05.One Last Breath

by Stephen Booth

  ‘You don’t think much of your former daughter-in-law?’

  ‘It’s not obligatory, is it?’

  ‘Well, no …’

  ‘I didn’t think she was bringing the children up very well, if you want the truth.’

  ‘That’s not an unusual view for grandparents to take,’ said Fry.

  ‘That’s as may be. But I was convinced it was the reason Simon went off the rails the way he did when the murder happened. If he’d been a more stable, disciplined child, like his sister, it might have been different. But he’d already been allowed to get into bad ways by the time he was fifteen. He was mixing with the wrong company, missing lessons at school. Drinking alcohol, even.’

  ‘None of that was your son’s fault, I suppose? He was Simon’s father, after all.’

  ‘I have my own views,’ said Enid Quinn firmly. ‘I know where I put the blame.’

  Fry paused. Out of the corner of his eye, Cooper saw her give him a slight nod.

  ‘Mrs Quinn, your son’s former wife, Rebecca Lowe, was attacked and killed last night at her home in Aston,’ he said.

  Enid Quinn could no longer keep her hands still. Unsteadily, she felt in her pocket for a handkerchief, but didn’t use it except to twist it in her fingers.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Andrea called me this morning. That’s my granddaughter. She still keeps in touch. But Mansell can’t have done that to Rebecca. He wouldn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She didn’t answer, and Fry began to get impatient.

  ‘You realize we have to take this very seriously, Mrs Quinn,’ she said. ‘It’s no use protesting that your son is innocent. He was convicted by a court and served his sentence. And now we think he’s a danger to more people. We need to find him.’

  Mrs Quinn seemed to gain a little more dignity.

  ‘I was not going to protest Mansell’s innocence,’ she said. ‘On the contrary, I’m quite sure that he was guilty of murdering Carol Proctor.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Yes. But you see, whatever I think, it won’t stop my son from seeking what he wants.’

  ‘And what’s that, Mrs Quinn?’ said Fry.

  ‘Retribution.’

  9

  Adopting his best manner with grieving members of the public, DI Hitchens turned to the Lowes. ‘Are you ready?’

  Simon Lowe nodded. From Andrea, there was no visible response. But they seemed to take a step closer together, and then began to move towards the viewing window.

  Andrea Lowe wore blue denims and a pearl-grey sweatshirt, with her dark hair tied back in a ponytail. She seemed very calm and self-contained. But Diane Fry had seen her almost step out into the traffic as she crossed the car park to get to the mortuary.

  Her brother seemed the most distressed. He clung to Andrea’s hand, looking almost like an older version of her, but slightly lighter in his colouring and several inches taller. At first, Fry thought he seemed to have no strength in him for the task of identifying his mother, yet it was Simon who spoke.

  ‘Yes, it’s her. That’s our mother.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Simon’s voice was very low, and he hardly moved his mouth when he spoke, as if all the energy had been drained out of him. His sister said nothing, but leaned closer to the glass, as close as she could get. She dropped her brother’s hand and pressed her fingers against the window, like a small child peering into a toy shop. Her breath condensed on the glass, and she touched the patch of moisture with her forehead.

  Through the window, the mortuary attendant hovered uncertainly, not sure if an identification had been made and he should now replace the sheet, or whether the bereaved relatives should be allowed a last, lingering look at the deceased.

  ‘Miss Lowe, are you all right?’ said Fry.

  Andrea nodded, but Simon pulled her hand away from the glass and gripped it. Hitchens shuffled his feet and looked around for the family liaison officer, who was trained to deal with grieving relatives.

  ‘You know we’re looking for your father,’ said Hitchens. ‘He was released from prison yesterday.’

  Then a strange thing happened. Simon Lowe changed colour. Fry had seen this happen to family members identifying their loved ones – but usually they turned white, or worse, an unnerving shade of green. But Simon had flushed a deep red, almost purple. Blood suffused his face and neck until he reminded Fry of the corpse of a strangulation victim who had lain on the same slab as Rebecca Lowe not many months ago.

  ‘If you mean Mansell Quinn,’ said Simon, ‘he’s not my father.’

  ‘Oh, but I thought –’

  Andrea turned away from the glass at last and threw her arms round her brother, becoming the little sister in a moment. Simon took a deep breath that shuddered through air passages swollen with emotion.

  ‘He was my father. But not any more. He hasn’t been my father for fourteen years.’

  ‘I see,’ said Hitchens.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I think I understand how you feel. So if you should happen to have any idea where your … I mean, where Mr Quinn is at the moment, you would be sure to let us know?’

  ‘Of course we would,’ said Simon.

  ‘And you, madam?’

  Hitchens waited politely for Andrea to reply.

  ‘I spoke to Mum, you know. Not long before it happened. I spoke to her on the phone, and I told her to make sure she was safe. I didn’t think she was taking the situation seriously enough. But that was Mum – she preferred to enjoy life than to worry about things all the time.’

  ‘We’ll want a statement from you,’ said Hitchens. ‘If you feel up to it.’

  ‘I’ll do it today,’ she said.

  ‘In the meantime …’

  ‘We’ll tell you anything we can think of that might help, Inspector.’

  Fry noticed that it was Simon who had taken over again. Rebecca Lowe’s children clung together as though they were inseparable.

  The cattle market that used to stand on the main road in Hope had been demolished. Perhaps it had lost too much business during the foot and mouth outbreak in 2001, when all livestock markets had been closed for a year. Now the site had been redeveloped for housing.

  ‘Mansell Quinn was given a twenty-year sentence,’ said Ben Cooper. ‘If he was refused parole, his automatic release date must have been two-thirds of the way through his sentence. That’s, er …’

  ‘Thirteen years and four months.’

  Diane Fry looked up briefly as Cooper slowed to avoid a squirrel that darted across the road. But, as usual, she showed little interest in the scenery.

  ‘Why do you think he changed his story about the Carol Proctor murder?’ said Cooper. ‘All it meant was that they refused him parole and he got knocked back.’

  ‘There are all kinds of factors the parole board would have taken into consideration,’ said Fry. ‘They’d want to know about his plans when he got out. And he had some issues to deal with – anger problems.’

  ‘Right.’

  Hope village lay in the centre of the valley, dominated on one side by Lose Hill and Win Hill, and on the other by the cement works. Going up the valley, the chimney of the works had been visible from as far away as the Rising Sun Inn. Its curious tower-like structure resembled the ruins of a castle, with gaping holes like empty windows in a high battlement. Behind it was the long white scar of the quarries driven deep into Bradwell Moor.

  Cooper had looked at Mansell Quinn’s mugshots earlier. For a long time in prison, Quinn must have been like a man holding his breath under water. Worse, he would have had no idea how long he needed to hold it for. There would have been a time when he hoped to get parole and be out of prison at the ten-year mark. But he’d been branded unsuitable for release. Many men might have given up then, stopped holding their breath and let the despair rush in. But Quinn had waited.

  ‘I suppose his home circumstances didn’t meet the requirements. Not suitable for assisting his re
habilitation.’

  ‘It’s not a sensible option to change your mind about whether you’re guilty,’ said Fry. ‘You’re branding yourself a liar. Most men who change their stories in prison do it the other way round, though. Remorse being more important than innocence, they express remorse and get their parole.’

  Cooper had to drive more carefully through Hope, where a constant stream of lorries rumbled backwards and forwards over the bridge to reach the cement works.

  He had seen men leaving prison after their release, setting off along the roadside in the direction of the nearest town, their entire belongings in one bag and only the vaguest idea where they were going. He’d often wondered whether they made it any further than the nearest pub, following the first sniff of freedom that drifted through a bar-room window.

  ‘If it were me, I’d do anything to get out, including lying through my teeth. I mean, if I was actually innocent, I’d know I was – even if no one else did. So it wouldn’t be on my conscience …’ Cooper paused. ‘Quinn won’t be planning to go back inside again, that’s for sure.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, too,’ said Fry.

  A few minutes later, Cooper and Fry stood at the bottom of Rebecca Lowe’s garden at Parson’s Croft. A stiff breeze had sprung up, and Cooper watched it bustling through the trees on the slopes of Win Hill.

  The SOCOs were still working on the house, and a group of officers were on their hands and knees searching the garden and driveway, seeking traces of the killer on his route to the house. Cooper noticed a garden ornament here, too – not a squirrel or a rabbit, but a concrete heron standing on one leg in the middle of the lawn, as if waiting for a pond to arrive.

  ‘They think he may have waited under the trees for a while before he approached the house,’ said Fry, who’d been speaking to the Crime Scene Manager. ‘Probably he wanted to be sure she was alone.’

  ‘Here?’ said Cooper.

  ‘A few yards along the fence. See the markers? He must have watched the place for a while before he entered. This is the best spot to remain unnoticed, yet have a clear view of the house.’

  Cooper looked up at the tree above his head. Most of its leaves were dark green, with the distinctive pointed tip of the lime. But many of the branches had thinner, paler foliage. With a slight stretch he was able to reach up, take hold of a branch and give it a shake. A shower of water droplets fell from the surface of the leaves, followed by a small cloud of brown specks that landed in Fry’s hair and on her shoulders, and clung to the sleeves of Cooper’s shirt.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ said Fry.

  Cooper picked one of the specks off his shirt and looked at it. It was a tiny round floret on a short piece of dried stem.

  ‘This lime tree is seeding,’ he said. ‘There are thousands of these things up there. If the killer stood here, even for a few minutes, he’ll have them on his clothes, like us.’

  ‘And in his hair,’ said Fry, brushing the top of her head. ‘OK, if we find Quinn, they’ll still be on him. I don’t suppose he’s changing his clothes very much.’

  ‘We ought to suggest to the SOCOs that they look for seeds in the material they bagged from inside the house.’

  ‘It wouldn’t really prove anything. Rebecca Lowe could have carried seeds into the house herself. They could have been taken in by the dog, or anyone.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right.’

  Fry stared at him. She wasn’t used to being told that she was right. But Cooper had a picture in his mind. He was imagining the killer standing here, under the lime tree, watching the house. He hadn’t approached the house straight away, but had stood for some time, waiting. Waiting for what, though?

  ‘It was already dark, wasn’t it?’ said Cooper. ‘It had been for an hour or so.’

  ‘Yes, of course it was dark.’

  She watched him in amazement as he reached up and shook the nearest branch of the tree again. This time he tugged a bit harder, and the bough dipped. More water fell around them. Fry got a spatter of it in her face and wiped it away with her fingers as she stared at Cooper.

  ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘if it had already started to rain.’

  ‘I’ve no idea, Ben.’

  Cooper looked at the ground. He saw a ripe seedhead from a stem of grass that had been chewed by mice or something. Nearby were a series of markers placed on the damp soil by the SOCOs.

  ‘Footprints,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Boots, by the look of them. Nice, clear impressions.’

  ‘Useful.’

  Between the lime trees and the house stretched two gently sloping lawns edged by flower borders and divided by a brick-paved path. The path meandered a little before ending at a sundial on a stone plinth. Cooper could see no more white markers, and the SOCOs were already progressing towards the drive and garage.

  ‘There are no impressions between here and the house, though. Yet the grass is fairly long, not recently cut.’

  Fry shrugged. ‘He must have walked on the path.’

  ‘Oh, right. He was worried about damaging the grass with his big boots. And what about the six-foot leap to the sundial?’

  ‘Ben, the grass just didn’t retain any impressions, that’s all.’

  ‘But it would do,’ said Cooper, ‘if it was wet.’

  He watched Gavin Murfin scouting around the side of the house, peering over the dense hedge into the neighbours’ property. Cooper realized this was the first time that he’d been alone with Diane Fry for months, without Murfin or anybody else being on hand to overhear what they were saying or butt in. For once, Fry wasn’t trying to get away from him. In fact, she seemed to be absorbed with her own thoughts.

  ‘Diane …’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  Fry looked at him suspiciously, already alerted by a change in the tone of his voice. Cooper wished he were a better actor sometimes.

  ‘I know it’s none of my business,’ he said, and paused while she rolled her eyes in exasperation, though she still didn’t move away. ‘But I heard that Angie is staying with you.’

  ‘Been gossiping round the coffee machine, have you?’

  ‘Is it true, Diane?’

  ‘Like you said, Ben: it’s none of your business.’

  ‘I was involved, in a way –’

  ‘In a way? Too bloody involved, if you ask me.’

  ‘Yes, I know, I know. But is Angie just visiting or has she moved in? I mean, are you sure you’re doing the right thing, Diane?’

  ‘Ben, would you like me to break your neck now, or do you want to annoy me for a bit longer?’

  Fry began to walk across the garden, her shoulders stiff. Cooper had seen her walk away from him like that too often before. He shook his head, spraying more water and brown specks from his hair. Then he hurried after Fry, falling into step alongside her.

  ‘Have you seen anything of Rebecca Lowe’s children?’ he said.

  ‘They came in earlier today for identification of the body,’ said Fry. ‘They already knew Mansell Quinn was coming out of prison, of course. Andrea said she’d tried to get her mother to take extra precautions.’

  ‘Andrea and … Simon?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Any children from the second marriage?’

  ‘She was too old by then, Ben.’

  ‘I meant, did the second husband have any children? Step-children for Mrs Lowe.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A woman living alone, then.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But if Mansell Quinn came looking for revenge,’ said Cooper, ‘why his ex-wife? What did she do?’

  ‘We don’t know. And there’s another thing we don’t know: who else he might be looking for.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What I mean, Ben, is – who’s next?’

  Will Thorpe had taken to watching other people breathe. It was effortless and automatic for most of them. They weren’t even aware they were doing it. He liked to watch their c
hests gently rise and fall, and imagine the smooth flow of air in and out of their lungs. He stared at their mouths as they talked or ate, trying to recollect a time in his past when it had been possible to talk and breathe at the same time, as these people did. He cocked his head to listen to them, but he couldn’t hear them breathing.

  There were some, of course, who gave themselves away. Now and then, he heard a wheeze or a cough, and he’d turn around to find where it had come from. They must know the reality – or if not, they soon would. But others he watched so long that he began to believe they didn’t breathe at all. Maybe they absorbed oxygen through their pores, or drew it in with the sunlight, like trees did through their leaves.

  These people didn’t understand what breathing was. It was the most important thing in the world, a privilege that had to be fought for every minute of the day and night. Especially the night.

  Thorpe was sitting in a small grassy hollow overlooking the entrance to Cavedale. Below him was a series of worn limestone shelves that he’d climbed to reach his vantage point. It had taken him a few minutes, frequently pausing to get his breath, fighting to control the pain in his chest.

  From here, he was looking down on people entering the dale through the narrow cleft in the limestone at the Castleton end. Behind him, a clump of elms and sycamores screened the roofs of the tea rooms and B & Bs near Cavedale Cottages. If he kept still, even the walkers coming down the dale wouldn’t notice him in his hollow. Once they’d passed below the keep of the castle, they didn’t look up any more but kept their eyes on the ground to avoid stumbling on loose stones.

  After a few minutes, Thorpe lit a cigarette. Two young boys entered the dale, chattering loudly, oblivious to the fact they were being watched. They were probably part of the group he’d seen in the village carrying their worksheets, ticking off the things they were supposed to find.

  These two had found Cavedale, but they weren’t satisfied with simply ticking it off. They scrambled up the rock across the dale from Thorpe and stood at the mouth of one of the small caves in the limestone cliff. It looked dark and mysterious, but Thorpe knew that it ended after only a few feet. Though the hill was honeycombed by the Peak Cavern and Speedwell system, there was no entrance to it from Cavedale.