Dead And Buried (Cooper and Fry)

by Stephen Booth

‘Let’s ask him.’

  But Maurice Wharton was in no condition to answer questions. They found his wife and two children in the day room at the hospice, waiting in that tense, hushed atmosphere that fell in a hospital ward when the worst was expected.

  ‘Can’t you leave him alone?’ said Nancy. ‘What’s the point of harassing the poor man now?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh, well. You can sit down for a minute, I suppose. Maurice was happy to talk to you the other day. Somebody different from the same old faces. He quite appreciated your visit.’

  ‘I must tell you something,’ said Cooper. ‘Maurice told me he feels he’s failed the children.’

  ‘Failed? Tell me about it. As a mother, you feel as though you’ve failed your children every single day.’

  Cooper asked about the incident with the Pearsons at the Light House, but Nancy Wharton shook her head firmly.

  ‘It was all sorted out. Just heat-of-the-moment stuff, you know. Once everyone had sobered up, they would have forgotten all about it. No hard feelings.’

  ‘You were closed over Christmas, weren’t you?’

  ‘Oh, we always were, every year. It was something Maurice insisted on. He’s been a good dad to Kirsten and Eliot. His family is important to him.’ She gave a short laugh. ‘People were always trying to reserve a table for Christmas dinner, or book a room for a couple of nights. They started phoning and emailing from about Easter onwards. Maurice took a lot of satisfaction in telling them to bugger off. He often said that if they were the sort of people who didn’t want the company of their own family and friends at Christmas, he was damned if he was going to have them cluttering up the Light House.’

  Eliot Wharton followed Cooper out of the hospice. Cooper stopped by the fish pond and waited for him to catch up, wondering whether the young man was upset and was going to accuse him of trying to harass his father. He remembered Josh Lane telling him how devoted Eliot was to his dad.

  When Eliot stood close, Cooper was struck by his size. He must be as tall as Matt, not as broad, but getting that way. He was only seventeen, after all.

  ‘You understand why we want to protect Dad, don’t you?’ said Eliot quietly.

  It was almost an appeal, and it took Cooper by surprise. He experienced one of those moments when he was flung back into the past, to the shocking moment when he heard his own father had died. Those terrible memories still surfaced now and then, surging unexpectedly from the depths, vivid and painful.

  ‘Yes, I understand,’ he said.

  Eliot nodded, turned and walked back inside. Cooper had to wait for a moment after he’d gone, letting the memory fade, for the pain to sink back into the depths it had come from. For that moment, he’d known exactly what it was like to be Eliot Wharton.

  Cooper was bothered by the memories now. Talking to Josh Lane had brought some of it back: the vague awareness of an altercation, Mad Maurice stepping in and sorting it out – an angry mountain one second, a big jolly Santa the next as he placated the Pearsons. People around them laughing in amazement and slapping them on the back as if they’d been awarded a rare honour.

  He shook his head as the scene disappeared. He remembered those shadows he’d seen in the smoke. They too had been like figures from the past, flickering through the present in desperate pursuit of some unfinished business. Or perhaps they were seeking something they’d long since lost. Life, love, innocence? Who could say?

  But something, somewhere was evading him. He just couldn’t see it for the smoke.

  23

  Cooper couldn’t mistake Gavin Murfin’s chestnut-brown Renault Megane hatchback as it arrived in Welbeck Street. Gavin never quite seemed to fit in his car properly, as if he had the driver’s seat pushed too far forward towards the steering wheel. As a result, he drove with his fists moving up and down close to his chest, as if he was struggling with the buttons of a loosely fitting overcoat.

  At that moment, Cooper was on the phone to Liz, trying to placate her.

  ‘No, it’s something I have to do. I’ve know Gavin for years. And he’s leaving soon, retiring. You must understand that. It will only be one last time, honest.’

  ‘Well I hope so,’ she said. ‘We have so much to do, Ben. So much to plan.’

  ‘You can manage without me just this once, can’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Thanks, love you.’

  ‘Love you too.’

  He could tell she wasn’t pleased. There was an edge to her voice that he hated to be the cause of.

  As he ended the call, he watched Murfin park at the kerb and struggle out of the car, waving cheerily at the window of the house next door. That would be Mrs Shelley, peering from behind her curtain to see who was visiting her tenant.

  Cooper remembered Murfin’s wife Jean making Gavin go on a diet once. He couldn’t imagine how long it had taken her to get him to that stage. There must have been a phenomenal amount of nagging, nudging, hinting and downright bullying going on in the Murfin household. But the result had been a morose and dejected Gavin, who felt life had become pointless, and who could hardly bother coming into work.

  ‘And how do you feel?’ Cooper had asked him when he’d heard about the diet.

  ‘I’ve got no energy. Nothing seems to matter any more. I really don’t want to go into the office on a Monday.’

  ‘I suppose you could phone in sick, Gavin.’

  ‘I’ve used up all my sick days. I’d have to phone in dead.’

  Now, Cooper sensed the same degree of dejection under Murfin’s increasingly flippant exterior. He knew it was all a facade, a performance to avoid having to be reminded of the fact that his career was rapidly coming to an end.

  ‘I thought we’d go for something to eat,’ he said, when Murfin was in the hallway of his flat, making little kissing noises at the cat. ‘Unless Jean is expecting you back?’

  Murfin straightened up with an almost audible creak.

  ‘No, I was hoping you’d say that. Jean’s out at one of her meetings, so I’m left to my own devices, like.’

  ‘The Gate is the nearest place. Is that okay?’

  ‘Suits me. All this business with the Light House has made me hanker after a bit of pub grub. I don’t mind what it is, as long as it comes with chips.’

  ‘Let’s go, then,’ said Cooper.

  ‘But are you sure you’re off the leash?’ asked Murfin with a sly glance. ‘You’re the one whose time is spoken for these days. Has Liz not got you booked for something tonight?’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Cooper.

  ‘You’ll have to get used to it, young man. That’s what marriage is all about, getting used to the ball and chain.’

  ‘We love each other,’ said Cooper. ‘And we want to live together and do all those things together that other people do. That’s why we’re getting married.’

  Murfin laughed. ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘This is it, Gavin. Being with Liz is my future, what I want for the rest of my life. And I’m very happy about it.’

  ‘’Nuff said.’

  Cooper led the way out of his flat. Fortunately, his own local was still open. The Hanging Gate was just a couple of streets away across the river. This pub still had the scenic Peak District views on the walls, as well as the same old CDs of sixties and seventies pop classics playing in the background. But it also still had Bank’s Bitter and Mansfield Pedigree on draught.

  The Gate was pretty much a town-centre pub, based on its location. But because it sat outside the main shopping area, it was left off the pub-crawl circuits – and it was certainly beyond the orbit of the Saturday-night clubbers, thank God.

  Some of the bars a few hundred yards away in Clappergate and the high street were totally different in style and atmosphere. They were officially known as high-volume vertical drinking establishments. Hardly any chairs or tables were provided for customers, because it was accepted that everyone stood up, crammed shoulder to shoulder, clutching t
heir drinks or resting their glasses on narrow shelves at chest height, sweating in the heat generated by the mass of bodies and shouting to each other over the music. Only young people enjoyed drinking in those conditions. The fact that he preferred a genuine local like the Gate sometimes made Cooper wonder whether he was getting middle-aged before his time.

  But then he’d be married soon. Pubbing and clubbing would become a distant memory. The future for him held an endless vista of trips to IKEA, Saturdays spent putting up shelves, Sundays washing the car.

  And children. Cooper took another swallow of his beer. He liked children. He was very fond of his two nieces, Amy and Josie. But having your own was surely quite a different matter. You couldn’t just leave them for someone else to look after when you decided you’d had enough of them. Becoming a parent took a bit of thinking about. And a lot of planning. He supposed he should really start thinking about it now.

  ‘Hey up, don’t rush so much,’ said Murfin as they entered the pub. ‘You’re going to get to the bar before me.’

  ‘It’s my round anyway.’

  They found a table and ordered their food. Steak and kidney pie was on the menu at the Hanging Gate, and Murfin hadn’t taken long over his choice.

  ‘Just think, it’ll be one long pub lunch for me in a few weeks’ time,’ said Murfin, relaxing with a sigh over his pint. ‘I bet all you youngsters are getting jealous.’

  ‘Gavin, what are you going to do with yourself when you’ve retired?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘I’m hoping someone will take pity on me. All I need is food, shelter and the basic Sky Sports package.’

  He hoped Gavin really did have something lined up to occupy his time in retirement. Too many men went off the rails, gave up trying or died of a heart attack within the first couple of years of finding themselves adrift, without the anchor of a job. It was especially true where they’d done pretty much the same job all their lives.

  It wasn’t as if Murfin had a sideline or hobby. All he knew was police work, his experience was in his familiarity with the local villains, his conversation was about incidents from his past as a uniformed bobby or as a green young recruit to CID. And it would all be totally worthless once he walked out of that door for the last time.

  His behaviour was becoming more and more odd lately, though. It was almost as if he wanted to get himself disciplined. That didn’t make sense.

  ‘Well, it’s nice to have Diane Fry back with us for a while,’ said Murfin cheerfully. ‘It gives us another chance at sorting out the Wicked Witch of the West.’

  ‘Just ignore her, Gavin. That’s the best policy.’

  Murfin smiled. ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’

  Then Cooper realised what it was. Deep down, Murfin had become desperate to provoke a reaction, to make sure everyone was aware that he still existed. He wanted his name mentioned to the bosses at headquarters, even if it was for all the wrong reasons. Gavin was telling the truth when he said it didn’t matter any more. Nothing mattered, really – except that the world should acknowledge his existence.

  ‘Looking forward to the retirement party, Gavin?’ he asked.

  Murfin’s expression changed.

  ‘It’ll be full of miserable, moaning old sods,’ he said. ‘I’ve worked with enough of them over the years. They’ll be coming out of the woodwork in droves when they get a sniff of a free sausage roll.’

  ‘Yes, I bet,’ said Cooper.

  He smiled at the irony of the complaint. The other day he’d come across Murfin reminiscing with a few of the other old stagers, remembering the golden age when PC stood for police constable, and not ‘politically correct’. In fact Gavin would be one of the last to benefit from the old pension arrangements. Police officers were paying more into their pensions now, and senior officers were affected the most.

  Cooper wondered how he would cope when his own retirement came round. His early days with Derbyshire Constabulary already felt as though they belonged to a different era. A Jurassic period, when dinosaurs ruled the earth. Dinosaurs not unlike Gavin Murfin, in fact.

  He remembered a spell when he’d started working lates and found himself on drunk patrol. It was that time of the shift cycle that put him and a few colleagues on foot outside the pubs and clubs of Edendale town centre from ten at night until four in the morning. Each night it was a question of how many groups of young men would walk past and spot the police officers, with one lad grabbing his mate in a headlock and shouting, ‘I’ve got him, I’ve got him.’ How many times would he hear the words ‘My mate is pregnant, can she wee in your hat?’ or: ‘You can smile, you know’? How many times would he hear his sergeant say, ‘Just walk away, mate, and enjoy your night. You don’t want to spend it in the cells.’ Yet they didn’t walk away, of course. There were always the ones who took it as a challenge, rather than good advice. Oh yes, he’d really enjoyed watching people get drunk as he stood in the rain.

  He told Gavin this memory of his early career. In a way, it seemed to be the sort of thing they should be talking about in this manly heart-to-heart over a pint of beer.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Murfin. ‘Being the bloke who has to pick up the drunks every night after they’ve vomited on the pavement and urinated in shop doorways … well, it isn’t as glamorous a job as it sounds.’

  Cooper recalled that Murfin had been with Diane Fry at the Light House on Tuesday. Murfin was by far the most experienced of his team. Over the past few years he would have been the one to turn to for a bit of old-school wisdom. Down-to-earth, seat-of-the-pants, good old copper’s instinct. Not politically correct, of course. No, rarely that. But he was often right, all the same.

  ‘Gavin, can I ask you something?’ he said.

  ‘Ask away.’

  ‘What was your first thought when you arrived at the Light House on Monday, after Aidan’s Merritt’s body was found?’

  Murfin scratched the back of his head.

  ‘My first thought? To be honest, it was “Where the heck am I going to get a brew from in a place like this?”’

  A little while later, Murfin set off to visit the gents, staggering slightly as he crossed the room. Cooper began to think about how he was going to get Gavin home.

  ‘Now then, Ben. How’s it going?’

  He turned gratefully to the man who slid on to the stool next to him.

  ‘Oh, fine. Thanks.’

  He looked a bit closer, realising that he knew the face but for a moment was unable to place the name.

  ‘As you can see, I’m on the other side of the bar tonight.’

  ‘Ah, of course.’

  Yes – Roddy, that was it. He had no idea of the surname. A genial, sandy-haired youth, he was a part-time barman right here at the Hanging Gate. Cooper didn’t see him all that often. Perhaps his shifts were mostly during the day. But he knew the face well enough. Funny how difficult it was sometimes to recognise people when you saw them out of their usual context.

  When a casual acquaintance wanted to start up a conversation with him, it was usually because they were angling for information. And Roddy was no exception.

  ‘I was hearing about this business up at the Light House,’ he said. ‘That’s a bit of a shocker.’

  ‘Did you know the victim, Aidan Merritt?’

  ‘Not him. But we all know the Whartons.’ He laughed. ‘Well, everyone knows Mad Maurice. It was sad that no one could help him save the pub from closing. A place like the Light House, too. Tragic.’

  ‘I heard that the quality of his beer had been deteriorating for some time.’

  ‘I think that’s right. Hygiene problems, I would imagine. The boss here takes a lot of trouble over hygiene. Take line cleaning – it’s always a chore, but it has to be done every week without fail. If you get dirty lines, you have yeast build-up. I wonder what Maurice’s cellar temperature was like.’

  Cooper looked at him, his mouth falling open slightly. Perhaps it was the effect of the beer on his brain, or the fact that he hadn�
��t recognised Roddy straight away, but he was starting to feel particularly stupid tonight.

  ‘His cellar?’ he said.

  ‘It has to be cool,’ explained Roddy. ‘Always between eleven and thirteen degrees Celsius, and constant. Sometimes people leave the cellar door open, or switch off the cooling at night, if they want to save money.’ He shook his head. ‘There are lots of nasties in a cellar that you don’t want getting to your beer. Bacteria, oxygen, moulds, flies, wild yeast, dirt …’

  ‘I get the picture,’ said Cooper, though in fact his mind was flailing wildly in an attempt to form an image that just wasn’t coming.

  ‘I’ve worked in a few pubs,’ said Roddy. ‘And the cellar often becomes a dumping ground. You wouldn’t believe the clutter in some places. The ice-maker, the chest freezer, the post-mix machine … People think they’re out of the way yet still handy. I even saw a motorbike once. It was a lovely bike, but imagine the stink of petrol mixing with the smell of beer. That’s a recipe for disaster all right.’

  In the middle of the conversation Cooper became aware of a diesel engine outside, the sound of a large vehicle and the crashing of heavy items being delivered

  When they left the Hanging Gate, the reason for the noise became evident. A brewery dray was drawn up in the street, and a wooden hatch set into the pavement was standing open for fresh kegs of beer to be lowered in.

  ‘We must have drunk a lot if they needed to bring in new supplies at this time of the evening,’ said Murfin.

  ‘It’s probably a regular delivery time.’

  As he watched two draymen wearing leather gauntlets for roping kegs into the cellar, Cooper realised he’d always known at the back of his mind that the brewery dray delivered to the pub once a week. That must be true of all pubs, mustn’t it?

  He felt like smacking his forehead with his hand.

  ‘How could I have forgotten that?’ he said.

  He fumbled for his phone as they walked down the street.

  ‘Who are you calling?’ asked Murfin. ‘Not the fiancée? Are you having to report in?’

  ‘Just something I have to do now before I forget.’

  ‘You know your trouble, Ben?’