Scared to Live (25 page)

good coffee in Bulgaria? Just the idea of it was making her mouth dry. 'And what about you, Sergeant Fry?' he said. 'What is your situation?' 'One of my colleagues is following up a possible lead to Nikolov. In fact, he's on his way to the address right now. And we've identified some associates of Nikolov's living in the area. Two brothers by the name of Zhivko.' Sergeant Kotsev seemed to choke over his coffee. 'Zhivko? Anton and Lazar?' 'Yes.' 'Is one of them disabled? In a wheelchair?' 'I believe so.' 'You should arrest them immediately.' Surprised by the sudden urgency in his tone, Fry raised her eyebrows at her colleagues in the office, the way they all did when they had someone strange on the phone. 'They don't appear to have committed any crimes here, Sergeant,' she said. 'But we've got them under surveillance.' 'They're dangerous people. And so are their associates. Anton Zhivko was almost killed in an assassination attempt by a rival gang. That was why they left the country.' 'We're aware of that. But they seem to be running a legitimate business so far.' 'That is a joke.' 'No.' 'The Zhivkos are desperate men. In fear of their lives, and therefore dangerous.' 'I'll mention your concerns to my senior officers.' There was silence at the other end of the phone for a moment. The line to Pleven was so good that she could hear Kotsev breathing, and even the faint buzz of background conversation, and a door closing somewhere. 'If you would like for someone to travel to England, it can be arranged,' he said.

'Why?' 'To assist in your investigation. We very much wish to help. Co-operation with our European colleagues is encouraged at the highest level.' 'Well, I don't think that will be necessary for now, but I'll pass on your offer.' 'It's been a pleasure to liaise with you, Sergeant Fry. I hope we'll speak again soon.' 'Goodbye, then.' 'Ciao.' Fry put the phone down. Ciao. Was that a Bulgarian word? Then she noticed Murfin making frantic gestures at her with his phone. 'What is it, Gavin?' 'I've got that waitress on the phone - the one from Matlock Bath, who came in to do the photofits. I think you'd better speak to her.' 'OK, put her on.' Murfin transferred the call, and Fry picked up. 'Good morning, Miss Rawson. I understand you have some new information for us. What is it? Have you remembered something?' 'Well, I've just seen something really. That woman I saw on Saturday - it's the one who's in the papers. The one who was killed.' Cooper was disappointed. 'Yes, Rose Shepherd. We know that, Tina. It's the other two people we're trying to identify.' 'No, no. That's what I'm trying to tell you. She's right here in the paper. I mean the woman she was meeting, the younger one.' 'Who's in the paper, Tina? I don't understand what you're saying.' 'Listen, I'm telling you. The woman that Miss Shepherd met at the tea rooms, the one you wanted me to give you a

description of - I've seen a photograph of her in the paper. It's her, it's definitely her.' Tina took a deep breath, as if realizing that she wasn't going to make herself understood unless she spoke more slowly. 'I'm looking at her photograph right now, Sergeant. She's the woman who was killed in the house fire in Edendale. It says here her name is Lindsay Mullen.'

Almost all the houses in the Bonsall area were built in the local style - limestone walls with contrasting sandstone quoins and door and window surrounds. Derbyshire limestone was notoriously hard to work, so in some places the builders had laid rough stone without any attempt to form courses. Cooper could see small stone buildings scattered across the landscape here. Most of these were field barns, used for storing feed and equipment, or sheltering animals. But some of them were probably disused coes, the huts built by lead miners near their mine shafts. With a clatter of wings, a flock of racing pigeons took off from a loft and circled Cooper's car. Pigeon lofts seemed to be a feature of Bonsall, too. And that phone box outside the Barley Mow pub - wasn't that supposed to have been designed by the same architect who built Liverpool Cathedral and Waterloo Bridge? Through Bonsall, the road became single track, with a few passing places tucked into the stone walls. The farm where Simon Nichols worked lay on the plateau to the west of Masson Hill. Cooper had to pass through Uppertown, then follow a couple of B roads before abandoning tarmac altogether for a route the maps would call 'unclassified'. There were no helpful signs, and many of the tracks were old miners' roads that led past the remains of disused lead workings and took you back to where you'd started from. You had to know where you were going in an area like this. Despite what he'd told the DI, Cooper didn't really know

where he was going. This meant he had to stop to consult his OS map, and try to interpret the spider's web of black and green lines that crammed the spaces between the B roads. To his left he could see the curious bumps in the landscape that indicated the covered shafts and overgrown spoil heaps of a long-abandoned mine. But he had no idea whether it was Low Mine, Whitelow Mine, or Beans and Bacon Mine. Or even one of half a dozen sites marked on the map simply as Mine (disused). Finally he found himself driving down a stony track, looking for a farmhouse that had been promised by a worn sign half a mile back. But before he found Lea Farm, he came across a pick-up truck and a middle-aged farmer unloading posts for fence repairs. 'Good morning. DC Cooper, Edendale Police. I'm looking for a Mr Simon Nichols.' 'Simon? He's not here. He'll probably be holed up in his caravan.' 'He lives in a caravan?' 'Yes, down at the bottom of the big field there.' 'Do you own this farm, sir?' 'Yes, the name's Finney. Michael Finney.' 'So you employ Mr Nichols?' The farmer grunted as he heaved aside two more posts. 'I suppose so.' 'When did you last see him?' 'Not for a few days, as a matter of fact.' 'Is that normal? I mean, if he's supposed to be employed here.' Finney straightened his cap and turned to look at Cooper, weighing him up with a shrewd glance. 'Well, the thing about Simon is, he tends to drink quite a lot. Sometimes he goes on a bender and stays away for a couple of days. Other times, he just sleeps it off in the caravan. But he turns up eventually. He's a good worker, when he's sober. That's why I keep him on.'

'And he's cheap, I expect?' The farmer shrugged. 'This is unskilled work. He's never complained about the wages.' 'Can I take a look at the caravan?' 'If you like. Let me get the last of this stuff off the truck, and I'll show you.' The caravan stood in a corner of a field, almost hidden by weeds and a copse of trees. Cooper had to park his Toyota in a gateway and walk into the field. The eel post of the gate was new enough to swing smoothly on its hinges, but the clap post it closed against was a chunk of weathered timber so black and hard that it almost seemed to have turned to stone. 'Keep him well out of the way, don't you, Mr Finney?' The farmer shrugged. 'Simon prefers it down here. He likes to keep himself to himself.' 'There's often a reason for that.' 'I don't know what you're getting at.' Behind the caravan, a row of silage bags glistened in black plastic wrappings, pools of water reflecting the branches of the trees. Overhead, the upper boughs were full of dark, untidy shapes - the nest of the rooks Cooper could see flapping restlessly against the sky. 'Just that some people prefer not to get visitors . . .' he said. 'Oh, I feel that way myself some days.' '. . . and it usually means they have something to hide.' Finney sniffed sceptically, but trailed after Cooper as he approached the trees. The nearer he came to the caravan, the more Cooper became aware of the silence in this corner of the field. Apart from the rustling of the birds, there was no sound or movement, no sign of life. Surely someone who didn't like visitors would be alert for a stranger approaching, or the sound of a car parking in the lane. Cooper stopped and looked around. The field was full of tussocky grass and outcrops of flat, pale limestone. It was enclosed by two walls that snaked across the landscape until

they crested a rise. Halfway up the slope, a section of wall had bulged and fallen. The dislodged stones lay on the ground, grass growing over them. This land hadn't been used to contain livestock for a while - not unless Mr Finney was happy for his animals to scramble over the damaged wall. 'I don't suppose Mr Nichols has a car, sir?' 'A car? No. I give him a lift into town now and then, if he needs to go to the doctor's or something,' said Finney. 'Otherwise, he gets around on that ' The farmer pointed to an old motorbike propped against one end of the caravan. Cooper hadn't noticed it until now. It was so decrepit that it seemed to have grown out of the weeds. 'He uses the bike to get around? Even when he's out drinking?' 'Sometimes.' 'But he isn't out on it now, is he?' 'I reckon not.' With a sinking feeling, Cooper knocked on the door of the caravan. 'Mr Nichols? Are you in there?' He knocked again, a metallic clanging as if he was hitting a big tin can. A big, empty tin can. 'Anyone home?' 'He might be asleep,' said Finney. Faded curtains were drawn across the windows. A pattern of orange flowers, speckled with black dots. By pressing his face close to the glass, Cooper could see a small slice of the interior through a narrow gap where the curtains didn't meet. He saw the edge of a folding wooden table, a scatter of papers, and two beer cans. Orange cans, to match the curtains. Probably Stone's Bitter from the supermarket in Matlock. One of the cans had been knocked over, and beer was spilt on the table. 'Police! Open up!' called Cooper, more loudly. And he gave the door a couple of good thumps that shook the caravan on its chassis. 'Mr Finney, the occupant appears to be absent. Do I have your permission to enter this caravan?' 'Eh? Well, I suppose so - if you really want to. It won't be

very nice in there, you know. Old Simon, he isn't the cleanest of folk.' 'It doesn't matter. I don't suppose you have a key, sir?' 'I might have one back at the house. But we probably don't need one. You could just try ' But Cooper had already tried. The handle turned in his fingers with a faint scrape of metal. 'You're right, we don't need one.' He gave the door a yank, but it jammed in the frame where it had warped out of shape. Cooper braced his foot against the step and pulled harder. The soft aluminium began to bend in his hands, and the door screeched as it was forced open. Cooper flinched at the noise, his teeth suddenly set on edge, his muscles tensing instinctively. With the door open, the two men were frozen for a moment, suddenly reluctant to enter the caravan, or even take a step closer. A fat bluebottle buzzed through the gap and zigzagged slowly past them, too tired and bloated to escape. Finney drew in a sharp breath, as if he'd been punched in the stomach. His involuntary cry of disgust sent a flock of rooks clattering into the air, cawing with alarm, their black feathers rattling through the branches. Then the farmer made a choking, gurgling sound and staggered towards the wall. He hadn't reached it before he doubled over and vomited into the grass. Standing in the doorway of the caravan, Cooper covered his mouth and nose with a hand as he watched a pool of dark, sticky liquid hover on the edge of the step before trickling slowly towards the ground, forming an oily pool on the earth. The sweet smell of it was like a finger pushed down his throat, making him swallow as he fought a surge of nausea. Cooper didn't have to look very far to find the source of the smell. He didn't even have to enter the caravan, which was a relief. Because Mr Finney had been right about another thing. It really wasn't very nice in there.

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'She must have been a stranger,' said Brian Mullen. 'I can't think who else this person would have been.' Mullen was in the conservatory at the Lowthers' house in Darley Dale. His father-in-law sat near him, perhaps for moral support. Occasionally, Mullen glanced into the house, where his mother-in-law was keeping Luanne entertained. Fry didn't have much interest in babies, but this one seemed reasonably civilized and quiet. 'Did your wife mention meeting her, sir?' 'No. I knew she'd been out on Saturday, of course. Lindsay left me with the children for a couple of hours. She said she wanted to do some early Christmas shopping, that was all. That was the way she was, you know - she liked to plan ahead.' 'Which shops did she go to?' asked Fry. 'I don't know. She wouldn't have told me that.' 'And she didn't say anything afterwards?' Mullen considered it. 'Come to think of it, I think Lindsay did say she'd chatted to a couple of strangers in a cafe. I've no idea who they were.' 'Did she mention any names?' 'No. Of course, she probably didn't ask them their names, if it was just a casual conversation.'

'Possibly.' 'You know what it's like. You don't necessarily want to strike up an instant relationship with complete strangers. You've no idea what sort of crooks they might be these days. People pretend to be friendly, and they turn out to be con artists after your money.' 'Did she describe these people at all?' 'No, why should she? It was only a passing remark, that she'd been chatting to a couple of people. I expect they were just talking about the weather, or the difficulty in finding somewhere to park, or whether the tea was any good. Why would she describe them? It's as if you're suggesting it's Lindsay's fault she didn't say anything.' Seeing Mr Mullen becoming agitated, Fry paused and let him subside. 'I can't remember any more than that,' he said. 'Do you think these people might have been responsible for the fire?' 'We don't know, sir. But it's very important that you try to remember anything your wife might have said. If it occurs to you who she might have been meeting, or any little details she let slip, please inform us straight away.' 'All right. Of course.' Fry stood up to go. She hadn't achieved anything by the visit. In fact, she wondered if she'd just given Brian Mullen a get-out for the arson. Mysterious strangers didn't fit into her scenario.

A pool of light ran slowly over the corpse. It started at the feet and travelled up the legs to a distended stomach. Pale skin showed through burst shirt buttons. The hand holding the Maglite tilted, and the beam moved across the chest, paused at the throat, and finally hovered over the face. 'Was there a fight in here?' 'I don't know. I think this might have been its normal condition.'

The light focused on Ben Cooper's face. He blinked in the glare and smiled uncertainly. 'Is it possible to tell how he died?' he asked. 'There's a bruise on his cheekbone, but I suppose he could have got it when he fell.' The pathologist ran her torch over the face of the corpse again. 'I'll be able to confirm that after the PM. It depends what damage I find underneath the tissue. If the bone is fractured, it might suggest blunt-force trauma - an injury caused by a greater impact than a simple fall.' 'A blow to the head?' 'Possibly. It might not be as plain as that in my report.' 'He's been lying here a while. He's already starting to smell a bit.' 'Yes, he's been dead a couple of days. That might make it more difficult. Postmortem changes can mask small injuries. There's a very strong smell of alcohol, too.' 'Yes, I noticed that.' Nichols' body lay wedged between a bench seat and a fold up table. The angle of his limbs gave the impression he'd been struggling, but whether against an attacker or just to get up, it wasn't clear. He was face-up, and had vomited at some time - well, a couple of days ago, at least. His stomach was white and bloated where it was exposed, but his face and hands looked thin to the point of gauntness. He was unshaven, and his dark hair was receding. The interior of the caravan was strewn with clothes, and a number of empty lager cans stood on the drainer by the tiny sink. A scatter of papers and magazines lay on the table next to a little portable TV set, but Cooper was afraid to touch them. Best to let the SOCOs sort them out after the body had been removed. 'I presume he lived on his own,' said Hitchens later, as he stood well clear of the smell. 'Yes, I think it would be safe to say that, sir.'