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.
20
‘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 straightaway.’
‘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. Post-mortem changes can mask small injuries. There’s a very strong smell of alcohol, too.’
‘Yes, I noticed that.’
Nichols’s 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
