‘And she didn’t say anything afterwards?’

  Mullen considered it.

  ‘Come to think of it, I think Lindsay did say she’d chatted to a couple of strangers in a cafe. I’ve no idea who they were.’

  ‘Did she mention any names?’

  ‘No. Of course, she probably didn’t ask them their names, if it was just a casual conversation.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘You know what it’s like. You don’t necessarily want to strike up an instant relationship with complete strangers. You’ve no idea what sort of crooks they might be these days. People pretend to be friendly, and they turn out to be con artists after your money.’

  ‘Did she describe these people at all?’

  ‘No, why should she? It was only a passing remark, that she’d been chatting to a couple of people. I expect they were just talking about the weather, or the difficulty in finding somewhere to park, or whether the tea was any good. Why would she describe them? It’s as if you’re suggesting it’s Lindsay’s fault she didn’t say anything.’

  Seeing Mr Mullen becoming agitated, Fry paused and let him subside.

  ‘I can’t remember any more than that,’ he said. ‘Do you think these people might have been responsible for the fire?’

  ‘We don’t know, sir. But it’s very important that you try to remember anything your wife might have said. If it occurs to you who she might have been meeting, or any little details she let slip, please inform us straightaway.’

  ‘All right. Of course.’

  Fry stood up to go. She hadn’t achieved anything by the visit. In fact, she wondered if she’d just given Brian Mullen a get-out for the arson. Mysterious strangers didn’t fit into her scenario.

  A pool of light ran slowly over the corpse. It started at the feet and travelled up the legs to a distended stomach. Pale skin showed through burst shirt buttons. The hand holding the Maglite tilted, and the beam moved across the chest, paused at the throat, and finally hovered over the face.

  ‘Was there a fight in here?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think this might have been its normal condition.’

  The light focused on Ben Cooper’s face. He blinked in the glare and smiled uncertainly.

  ‘Is it possible to tell how he died?’ he asked. ‘There’s a bruise on his cheekbone, but I suppose he could have got it when he fell.’

  The pathologist ran her torch over the face of the corpse again. ‘I’ll be able to confirm that after the PM. It depends what damage I find underneath the tissue. If the bone is fractured, it might suggest blunt-force trauma — an injury caused by a greater impact than a simple fall.’

  ‘A blow to the head?’

  ‘Possibly. It might not be as plain as that in my report.’

  ‘He’s been lying here a while. He’s already starting to smell a bit.’

  ‘Yes, he’s been dead a couple of days. That might make it more difficult. Post-mortem changes can mask small injuries. There’s a very strong smell of alcohol, too.’

  ‘Yes, I noticed that.’

  Nichols’s body lay wedged between a bench seat and a fold-up table. The angle of his limbs gave the impression he’d been struggling, but whether against an attacker or just to get up, it wasn’t clear. He was face-up, and had vomited at some time — well, a couple of days ago, at least. His stomach was white and bloated where it was exposed, but his face and hands looked thin to the point of gauntness. He was unshaven, and his dark hair was receding.

  The interior of the caravan was strewn with clothes, and a number of empty lager cans stood on the drainer by the tiny sink. A scatter of papers and magazines lay on the table next to a little portable TV set, but Cooper was afraid to touch them. Best to let the SOCOs sort them out after the body had been removed.

  ‘I presume he lived on his own,’ said Hitchens later, as he stood well clear of the smell.

  ‘Yes, I think it would be safe to say that, sir.’

  ‘What else have we got, Ben?’

  Cooper flicked open his notebook. ‘He’s known as Simon Nichols, but that’s probably not his real name. He’s aged about fifty-five, and he’d lived here for eight months. The caravan belongs to the farmer, who doesn’t seem to have asked many questions.’

  ‘I hope he didn’t pay too much rent. I’ve never seen such a dump.’

  ‘I gather it was in exchange for his work on the farm. Free accommodation and probably less than the minimum wage. It was originally used for accommodating foreign students who came over in the summer to help w
ith the harvest. But this farm hasn’t produced a decent crop for years.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Didn’t you notice the field on the way in? It’s full of bracken and ragwort. The place has been neglected.’

  ‘OK. And this is Nikolov?’

  ‘Well, Nichols certainly wasn’t his real name. Mr Finney admits that his worker wasn’t British. He never asked him about his nationality, but guessed he might be Polish. Nichols didn’t speak much English, only what he needed to get by.’

  ‘I bet “beer” was a word he knew,’ said Hitchens.

  A Scientific Support van crawled into the field and parked next to the silage bags. Wayne Abbott got out.

  ‘My God, this took some finding.’

  ‘Better get the masks out, Wayne,’ said Hitchens. ‘We’re going to need you to take this caravan apart.’

  Flood lamps were already up, and a crime-scene tent was going over the caravan.

  ‘I asked Wayne to bring a gunshot residue kit,’ said Hitchens. ‘I don’t know how this man is connected to Rose Shepherd, but we’re not going to miss anything.’

  The latest GSR kit was designed for a presumptive test at the scene, and another in the lab later. Previous tests had involved swabbing the hands of a suspect and sending the swabs to a lab. Since results from the scanning electron microscope took weeks or even months, many officers had saved time by just not bothering with GSR.

  ‘Negative. Sorry,’ said Abbott a few minutes later.

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘There’s hardly any food in this caravan,’ said Cooper. ‘Just cans of beer and half a bottle of vodka. He looks ill, too.’

  ‘Dead people usually do,’ said Hitchens.

  ‘Not always.’

  The DI ran a hand across his forehead. ‘No, you’re right, Ben.’

  Cooper took a walk around the field where the caravan was sited. There were lots of gaps in the drystone walls, easy enough for anyone to get in or out of the area without having to come down the track or past the farmhouse.

  ‘If the farmer can be believed, Simon Nichols lived a quiet, reclusive life and was hardly seen in daylight, except when he was working.’

  ‘Great,’ said Hitchens. ‘He’s already starting to sound like Rose Shepherd.’

  21

  ‘You see what I meant about not being able to cut yourself off completely?’ Fry said later, when she had Cooper and Murfin together in the CID room.

  ‘Miss Shepherd, you mean?’ said Cooper.

  ‘Of course. She not only had the postman, the meter reader, and God knows who else coming by the house, but she was forced to have Eric Grice in to do a few odd jobs, the repairs she couldn’t manage.’

  ‘I wonder if he was handy for a few really odd jobs,’ said Murfin.

  Fry gave him a look. ‘She had to take a gamble on Eric, didn’t she?’ she said. ‘It must have been a toss-up whether to get a complete stranger in every time she needed something doing, or to stick to one local man. She must have known Eric would talk about her in the village, but she decided a bit of gossip was preferable to having people in the house she knew nothing about. At least she could be sure that Eric was the genuine article.’

  ‘Yes, she had to let someone a little way into her life,’ said Cooper. ‘I wonder if Mr Grice realizes how privileged he was.’

  ‘Privileged, right.’ Fry began to count on her fingers. ‘Then there was the estate agent and the solicitor. She wasn’t in a position to buy a property without professional help, and they had to know something about her. Her bank account details, for a start.’

  ‘And — ’

  Fry held up another finger. ‘And then she met Lindsay Mullen in Matlock Bath.’

  ‘But do you think that was entirely by chance, Diane? A random encounter between strangers? Or could there have been some connection between them?’

  ‘Maybe she wanted to give Lindsay something?’ said Murfin.

  ‘Why, Gavin?’

  ‘Miss Shepherd seems to have known that she was in danger and people were trying to find her. What if she had an item in her possession that she didn’t want anyone to get hold of? Why not pass it on to someone entirely unconnected? A stranger, in fact.’

  Fry began to move restlessly around the office. She walked to the window and back again towards her desk, as if a change in the direction of the light might help her to see things more clearly.

  ‘If she did that, she was sealing Lindsay Mullen’s fate,’ she said. ‘It looks as though Rose Shepherd was already being watched when she went into Matlock Bath that day, doesn’t it? And whoever was watching her must also have followed Lindsay home.’

  ‘Why would Miss Shepherd pick on Lindsay to talk to?’

  ‘Why pick on anybody? For heaven’s sake, who buttonholes complete strangers in cafes and engages them in conversation?’

  ‘Drunks and nutters,’ said Murfin.

  ‘Exactly. And Rose Shepherd was neither of those.’

  ‘Well, she had to be a bit odd. This woman was a hermit with a secrecy obsession.’

  ‘That’s right. You don’t have to be a complete nutter,’ said Cooper. ‘Rose Shepherd had cut herself off for so long, perhaps she just wanted a few minutes of ordinary conversation, even with a complete stranger. In fact, a stranger is a better choice. They don’t know anything about you, or your past. So they don’t start off with preconceptions about you.’

  ‘If she was that desperate, why didn’t she talk to Eric Grice? Whenever he came to Bain House, Miss Shepherd kept herself out of the way and refused to engage in conversation.’

  ‘Maybe she was afraid that, once she started talking, she wouldn’t be able to stop. She couldn’t risk it.’ Cooper looked up at her. ‘You know what it’s like yourself. When you’ve got something preying on your mind and you find someone easy to talk to, it all comes spilling out.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, well — maybe not you, Diane.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, and meant it.

  ‘But take it from me, it works that way with a lot of people. You can find yourself telling everything to some sympathetic stranger who’s prepared to listen. I think Rose Shepherd was so scared of giving away clues about herself that talking to people was too much of a risk. So she avoided it. Simple as that. A bit like a recovered alcoholic avoids taking the first drink. It’s not the one drink that’s the problem — it’s what he knows it will lead to.’

  Fry began to pace the room again. ‘OK. So what was she hiding?’

  ‘Well, that,’ said Cooper, ‘I don’t know. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be so alone, to cut yourself off from everyone that way. How could anyone do that?’

  ‘Why are you asking me?’

  Cooper raised an eyebrow at her tone and looked around the room. ‘Apart from Gavin, there’s no one else here, Diane.’

  Fry was silent for a while, staring down at the floor. ‘This is getting us nowhere. Instead of all these what ifs, we need to start finding some answers.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ said Murfin. ‘So when do we start?’

  ‘Gavin — ’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Well, I know one thing,’ said Cooper. ‘It’s difficult to see a connection between the fire and the shooting. And now Simon Nichols — how does he fit in? I suppose if he didn’t die until Tuesday, he could have been involved in both incidents.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Fry. ‘So far as we can tell, there were nearly twenty-four hours between the two. In Rose Shepherd’s case, the medical examiner gave us a pretty wide range for time of death — between thirty and forty hours. But let’s get this straight — the Foxlow shooting came first. It’s just that the victim wasn’t discovered until after the fire.’

  ‘Maybe Lindsay Mullen was in the wrong place at the wrong time, then. She must somehow have got a look at Nichols, or whoever was watching Rose Shepherd. A good enough look to be able to identify him later.’

  ‘So he decided to take
her out before she could give anyone a description?’

  Cooper nodded. ‘Before she even knew that Miss Shepherd had been killed. The body wasn’t discovered until Monday afternoon.’

  ‘Somebody wasn’t taking any chances, were they?’

  ‘It’s because they’re — ’

  ‘Yes, I know. Professionals,’ said Fry. ‘That’s another factor against Nichols. If he wasn’t a professional himself, he had the right contacts.’

  ‘Well, we’ll have to wait for the PM results before we know more about Nichols.’

  Fry stared at the ceiling for a few moments. ‘You know, you were right — the Shepherd enquiry is becoming a big distraction for me. I should be focusing on the arson.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Cooper.

  ‘Well, there are easier ways to kill somebody, don’t you think? Easier than breaking into their house and setting fire to their sitting room. More guaranteed to get the right results, too — because, if the smoke alarm had been working properly, the Mullens might have escaped.’

  ‘Perhaps not that much easier, if you want to make it look like an accident.’

  ‘An accident?’ Fry tapped the Rose Shepherd file. ‘That doesn’t sound like the Foxlow suspect, does it? There was certainly no attempt to make Miss Shepherd’s death look like an accident. Quite the opposite — it was done openly and audaciously, like some kind of warning: “Look, we can get to anyone, anywhere.”’

  ‘Ye-es,’ said Cooper.

  Fry looked at him sharply. ‘I take it you’ve formed a different opinion, Ben?’

  ‘Well, just because there was that difference it doesn’t necessarily follow that they weren’t connected, does it? Our suspects might have had some reason for wanting to make the fire look accidental, but not the shooting of Rose Shepherd.’

  ‘What reason?’

  Cooper shook his head. ‘I don’t know …’

  ‘No. But what we do know at the moment is that Rose Shepherd had connections with a Bulgarian criminal, who’s also been found dead. We don’t have any more information on Nikolov until we get PM results and the intelligence files from Sofia.’