Dead And Buried (Cooper and Fry) (18 page)

‘Mrs Merritt?’ said Cooper in surprise.

‘Samantha, that’s her name. Plain-looking girl. She ought to put in a bit more effort. But I had a bit of a joke with her.’

‘Did you, Mrs Wheatcroft?’

‘I told her that if she sat on her own in that place, she’d be pestered by men all night. But she didn’t seem to care.’

Cooper frowned. ‘Do you think Samantha might actually have been there with the intention of picking up a man?’

Mrs Wheatcroft gave a short laugh, then shook her head again. ‘No, that’s wrong. I shouldn’t laugh. We don’t know anything about other people’s lives, do we? She might have been doing that, for all I know.’

‘Did you see her talking to anyone?’

‘No, I don’t think so. There were people around her, at other tables. But she didn’t seem to be speaking to anyone.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes.
Well … pretty sure.’

Mmm. Perhaps a hint of a memory there that might surface later?

‘If you do remember anything later, Mrs Wheatcroft, please give me a call. It could be important.’

‘Yes, I see that.’

‘And it was definitely Watford, was it?’ asked Cooper. ‘The town those visitors came from?’

She looked surprised. ‘Watford? No, no. Coventry – that was the place.’

Mrs Wheatcroft beamed at him, her face lighting up with a smile that suggested pride in an achievement. Cooper recognised that look. He’d seen it often in his own mother as she grew older – that delight in plucking a name from the air that had almost managed to elude her. After a while, every accurate recollection became a minor triumph.

Then she frowned.

‘Or it might have been Northampton,’ she said.

Cooper sighed. When he looked at Mrs Wheatcroft again, he realised that she was just like his mental image of the typical madwoman in the attic – the first Mrs Rochester perhaps, prone to alcoholism and fits of violence.

The impression was so strong that Cooper found himself expecting an insane laugh to follow him as he left her cottage and walked back towards the gate.

Cooper’s life
was becoming dominated by lists. Their headings ran through his mind like a well-practised litany. Organists, choirs, cakes, cars, bells, banns, veils, vows, videos, rings, dresses, flowers, music, DJs and seating plans for the reception. Bridesmaids, bouquets, ushers, pageboys, speeches, guest lists, gift lists, hen nights and centrepieces for the tables at the wedding breakfast. Even honeymoon outfits, for heaven’s sake. If they ever made it that far.

He’d bought Liz a Kindle for Christmas. The first books she’d downloaded were
The Complete Wedding Planner
and
The Step by Step Guide to Planning Your Wedding,
closely followed by
Get into Shape for your Wedding Day.
Well at least she’d stopped looking at brochures for destination weddings in the Seychelles.

There was a list of potential wedding venues too, of course. The venue currently top of the list was deep in one of the wooded dales on the banks of the River Wye, not far from Bakewell. It was a former mill owner’s house, quite a fanciful piece of gothic architecture in itself, but standing in a wonderful position, with twenty acres of woodland and the most fantastic views over the river.

Liz had her eye on the floral arcade for an outdoor ceremony. It was bit optimistic, given the vagaries of the weather in this part of the world. But no bride ever expected her
wedding day to be spoiled by rain. Everything was going to be perfect, including the weather.

There was always the orangery, where the reception would take place. Cooper measured the distance by eye. It wasn’t too far to run if the rain started. Well, unless you were wearing a wedding dress with a train as long as the Monsal Viaduct. He wondered if it was one of the groom’s duties to carry the bride indoors to escape a thunderstorm, as well carrying her over the threshold of their new home. That wasn’t mentioned in any of the wedding planning guides.

Nor was the fact that their new home might only be a pipe dream, its threshold purely notional as well as symbolic.

‘The orangery can seat up to ninety, if we use the room that opens into it as well,’ said Liz.

‘Ninety?’

‘Up to.’

‘Do we even know ninety people to speak to?’

‘I’ve got a big family, especially on my dad’s side. There’ll be cousins coming from all over the place.’

‘Oh yes. The Scottish Pettys. Half of Dundee will be coming down on a coach trip, I suppose.’

‘And they can stay right here, Ben. It’s perfect. There are cottages in the grounds. They can accommodate up to fifty people at a time. No one will have to drive back home afterwards if they don’t want to.’

‘So they can all get well oiled on the Glenlivet.’

‘It
is
a celebration,’ she said accusingly.

Immediately he began to regret sounding flippant.

‘Yes, of course it is. The Dundee Pettys can drink as much Glenlivet as they want, as far as I’m concerned. I might even check to see if the bar has any Laphroaig.’

She squeezed his arm. ‘It’s going to be wonderful, you’ll see.’

‘Just
perfect. Everything will be perfect.’

‘A lovely traditional wedding.’

‘Absolutely.’

Was an outdoor ceremony in a floral arcade particularly traditional? Cooper wasn’t sure. His brother had married his sister-in-law Kate at All Saints, the parish church in Edendale, followed by a buffet and disco at a local pub. That was what he thought of as tradition, though he supposed traditions changed over time, like everything else.

Well, he knew the wedding cake would be traditional. Liz had shown him a photograph of a four-tier confection from Love Cakes of Derby, covered in little iced flowers. At least it wasn’t a cupcake tower, which was what he’d been afraid of.

‘We can do photos in the grounds, and they say we can use the main staircase too, if we want,’ said Liz.

‘The staircase? Use it for what?’

‘You know, Ben – for the photos with the dress and the train spread out over the steps, and the bridesmaids behind me. It’ll look fantastic.’

‘Oh, okay. Am I in these photos, by the way?’

‘Only if you behave yourself.’

The orangery was nice, he had to admit. It had been restored about ten years ago to its early nineteenth-century elegance. According to the brochure, the restoration had received a commendation for its design from the Council for the Preservation of Rural England.

‘Okay, the staircase. Well, that’s a selling point.’

‘And look at the views.’

‘Yes, I can’t fault the views.’

Liz looked at her list. ‘So how many stars shall I give it? Four or five?’

‘Out of how many?’

‘I don’t know.’

Sometimes
he thought it would be better if he just let Liz and her family get on with organising the wedding without him. But he always hastily put the thought aside, in case it popped out of his mouth in an unguarded moment. That would definitely land him in big, big trouble.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

‘Nothing.’

Cooper knew she wouldn’t believe him, but she accepted his answer for the moment. If she pressed him, he would find it very difficult to tell her what actually was the matter. The fact was, he was feeling guilty. He was bothered by a persistent, nagging certainty that he’d made a mess of the job last night, that he ought to have been the one to find the body of Aidan Merritt, instead of leaving it to Diane Fry. All right, it might not have made a huge amount of difference. An hour or two perhaps. But those first few hours were crucial, as everyone knew.

Besides, there was a question of pride. He would never live down the fact that a body had been lying a few hundred yards away, without him being aware of it. A murder victim, no less. It would haunt him for the rest of his career.

And the reason it had happened was simple. He’d grasped the opportunity to leave the scene on Oxlow Moor early because he had an appointment to view a property that he couldn’t afford to buy. He’d compromised his professional integrity to please Liz.

And the worst of it was something he could hardly explain to himself. When he looked at Liz now, and saw how happy she was, he even felt guilty about feeling guilty.

At Bridge End Farm, Ben Cooper stopped by the stable to say hello to his two nieces. The elder, Amy, was really growing up now. She was a proper teenager, a bit gawky,
yet obsessive about her appearance. Josie wasn’t far behind either – there were only a couple of years between them. Matt would really have his hands full soon.

A few weeks previously, the girls had got the horse they’d always wanted. The eight-year-old chestnut gelding belonged to Amy really, a present on her last birthday. But the two girls were very close, and it was good to see them sharing the pleasure, as well as the hard work grooming and mucking out. The arrival of the horse had been a joint project anyway. They had been nagging their father about it for the past two years.

Ben suspected that emotional blackmail had played a large part in their strategy. Crucially, their mother had been on their side too. Kate’s opinion would have been a clincher.

Matt Cooper was coming back from the hill behind the farmhouse with the old sheepdog at his heels. They had been moving the sheep between fields. Ben could smell the lanolin from their fleeces, which had impregnated Matt’s clothes and the skin of his hands where he’d been handling the ewes to check them for foot rot.

Ben was reminded of Gavin Murfin’s jibe at Diane Fry, and her response:
Trust me, I’ll be happy if I don’t have to see another damn sheep ever in my life.
Not much chance of that in the Peak District. They were everywhere.

Matt watched his daughters busy with their grooming equipment.

‘That blasted horse costs a fortune,’ he grumbled. ‘It eats its own weight in hay and oats every day, and doesn’t produce a thing. And hay isn’t cheap this year, as you know.’

Matt looked tired. It was a busy time of year for farmers. Not that any time of year
wasn’t
busy. That was what Matt would have told him, if he’d been silly enough to ask.

But Ben didn’t need telling – his childhood at Bridge End
had been ruled by the seasons. Not the usual seasons known as spring, summer, autumn and winter, but lambing, shearing, harvest, ploughing and all the other jobs in the endless round of activities that a farm demanded.

‘Well, I spoke to a few of the blokes who were in the Young Farmers back then,’ said Matt. ‘They’re not quite so young as they were, of course. But then none of us are. And some of them aren’t even in farming any more.’

‘What did they say?’

‘I told them you were asking about the Pearsons. They were aware of the couple in the bar, because they were strangers. I think we were all aware of them.’

‘Who did you talk to?’

‘I’m not giving you names.’

‘This isn’t a game, Matt. I’m trying to find out what happened to two tourists who went missing near the Light House and have never been found. They might be dead. The smallest bit of information could be useful to us right now.’

‘I know, I know. I’ve heard all that before. But there’s a question of loyalty, you see. I think you’ve forgotten that.’

Ben stared at him, feeling suddenly frightened by the huge gulf that had opened up between them. It had been widening for years, but now its extent was terrifying. It was as if he’d just looked up from his feet and found that the earth had opened in front of him. A yawning chasm was staring him in the face, a gulf far too wide to cross.

Sometimes it felt as though everything had changed since the death of their mother. In the years of her illness, Isabel Cooper had been the glue holding the family together. Without her, they had fragmented and gone their different ways. Now they hardly even knew how to communicate.

‘Who did you turn to when there was that incident last year?’ said Ben coldly.

‘Me? No
one. It was Kate who rang you. And it was your friend Diane Fry who got me out of a cell.’

Of course the problem was that they had never really talked about that night. Now its memory lay between them, shocking and impossible to ignore, like a pool of blood on the carpet.

‘You know they wouldn’t let me get involved,’ said Ben.

Matt nodded abruptly. ‘Yes, because they thought there would be a conflict of loyalties. Isn’t that right? Don’t they give that as the reason? You don’t really understand it, though, do you? To you, it’s just procedure, a form of words, all written down in the rule book. To me, loyalty is very real.’

‘Okay.’

‘So you see, you’re going to have to trust me. If you can’t do that, Ben, it’s just tough.’

‘Matt, it’s not a problem.’

‘Good.’

‘So what did you notice about the Pearsons?’

Matt reacted with a clumsy jerk, as if he’d been expecting the question and had tried to rehearse his response. He’d never been a good actor. Ben remembered him being cast as one of the Three Wise Men in their school nativity play, presenting his myrrh to the Baby Jesus like a robot handling a suspicious package. Wooden didn’t quite express it.

‘What sort of people were they?’ asked Ben. ‘Do you remember?’

‘Well, they weren’t noisy or anything. They kept themselves to themselves mostly. Though there did seem to be …’

Ben looked up at the hesitation, saw from his brother’s face that Matt was trying to assemble unfamiliar thoughts and fit them to appropriate words.

‘There seemed to be what, Matt?’

‘I was
going to say, there seemed to be a bit of an atmosphere between them. That’s it.’

‘An atmosphere.’

‘Yes.’

Ben frowned. ‘Between David and Trisha? You mean they’d had an argument?’

‘They weren’t speaking to each other much. Just like when you’ve had a row. You know what I mean?’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘That’s what caused the atmosphere.’

‘So you think they’d been arguing. Just from the atmosphere.’

‘Yes.’

‘The atmosphere,’ repeated Ben.

‘Why do you keep saying it?’

‘Oh, just trying to take it in.’

‘Like I say, they’d been arguing. You could tell from the way they spoke to each other, their expressions when they looked at each other, the way they sat. Their body language, if you want.’