Scared to Live (4 page)

when to report a colleague for political incorrectness. If you tolerated it, your own career could be on the line. But PC Judson seemed not to have noticed the reactions from the group. 'Some illegals are being trained for cash machine work within twenty-four hours of coming off the boat. That way, they can pay back the traffickers. It's better than slogging your guts out in a carrot field in East Anglia for two quid an hour, I suppose.' Nobody laughed, or even dared to nod in agreement. A Nottinghamshire detective next to Cooper shuffled his feet in the shredded tree bark around the roots of an ornamental birch. Somebody at the front asked a question about identity theft, which set Judson off on a new tangent. The Nottinghamshire officer leaned towards Cooper. 'Are you Derbyshire?' he said quietly. 'Yes, I'm based right here in Edendale. DC Cooper.' 'Ross Matthews. Hi. What's it like working here?' 'It's OK,' said Cooper defensively. Matthews nodded. 'I'm at St Ann's, and it's a nightmare. I might put in for a transfer when we go global.' He didn't need to explain what he was talking about. Everyone knew that the number of regional police forces would soon be reduced dramatically. A government commission had concluded that any force with fewer than four thousand officers was too small to deal with serious crime. So Derbyshire was certain to disappear. Even its bigger neighbour, Nottinghamshire, had suffered highly publicized problems that had led its chief constable to admit his detectives couldn't cope. Within a few months, all the officers here this morning might be working for one huge East Midlands Constabulary. 'Why not?' said Cooper. 'We can always do with some help here.'

He realized that Judson had finished speaking and was looking at him over the heads of the group, waiting for his attention. It was then that Cooper's mobile rang. Probably he should have switched it off. He bet everybody else had put theirs on to silent vibrate, but he'd forgotten this morning. He looked at the number on the display, and saw it was Diane Fry. His DS shouldn't be calling him, not when she knew he was on the plastic crime exercise. Cooper looked at Judson and shrugged apologetically, then walked a few paces away from the group. 'Yes, Diane?' 'Where are you right now, Ben?' 'Somerfield's supermarket.' 'I suppose that makes sense, does it?' 'They have ATMs,' said Cooper. 'You know - cash machines.' 'Yes, I know what an ATM is. Wait - you're on the plastic crime initiative.' 'Did you forget?' 'No, I've been a bit busy this morning, that's all.' 'Something on?' He heard Fry hesitate. 'Don't get excited. Just something I'd like you to take a look at when you're finished. Get away as soon as you can, will you?' 'Are you going to tell me what it's all about?' 'A house fire last night. Multiple fatalities.' 'Where?' 'One of the Edendale estates. The Shrubs, I think they call it.' 'I know where you mean.' For all the time she'd served in E Division, Fry still didn't seem to know the area all that well. Perhaps she didn't think it was worth the effort because she wasn't intending to stay long enough. Yes, that was the impression she gave. A visitor

caught in a depressing stop-over while she waited for a connection to somewhere better. Cooper remembered a few of the initial reactions to Fry when she'd first transferred from West Midlands. 'A bit of a hard-faced cow'; 'Could be a looker, but she doesn't bother'; 'Too tall, too skinny, no make-up'; 'Stroppy bitch'. None of them had been fair, of course. But Fry hadn't done much to make herself popular with her colleagues. In fact she seemed to relish her image. In the background, he could hear Judson answering a question. 'A blank piece of plastic, embossed and encoded with a stolen account number. Some of these plastic crime merchants practically steal your identity.' 'Can you hear me, Ben?' 'Yes, you mentioned a fire on the Shrubs.' 'Great. Well, three deaths. A mother and two children.' 'Evidence of suspicious circumstances?' 'Not yet. But . . .' 'You're expecting some?' 'We haven't had the forensics yet. But I want to know if you'll be around.' 'OK,' said Cooper, trying not to sound surprised. 'I'll see you back at the office after the session with Steve Judson. Is that OK?' 'Yes, that's absolutely fine.' When he ended the call, Cooper frowned. Somehow, Fry hadn't sounded her usual self. Judson caught his eye across the group and raised an eyebrow. 'They get your PIN by focusing a camera on the keypad,' he was saying. 'At the end of the day, they retrieve discarded receipts. They match up the time of your withdrawal with the tape from the camera, and they've got both your PIN and your account number. They can produce a duplicate card and make fraudulent withdrawals as easily as if they'd stolen the genuine card. And you won't even know anything's happened until you

see your next bank statement. That's more than bingo - it's the jackpot.'

Edendale District General was on the northern edge of town, occupying a greenfield site where new wards could be added as funding became available. Fry had never seen the old hospital on Fargate. It had closed years ago, its Victorian buildings so primitive and crumbling that nobody had bothered saving them from demolition. But its location must have been very handy. Even at this time of the morning, it would take her fifteen minutes to get across town to the new site, once she got away from Darwin Street. 'Tell me again, who made the emergency call?' she asked Murfin when he came off the radio to the control room. 'One of the neighbours dialled 999 when he saw the smoke. Bloke by the name of Wade. A bit of a know-it-all, by the sound of him. FOAs took a statement earlier.' 'You know, we should have made sure we had complete information before we came out.' Murfin looked aggrieved. 'You said you wanted to get the job out of the way as soon as possible. In and out, and turn it over to the coroner, that's what you said.' 'OK, Gavin, thanks.' Fry didn't like her words being quoted back to her, especially when she'd been wrong. 'It's a bit irritating, that's all.' 'Is that why you made me look in that last bedroom?' She sighed. 'It had to be done, Gavin. You aren't here just to wreck the place and make stupid jokes. There was nothing in the bedroom, anyway.' 'You didn't know that at the time.' 'Right. How come the hospital staff have more information than we do, eh? So the youngest child wasn't even at home, but with the grandparents? It shouldn't have needed a call to the ward sister to find that out.' Murfin was silent as he watched her get into her car. 'You

know I've got kids of my own, don't you?' he said quietly, before she closed the door. Fry bit her lip, caught out by a moment of tricky human emotion when she hadn't expected it. 'Sorry, Gavin.' But he didn't seem to have heard her as he walked away. And by the time she caught up with him later, he was back to his old self, so she didn't mention it again.

Brian Mullen was in a side room off one of the newer wards, with a PC on duty outside the door. Mullen was in his early thirties, sandy-haired, with a faintly pink complexion, as if his skin had been freshly scrubbed. His hands were bandaged, but otherwise he looked quite fit and healthy. He was also sedated and deeply asleep, as motionless as the dead. There was no point in asking questions of a comatose body. 'Naturally, he was in a very distressed condition when he was admitted,' said the ward sister. 'Apart from his physical injuries.' 'But otherwise he'll be well enough to be interviewed later?' asked Fry. 'You'll have to get permission from the doctor.' Fry didn't like hospital doctors much. They seemed inseparable from a smell of disinfectant and a tendency to interfere. White coats and professional obstinacy; both unwelcome obstacles when she was intent on finding the truth. 'Were you on duty when Mr Mullen's parents-in-law came in this morning, Sister?' 'Mr and Mrs Lowther? Yes, I spoke to them myself. It was helpful they came, because we'll be able to reassure Mr Mullen his daughter is safe, at least. She was with them last night, apparently. Oh, but you'll know that - someone called earlier.' 'Yes, thank you,' said Fry. 'So when will Mr Mullen come out of sedation?' 'Some time this afternoon.'

'I need to know as soon as he's awake and fit to answer questions, Sister.' 'I'll inform the officer over there, shall I? I presume he's going to carry on hanging around here making a nuisance of himself?' 'I'm afraid so.' 'Well, I hope we have less trouble with the patient when he wakes up. He almost injured one of my nurses when we had to sedate him earlier.' Fry had been about to leave the ward, but she stopped halfway through the swing doors. 'What do you mean, you had to sedate him?' 'He was completely wild, shouting that he couldn't stay here, he had to get out. You know, we see some troubled cases in this hospital, but Mr Mullen was in a dreadful state.' 'He must have wanted to go back to his house. He knew his family were trapped in the fire.' 'Probably you're right . . .' The sister hesitated, sounding doubtful. 'I suppose it's not my place to say this, but that wasn't the way it seemed. If you'd asked me at the time, I would have said he was frightened.' 'Frightened?' Fry glanced back at Brian Mullen, lying motionless in his bed. 'Well, whatever it was, I expect he'll have forgotten it when he wakes up, won't he?' 'Not necessarily. It's his brain and body that are sedated. Deep-rooted fears are in the subconscious. And the subconscious never sleeps.'

After a wasted trip across town and back, Fry was feeling even more irritable. When she pulled up near the Mullens' house, she found just one miserable-looking uniformed officer standing outside the gate. He had his hands folded behind his back, and he was bouncing slightly on his toes, as if auditioning for a part in The Pirates of Penzance. At any moment, he might burst into 'A policeman's lot is not a happy one . . .'

'Where's the fire officer?' she asked, when Murfin emerged from the house. 'He's nipped off to get a bit of something for a late breakfast, lucky bugger. He said to tell you he wouldn't be long.' 'SOCOs here yet?' 'There's someone on the way, I'm told.' Fry looked around at her available resources. One Gilbert and Sullivan extra, and Gavin Murfin. There was nothing like trying to do things on your own, was there?

Coming up behind the same tractor one more time, Bernie Wilding had to slow down on the road between Foxlow and Bonsall. But the tractor driver pulled over into a lay-by to let him pass, and the postman saw that it was Neville Cross, who owned Yew Tree Farm. His land ran right up to the garden of Rose Shepherd's property. Bernie slowed to a halt alongside the tractor and tapped his horn to get the farmer's attention. 'Morning,' said Cross. 'Just thought I'd mention - I couldn't get any answer at Bain House earlier on. You know, Miss Shepherd's place? I wondered if you've seen her about at all?' 'Can't say I have. We don't see her in the village much.' 'No, I know. I thought it was a bit funny, though. Her post was still in the box from yesterday, too.' The farmer nodded almost imperceptibly. 'I'll keep an eye out.' 'Thanks a lot.' Bernie waved and drove off, watching the tractor pull into the road again as soon as he'd passed. He'd probably get behind it again when he reached Bonsall. Sometimes he thought these farmers drove around the lanes all day just for the sake of it. They loved being a bloody nuisance with their tractors, and their trailers full of slurry. Now and then, Bernie wished he could put a bomb under one of them.

4

Lindsay Mullen's parents lived on the hillside above Darley Dale, a couple of miles north of Matlock. Following the directions she'd been given, Fry watched out for the Shalimar Restaurant, then turned left into Northwood Lane and climbed the hill. The Lowthers' address was near the top, a large bungalow with its rear windows looking down on the A6 from Bakewell. She and Murfin had to walk a long way up a garden path to reach the front door. This was a garden that seemed to be mostly gravel and stone flags, apart from the obligatory water feature, and dozens of terracotta pots that didn't contain very much. 'I like this sort of garden. No plants.' And Gavin was right. There was a birdbath, a sundial, a statue of an angel in ornamental stone. And so much furniture, too - a patio set on the terrace under a green parasol, a wooden bench in the shade of an arbour, and a garden barbecue on timber decking at a lower level. In the last few yards, they found themselves walking on cast-iron stepping stones in the shape of flattened tortoises, between solar lights like Edwardian gas lamps. Near the door stood a cast-iron chiminea with a mesh door, its surface just starting to rust.

A few minutes later, they were sitting with Henry Lowther in a conservatory, on either side of an oak coffee table that matched the flooring. 'Sorry to bring you in here,' he said, 'but Luanne is asleep, and we don't want to disturb her. It's going to be stressful enough for the child in the next few weeks, poor thing.' 'Luanne is your youngest grandchild, sir?' 'Yes.' 'How did she come to be here with you last night?' 'We've been looking after her for a few days. Luanne hasn't been sleeping through the night, you see. Poor Lindsay wasn't getting much rest, so we offered to give her a break for a bit.' 'I see. And are you coping all right yourselves? Talk to your family liaison officer if you need any help, won't you?' 'No, we're fine,' said Lowther. 'Luanne needs us, and it's best to have something to concentrate on. You know what I mean . . .' Lindsay Mullen's parents seemed to be quiet people - no sign of hysterics, or outbursts of anger. But Fry hardly caught a glimpse of Mrs Lowther before she disappeared, clearly on the verge of tears, her eyes already red from previous bouts of weeping. 'My wife isn't up to talking about it yet,' said her husband. 'I hope you understand.' 'Yes, of course. I'm sorry to have to bother you with questions, sir.' 'It's something you have to do.' It was much too warm for Fry in the conservatory. Looking around, she saw that the central heating radiator had an individual thermostat control. She wondered whether Mr Lowther would notice if she surreptitiously turned it down. But he was watching her too expectantly, the way people did sometimes after a sudden death, as if they thought she might be able to bring their loved ones magically back to life.

'Could you tell me when you first heard about the fire, sir?' 'Yes. Brian phoned to tell us. That's our son-in-law.' 'Brian did? What time was that?' 'Good heavens, I'm not sure. It was in the early hours of the morning. I was too shocked to check the time. Well, I might have looked at the clock, but I didn't take it in. Brian said he was phoning from the hospital - I remember that. At first, I thought it was him that had been in an accident, and I didn't understand what he was trying to tell me. I suppose I was still half asleep.' The conservatory was probably so warm because it was full of plants - fuchsia, tree ferns, bougainvillea. In the kitchen, Fry had noticed cacti and tradescantia, and a wooden herb wheel on the window sill. She might be ignorant of what grew in the countryside, but she was familiar with house plants. During a spell with a foster family who'd run a small-scale plant nursery in Halesowen, her job had been to write out the labels for the pots - and God help her if she got one wrong through not recognizing a species. There would be spiders and small insects crawling among these plants, too. She'd tried to sit in the middle of the two-seater cane settee to keep away from the jungle, forcing Murfin to take one of the chairs. 'How did Brian describe what had happened?' 'Describe it? Well, he said he'd arrived home and found the house on fire. I gather he'd been out for the evening. Brian was very distressed, you know - understandably. And he'd suffered some injuries trying to get into the house. In the circumstances I'm surprised he had the presence of mind to call us at all. But I'm glad he did. I don't know how we'd have heard about the fire otherwise.' 'Well, we'd have found your details somehow, and a police officer would have called on you.' 'That would have been worse, I think,' said Lowther. 'If anything could be worse than this.'