‘Why?’
‘There was a convicted sex offender among the bystanders in Dovedale,’ said Cooper.
‘How do you know?’
‘I recognized him. His name is Sean Deacon.’
‘Was he near any children?’
Cooper hesitated. ‘I couldn’t say for sure.’
‘Do any of the witness statements mention him? Or the parents?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have any reason to suppose that Mr Nield is connected with Deacon in some way?’
‘No.’
‘Well, if you want to give this Deacon a warning, do that. But the witness statements agree on what happened to Emily Nield.’
‘I don’t think they do,’ said Cooper. ‘They’re inconsistent. No two statements give exactly the same sequence of events.’
‘That’s always the way with multiple witnesses,’ said Hitchens. ‘You know that, Ben.’
Cooper did know that. But he was discovering a stubborn streak in himself. The inconsistencies in the statements felt like a personal failure. He needed to know exactly what had happened to Emily Nield. Exactly. Vague and contradictory statements from confused eyewitnesses weren’t good enough.
Hitchens glowered at his intransigence.
‘There’s no mystery about the death of Emily Nield,’ he said. ‘It was an accident. The inquest was straightforward, the body has been released by the coroner, and the family will be able to hold the funeral this week.’
‘Yes, it’s tomorrow morning.’
‘Well, there you are. By tomorrow, it will all be over and done with. The family can get on with their lives. Isn’t that what we all want?’
‘She was so cold. As if she was in shock.’
‘She’d been in the water. And that water in the River Dove is cold at the best of times, even though the weather has been so warm. It comes straight down off the hills, you know.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘As I understand the matter, it was thought at first that it might have been the shock of the cold water that stopped the girl’s heart when she first went into the river. But there was no evidence of that at the postmortem. Her heart was perfectly healthy.’
‘And the head injury — ’
‘She slipped and hit her head on a rock.’
‘There’s no actual evidence of that.’
‘Well? Ben, you’re not suggesting one of the parents hit her, or something?’
‘It happens. Parents are driven beyond endurance sometimes.’
‘They don’t all kill their children,’ said Hitchens.
‘I have a feeling about the father. He’s bitter about rival supermarkets. I think business must be bad.’
‘So?’
‘Well, he’s under stress. That could drive him to do something desperate.’
‘Like drowning his eight-year-old daughter? You’re struggling now, Ben. Grasping at straws.’
‘Sir, my instinct is telling me there’s something wrong.’
Hitchens sighed.
‘Ben, just stop a minute, take a deep breath, and look at the situation impartially. You’ll see there’s no mileage in pursuing some vague accusation, or even your instinct. Anonymous letters are ten a penny. Ignore it and move on.’
‘If we ignore something now that turns out to be significant later on, it will reflect badly on this department.’
‘I’m prepared to take that risk. Call it my instinct, if you like. And I’ve been in this job longer than you have, Ben.’ Hitchens softened. ‘Look, you don’t need to find a high-profile case to prove yourself. There’s plenty for you to do to show your worth.’
‘That’s not what I’m trying to do, sir.’
‘Are you sure? I know you must see this as your opportunity to shine, with DS Fry out of the way for a while.’
‘No, sir. Really.’
‘Mmm. Well, take it easy. Don’t invent some mystery where there isn’t one, all right?’
‘All right, sir.’
‘Ben, it’s not personal, is it? There’s no emotional involvement? I mean, I know you were there at the time. Well, more than there, you took action. You — ’
‘I tried to save her life, yes.’
‘Yes, of course. But you have to remain objective. Take a step back, consider this incident as if you weren’t involved. I repeat, there’s no mystery. Okay?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Now start paying some attention to the rest of your case-load. There’s Michael Lowndes, for a start.’
‘Yes, sir. Michael Lowndes.’
The Grand was the largest hotel in Edendale, a vast Victorian pile designed for the Duke of Devonshire and now owned by a Spanish company based in Majorca. The lobby was certainly grand, with its marble pillars, its chandeliers, and its wide staircase. From outside, the hotel looked French in architectural style, but inside the decoration was almost Moorish.
Cooper had never stayed here, or eaten in the expensive restaurant. But he’d once attended a wedding reception in the Cavendish Suite, and had his photograph taken with the rest of the wedding party on the lawn in front of the cherry trees.
He identified himself at the reception desk, and was taken through to the office, where a duty manager escorted him to the kitchens. They passed along an elegant corridor with gleaming tiles, then through a door marked ‘staff only’ and entered a completely different world, away from the eyes of the guests.
Here they found Sean Deacon dressed in white overalls, mopping the floors. Not exactly Gordon Ramsey, then.
Deacon was almost exactly as Cooper remembered him. A little older, of course, but it was hardly noticeable. An unremarkable face, the face of a middle-aged man with receding hair and a hint of grey stubble, a man who could pass unnoticed in any street. He’d put some weight on around the waist, moved a little more slowly. But Deacon was the same man he’d seen in Dovedale.
‘Sean Deacon,’ he said.
Deacon undoubtedly recognized the tone, if not Cooper’s voice. He had enough experience of the police. He looked up, a sideways glance — wary and suspicious. The eyes left Cooper in no doubt.
They were given a small storeroom to talk privately. Cooper let Deacon sit on the only chair, while he stood over him. Deacon didn’t object. He looked resigned, as if he’d gone through all this before and knew where it would end.
Cooper checked his details — his age, his address in Wirksworth. Deacon agreed that he was a registered sex offender.
‘What is it that you want?’ he said. ‘What’s happened that you want to implicate me in?’
‘Where were you on Monday morning, Mr Deacon?’
Deacon sighed. ‘I expect you already know. You people never ask those sorts of questions unless you already know the answers. It gets very tiresome.’
Cooper was taken aback by the way Deacon talked. He sounded well educated, his Derbyshire vowels softened by some other accent. Not only that, but Deacon spoke softly, with a relaxed manner that was more than just resignation. He seemed quite calm. He wasn’t what Cooper had expected.
‘You were in Dovedale on Monday morning. Is that right, sir?’
‘Yes, of course it is.’ Deacon looked up at him. ‘You were there, too. Your picture was in the paper. They
