‘Where did they hear that from?’
‘They seemed to think it was something everybody knew.’
‘The Carol Proctor killing is a case everyone in that area will remember,’ said Hitchens. ‘At least, everyone who was living around there in 1990. But we have to reach the others as well - the newcomers, and all those thousands of visitors, too.’
‘If necessary, we’ll spend some money on distributing posters. Anything else, Paul?’
‘I think that’s it for now, sir.’
But Cooper raised a hand. ‘Sir, if Quinn is looking for revenge for some perceived injustice at his trial, I wonder if
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he might also go after the professionals involved. For example, the judge, the lawyers ‘
‘- or the police officers,’ said Kessen. ‘Yes. Specifically, the officers who worked on the Carol Proctor case and put the evidence together that got him sent down.’
The DCI looked at Hitchens. ‘You’d better add looking up the investigating officers to your list of tasks, Paul,1 he said.
Hitchens looked more uncomfortable than ever. ‘No, sir.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t need anyone to look them up.’
Kessen smiled at him. ‘Perhaps you’d better tell us why, DI Hitchens. I think some of us here don’t know.’
‘Well, one of those officers,’ said Hitchens, ‘was me.’
Rebecca Lowe might have lived alone, but she had an active enough life. Analysing her diary, address books and other material that had been taken from her house, the incident room staff had already begun to piece together her movements, her regular activities and closest contacts. Later, her phone records would be gone through, her letters and bank statements read in the hope of tracing connections that might point to a motive, a suspect, or a possible witness.
Along with the forensic examination and the postmortem, it was all part of the routine that had to be observed to demonstrate that things were being done properly. But everyone knew that a separate operation was going on at the same time - the effort to find the man already identified as the prime suspect: Mansell Quinn.
Ben Cooper found himself with an interview to do almost immediately. At least once a week, Rebecca Lowe had attended a gym located on an industrial estate in Edendale. Her sister Dawn said that she’d been talking about joining a new fitness centre at Hathersage instead, because it was nearer. But changing your gym was a bit like converting from one religion to another. You risked being told that everything
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you’d done so far in your life was wrong. Perhaps Rebecca had been a bit set in her ways, after all. She’d stayed at the Edendale gym.
‘One of our more mature ladies,’ said the trainer at Valley Fitness. ‘But she was in better shape than most. In fact, she could outlast a lot of the younger women on the bikes. Also, she wasn’t afraid to try new things. She’d put her name down for a trial Pilates class.’
‘Did she ever talk about her ex-husband?’
‘Wait a minute - he died, didn’t he?’
‘Sorry, I mean the husband before that.’
‘An earlier ex? No, I didn’t know she had one. She’d lived a bit then, had she, Rebecca? Seen off two husbands, but still kept herself in condition? Well, good for her.’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘Monday morning. She always comes in for a session on Monday morning. Never misses.’
That checked with the photocopy Cooper had of a page from Rebecca Lowe’s week-to-view diary.
‘And she was definitely there yesterday morning?’
‘Yes, ten o’clock to eleven. She made a joke about working off the excesses of the weekend. She liked a bottle of wine now and then, I think.’
Cooper looked at the entries for the previous two days. Lunch with her sister on Saturday. A dinner party with some friends on Sunday night.
‘And did Mrs Lowe seem her normal self?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Did she seem worried about anything? Did she mention anything that was bothering her?’
‘I didn’t talk to her that much, but she seemed perfectly happy. Just as usual. Wait a minute, though …’
‘Yes?’
The phone was silent for a moment. Cooper could hear a series of strange noises in the background, and imagined the
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running and stretching and pedalling that must be going on while they spoke. The thought of it made him feel tired.
‘There was a man who was due out of prison about now,’ said the trainer. ‘Is that right? Somebody that Rebecca knew very well.’
‘Yes, that’s right. Did Mrs Lowe tell you that?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Oh.’
‘Somebody else must have mentioned it. An old murder case, wasn’t it? Or maybe it’s just a bit of gossip. I might be able to remember his name, if you give me a minute.’
‘Never mind. I expect it was Quinn.’
‘That’s it! So is it right? Is he out?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’
As Coo’per put the phone down, he was handed a photograph. It was a recent shot of Rebecca Lowe, the one they’d be issuing with the press releases. She was dressed for the outdoors, in a green body warmer and jeans, and she had a dog at her heels - a small thing with a plumed tail and a screwed-up face. Rebecca had rather a narrow face, with lines around her eyes but enviable cheekbones. Her hair was blonde, though surely it must be dyed at forty-nine.
The trainer at the fitness club was right - Rebecca Lowe looked in good condition. But seen off two husbands? It looked as though one of them had come back again.
For a while, Cooper found himself waiting for someone to tell him what to do next. A major murder enquiry was a rigid bureaucracy, with clearly defined responsibilities and not much chance for anyone to work outside the system. As a divisional detective, he’d be allocated to the Outside Enquiry Team. Somebody had to do the physical part of the investigation, even if the SIO opted for HOLMES.
Of course, Cooper regretted that he’d have to let Amy and
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Josie down and skip the visit to the caverns. But they would understand - they always did.
Finally, he saw Diane Fry walking between the desks in the CID room.
‘You’re supposed to be on a rest day, aren’t you, Ben?’ she said.
‘Yes, but ‘
‘You might as well take what’s left of it off.’
‘Don’t you need me?’ said Cooper, hearing his own voice rising a pitch in surprise. And sensing, perhaps, that sinking feeling of disappointment.
‘Not today. It looks like a self-solver. We just need to get some leads on where Mansell Quinn is and catch up with him.’
‘Are you sure, Diane?’
‘That’s what they’re saying further up.’
‘Well, I don’t mind, because I’ve got things planned. It just doesn’t feel right, that’s all.’
Fry shrugged. ‘We just do what we’re told, don’t we?’
It felt strange to Cooper to be leaving the office and going home when a major enquiry might be about to start. But, if he stayed, he’d become eligible for overtime. Somebody was making tough budget decisions in an office upstairs, gambling on an early conclusion.
Before Cooper could escape from the building, DI Hitchens put his head round the door and caught his eye.
‘DC Cooper.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Have you got a few minutes? Just before you go.’
Hitchens inclined his head to his office, and Cooper followed him in.
‘Shut the door.’
Hitchens looked serious - more serious than Cooper could remember seeing him for a long time, not since the DI had
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failed his interview for a chief inspector’s job. He also seemed a little uncomfortable, hesitating at his desk as if about to sit down, but then remaining where he was at the window. Apart from the foo
tball ground, there was nothing for him to look at outside, only the roofs of houses in the streets that ran downhill towards the centre of Edendale.
Cooper waited until the DI pulled his thoughts together.
‘I thought I’d tell you this privately first, Ben,’ he said, ‘rather than during a team briefing.’
Now it was Cooper who was starting to feel uneasy. He could sense bad news coming. Was he going to be reprimanded for something? Had he committed a serious enough offence to face a disciplinary enquiry - or worse? Cooper swallowed. He knew that he had. But time had passed, and he’d become convinced that he was safe. There was only one person who might have shopped him.
He studied the DI’s face to try to gauge how serious it was. Hitchens hadn’t even bothered to use the positive-negative positive technique that was taught to managers. He ought to have praised Cooper for something first before he tackled the difficult subject, so as not to destroy his morale. Maybe that meant it was something else. A transfer, perhaps. Cooper had a few years of his tenure in CID to go yet, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t dispense with his services sooner.
‘It’s the Mansell Quinn case,’ said Hitchens, taking Cooper by surprise. ‘I mean, the murder of Carol Proctor.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘It’s funny that you should be the one to raise the point about the professionals involved in the case being at risk. I’m thinking about the police officers particularly.’
‘You were one of the officers involved, sir.’
‘Yes, I was, Cooper.’
‘But how does that affect me? Is there something you want me to do?’
Hitchens smiled.
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‘You think I might be asking you to protect me? That’s very good of you, Ben. But I’ll take my chances.’
Then the DI sat down at last and folded his hands on the desk, intertwining his long fingers nervously.
‘This is a bit difficult, Cooper,’ he said. ‘But, first of all, you’ve got to remember that the Carol Proctor killing was nearly fourteen years ago. I was a divisional DC then, much like yourself. A bit younger, in fact, but every bit as keen. Anyway, it was my first murder case, so I remember it well. I made notes of everything. Of course, things were done a bit differently in those days.’
Cooper nodded. He had run out of things to say.
‘All the senior officers on the case have long since retired,’ said Hitchens. ‘The SIO died three years ago. Heart attack.’
‘I’m sorry. Was he a good detective, sir?’
Cooper knew that the first Senior Investigating Officer you worked for on a major enquiry could make a lasting impression, like an influential school teacher. He still thought fondly of DCI Tailby, who he’d worked for a couple of times.
‘A good detective? Not particularly,’ said Hitchens. ‘He was an old school dick - some of them were still around in the early nineties. He had his own ideas about how things were done. Well, he wasn’t the only one, of course.’
‘No, sir.’
‘My old DS is still around, but he’s a training officer at Bramshill now,’ Hitchens continued. ‘That only leaves me from the main enquiry team that put Mansell Quinn away. However, the actual arrest wasn’t made by CID but by uniforms. The suspect was still at the scene when the first officers arrived and so the FOAs arrested him. They found the knife, too. Obviously, Quinn hadn’t given any thought to concocting a story before the patrol turned up.’
Cooper shook his head. ‘I still don’t understand, sir.’
Hitchens sighed. The know how much the death of your
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father meant to you, Ben. I think it still bothers you a lot, am I right?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The words hardly came out, because Cooper’s mouth felt numb. His mind had latched on to the acronym FOA - first officers to arrive. A uniformed patrol responding to a 999 call. He had a sinking certainty that he knew what the DI was going to say next. ‘So in the Mansell Quinn case … ?’
Hitchens nodded. ‘Yes. After Carol Proctor was murdered,’ he said, ‘the arresting officer was Sergeant Joe Cooper.’
Ill
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Another enquiry team had been assigned the action on Mansell Quinn’s friend, William Thorpe. And good luck to them. According to the initial intelligence, he was living on the streets, as so many ex-soldiers did.
To Diane Fry, ‘living on the street’ meant one of the big cities - Sheffield or Manchester, maybe even Derby. Edendale didn’t have many homeless people. Those who hung around the town were too much of a nuisance to the tourists to be tolerated for long. If Thorpe had been surviving locally, he’d have been picked up by a patrol, but there was no record of it. The only leads were his drunk-and-disorderly charge in Ashbourne, thirty miles to the south, and the existence of an ex-wife, long since divorced. So that action was likely to tie up two unlucky DCs for a good while.
Fry was on victim’s background. The only trouble was, she’d been teamed up with Gavin Murfin. Their first task was a visit to Dawn Cottrill, Rebecca Lowe’s sister, who had found the body.
Mrs Cottrill lived at the end of a modern cul-de-sac in Castleton. It was what the designers called a ‘hammerhead’ close, opening out into two stubby arms at the top. Fry understood this to be something that the planners insisted on to
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provide room for fire appliances to turn round. Otherwise, the whole point of these modern developments was to allow people to feel they were out of the way of the passing hoi polloi, while still being handy for the shops.
As they drove into the road, two young men in dark suits and white shirts were walking up the drive of one of the houses. They had short hair and carried leather satchels.
‘Watch out,’ said Murfin. ‘Jehovah’s.’
‘What?’
‘Jehovah’s Witnesses. Don’t stand still when you’re out in the open, or they’ll get you.’
‘Just concentrate on the job, Gavin.’
By the time they’d found somewhere to park the car, the two young men had disappeared - maybe somebody had actually let them in. As Fry looked around the cul-de-sac, she realized it must have been one of the last developments built in Castleton before the national park planning regulations were tightened. To stem the influx of affluent outsiders, the only planning permissions given now were to affordable homes for people who’d lived in the village for at least ten years or had strong family ties with the area.
‘Well, I’m not local enough,’ said Murfin when she mentioned it. ‘And I’m damn sure you’re not. They probably lynch Brummies around here.’
‘I’m from the Black Country.’
‘You sound like a Brummie, though. Maybe you’d better let me do the talking, Diane.’
‘What does Dawn Cottrill do?’ asked Fry.
‘She’s a lecturer at High Peak College. Economic history.’
‘Educated, then.’
‘Well, obviously.’
‘Maybe you’d better let me do the talking in that case, Gavin.’
Dawn Cottrill had iron-grey hair in a bob. Her face was pale, and her cheekbones seemed very prominent. Fry could almost
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have believed that her hair had turned grey overnight since her sister’s death, that her face had been sharpened by the pain.
‘It seems impossible to believe that something like this could happen again,’ said Mrs Cottrill. ‘But this time …’
‘Yes, I understand,’ said Fry. ‘When you think something is a long way in your past, it’s very shocking.’
They had been ushered through the house on to a sort of wooden veranda overlooking the garden. The decking had been partly covered with rugs and set out with a table, on which stood glasses and a jug filled with fruit juice and ice. Fry and Murfin sat on a settee with a blue blanket thrown over it and cushions scattered everywhere.
Dawn Cottrill sat with her back to the sun, perhaps to avoid having the light in her face as she talked. With a s
teady hand, she poured them a drink. Fry was impressed by the woman’s composure, a reassuring sign when her job was to ask difficult questions.
‘Mrs Cottrill, do you happen to know when your sister last saw her ex-husband, Mansell Quinn?’
‘It would be the final visit Rebecca made to him in prison. Not the open prison at Sudbury, but about two before that. I’m sorry, but they seemed to keep moving him from one prison to another. I think this one was somewhere in Lancashire.’
‘And that last visit was several years ago, I think?’
‘Oh, yes. I can’t remember how long exactly, I’m afraid. But Andrea was still quite young.’
‘Before the divorce and her new marriage, though?’
‘Of course. Rebecca was only married to Maurice Lowe for eighteen months before he died. He had a heart attack, you know. He’d been playing squash. I always thought it was too energetic a game for a man of his age.’
Mrs Cottrill’s voice faltered. She brushed a nonexistent strand of hair from her forehead. Her hand was very slender, too - the veins and tendons showed clearly through the skin.
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‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s been such a difficult time. Thank goodness the children are old enough to cope with it better. They were both worried, you know, about their father coming out of prison. More worried than Rebecca was herself. She was obviously much too trusting.’
‘Did Mrs Lowe say why she stopped visiting Mansell Quinn in prison?’ said Fry, sticking to her line of questions.
‘Why? It was understandable, wasn’t it? The divorce was going through. She had her own life to lead.’
‘But the children - Simon and Andrea. He was their father, after all. It meant he didn’t see them again.’
‘They were teenagers,’ said Mrs Cottrill. ‘Old enough to make up their own minds. They could have gone to visit their father, if they’d wanted to. But they never did, not since then. You couldn’t expect Rebecca to force them to go, if they were frightened.’
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