One last breath bcadf-5

by Stephen Booth

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  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.’

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  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

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  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? Stepchildren 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?’

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  ‘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 chests 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

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  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 Cave
dale.

  The two boys looked around and noticed him. Perhaps it was the whiff of his cigarette smoke that had alerted them to his presence.

  ‘Excuse me, is this cave safe?’ called one of the boys.

  Thorpe was impressed by polite children. They always took him by surprise.

  ‘Safe?’

  ‘Are there bats - or anything?’

  ‘No, I don’t there’ll be any bats. Or bears.’

  ‘Thank you. We’re going in to explore.’

  ‘If you’re not out in an hour, I’ll call cave rescue,’ said Thorpe.

  The boys disappeared. Thorpe laughed to himself, coughing and taking a drag on his cigarette. The hollow was quite a little sun trap, and the warmth felt good on his skin. He’d forgotten that it was possible to feel like this. Temporarily, he could even ignore the constant struggle to draw in air. Once he’d got this burden off his mind, he’d be able to breathe properly at last. No dust or poisons would break down his lungs, no holes would erupt into his chest cavity. He’d take

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  a breath with ease, as everyone else did. That was all he wanted.

  ‘Did you know it was so small?’ called a voice.

  Thorpe looked up. The two youngsters were out of the cave, looking disappointed. There had been no bats, then. Only a couple of yards of damp sandy floor and a graffiti covered rock face.

  ‘No, I didn’t. Sorry.’

  The boys looked as though they didn’t believe him. But Thorpe reckoned you had to find things out for yourself in this life. You had to learn from your disappointments. There would be bigger ones to come later on.

  He watched the youngsters clamber down the rocky path and head back into Castleton. What was next on the worksheet? Church, youth hostel, school?

  In the distance, Thorpe could hear a hammer tapping on stone, a whistle blowing for a football game, and kids chattering in the market square. He lay back on the grass, letting a cloud of blue smoke drift away into the sky, and closed his eyes. In the warmth of the sun, he began to relax, and was almost asleep by the time Mansell Quinn found him.

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  10

  In the incident room at Edendale, officers found themselves in a reversal of the normal routine - they were drawing up a list of potential victims rather than suspects.

  For a few minutes, DCI Oliver Kessen watched Hitchens organizing the enquiry teams.

  ‘And once we have a list of names, what do we do?’ said Kessen.

  ‘We warn them of the risk, sir.’

  ‘Look, we have to be careful here. If the press gets hold of the idea that there might be more murders, it could lead to a general panic.’

  ‘That goes without saying.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Ben Cooper hadn’t quite got used to DCI Kessen. He was too quiet by far. In fact, he was so quiet as he moved around West Street that his officers often turned around to find him standing in the doorway, watching them. And they wouldn’t know how long he’d been there, or what he was thinking.

  ‘All right, so who have we got?’ said Kessen.

  ‘There are the two children from the Quinns’ marriage,’ said Hitchens. ‘The daughter, Andrea, is twenty-six. I don’t

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  suppose she’ll remember all that much of her father. But the son, Simon, is twenty-eight now. He’d have been about fifteen years old when his father was sent down. He’ll remember.’

  ‘I should think he damn well would.’

  ‘But I don’t think we’re looking at the children as potential victims. He’s still their father, after all.’

  Kessen shrugged. ‘Unfortunately, fathers have been known to kill their children. Do we have any evidence as to how Quinn viewed his two?’

  He watched Hitchens shake his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Get somebody on to the prison authorities. They have personal officers for prisoners on each wing these days. They also have counsellors, and all that business. Someone will have talked to Quinn about his family. Or tried to, at least. Let’s see what we can get out of them. Any insight into how his mind might be working would be useful.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Where do Quinn’s family live?’

  ‘The daughter is working in London. But the son, Simon he has a job in Development Control with the district council. He recently bought a house right here in Edendale.’

  ‘He was lucky,’ said Gavin Murfin. ‘There isn’t much property for first-time buyers around here.’

  ‘No, you’re right. I wonder how he managed the mortgage.’ Hitchens sighed. ‘There’s an awful lot of stuff to work on, sir.’

  ‘Information is what we need,’ said Kessen. ‘If we can establish what sort of people we’re dealing with and what terms they’re on with Quinn, we might be able to work out his intentions.’

  ‘I suppose so. But we can’t begin to take measures to protect all these people, can we?’

  ‘We can warn them that they might be at risk. Who else do we have?’

  ‘There are two friends of Mansell Quinn. Or former friends,

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  at least. The three of them were very close at the time of the murder. Both were called to give evidence at the trial, and both declined to give him an alibi. That was pretty much the clincher.’

  ‘Who needs enemies, eh?’

  ‘Number one, we have Raymond Proctor, aged fifty, married. He runs a caravan park near Hope.’

  ‘Family?’

  ‘Married, as I said. Two teenage children. Hang on, no one grown-up son. The teenagers are step-children, from his wife’s previous marriage. Poor bugger.’

  Kessen regarded him coolly. ‘Proctor, you say?’

  ‘Yes, this is the guy whose first wife was killed by Qumn - he’d been having an affair with her. So we can’t expect much love lost there, I suppose.’

  ‘Friend number two?’

  ‘Number two is William Edward Thorpe, aged forty-five, single. Thorpe was a soldier, spent quite a lot of his time serving overseas. He was with the local regiment, the Worcestershire and Sherwood Foresters, but he was discharged last year.’

  ‘Current whereabouts?’

  ‘Unknown.’

  ‘His regiment should have records.’

  ‘We’ve tried them,’ said Hitchens. ‘On discharge, Thorpe went to Derby for a while. He was staying with one of his old army buddies who’d finished his stint a few months earlier. But the friend says Thorpe walked out after a few days, and he doesn’t know where he went after that. The computer throws up a drunk-and-disorderly charge for a William Edward Thorpe in Ashbourne a couple of months ago, but his address was given as “no fixed abode”.’

  ‘We need to find him. Quinn has a motive for looking him up.’

  ‘So much work,’ said Hitchens.

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  DCI Kessen waved away the comment.

  ‘Sudbury’s an open prison, right?’ said Murfin.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Didn’t we have one who escaped from there recently?’

  ‘If you can call it escaping. He was on an unsupervised work party on the prison farm, and never went back to his cell at the end of the day.’

  ‘I don’t know why they bother doing it. I mean, those open prisons are a cushy number. And he’ll only get sent back to somewhere worse when he’s caught.’

  ‘If he’s caught.’

  ‘Come on, sir. When did we not catch someone who’d walked out of Sudbury? These blokes always go straight home. The poor sods don’t know what else to do.’

  Cooper put his hand up. ‘Gavin has a point, sir. Mansell Quinn didn’t escape, but his thinking could be the same. He might just have been going home.’

  ‘Damn right. He turned up at his wife’s house and killed her.’

  Cooper shook his head. ‘That wasn’t his home. He never lived there.’

  ‘No, you’re right. His previous address was in Castleton. But somebody else lives there now. Complete stran
gers, I assume. Check on it, would you, Murfin.’

  ‘Quinn’s mother lives in Hathersage,’ said Cooper. That will be the place he thinks of as home.’

  ‘We’ve talked to her, haven’t we? DS Fry?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But I don’t think she was being entirely open with us.’

  ‘Put a bit of pressure on, then. Get some officers into the area to talk to all the neighbours. See if we can get a sighting of Quinn. OK, Paul?’

  Hitchens had no choice but to nod.

  ‘Somebody look into public transport,’ said Kessen. ‘Is there a railway station near Sudbury?’

  ‘We’ll check, sir.’

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  ‘He might have hired a car,’ said someone. ‘Or stolen one.’

  ‘We should look into it,’ said Hitchens. ‘Right.’

  ‘If Quinn does have a car,’ pointed out Kessen, ‘it’s going to make it much less difficult for us. A known vehicle will be easier to locate than an individual who may or may not be on foot, and who has the whole of the Peak District to wander around in.’

  ‘We hope for the easy option, then,’ said Hitchens.

  ‘Obviously. So we want sightings of vehicles in Aston, near the victim’s home.’

  ‘And appeals, sir?’

  ‘The press office are already on to that. They’re fixing up a press conference later this afternoon. We aim to get Quinn’s photograph on the local TV news tonight. We need as many members of the public looking out for him as possible.’

  ‘I got chatting with some of Mrs Lowe’s neighbours at Aston this morning,’ said Murfin. ‘They said they were just passing, but of course they’d come for a nosy around to see what was going on.’

  ‘The next-door neighbours?’

  ‘No, further up the village. They didn’t see anything last night, but they volunteered Mansell Quinn’s name themselves. They’d heard he was due out.’