Scared to Live

‘You need Savova’s personal information? Her private contacts? Where else would she keep them, but in her secret safe, with her money?’

‘She used the internet, Georgi. We think she might have had some free web storage space that she used for information like that. We just haven’t found it yet.’

‘The internet? Gluposti. Find her money, you find her heart and soul.’

‘That’s very cynical.’

‘Take a look at the real world, Diane.’

Fry was thoughtful as they returned to the car and drove out of Foxlow.

‘Georgi, what do you think of our methods so far?’ she said.

‘Very interesting. But your enquiries are in the wrong direction, Diane.’

‘What do you mean?’

He waved a hand out of the window at the cottages they were passing. ‘You are wasting your time with these Albanski reotani.’

‘Who?’

‘These … slow-witted country people.’

‘Hold on, I’ve got another call.’

This time, it was Hitchens himself. ‘Where are you, Diane?’

‘Just approaching Matlock.’

‘Great. We’re at Darren Turnbull’s house in South Wingfield, but his wife says he’s driven down into Matlock to go to the bank. His car should be parked by the railway station.’

‘OK, we’ll be there in a couple of minutes.’

‘It’s a blue Astra. You’ve got the reg?’

‘Yes, leave it to us.’

A few minutes later, Fry coasted her Peugeot into the station car park at the bottom of Dale Road. They found the Astra almost immediately.

‘OK, now we have to wait for him to come back.’

She parked where they had a clear view of the vehicle, looking along a line of parked cars towards the station.

‘Tell me again why we want to talk to this man,’ said Kotsev.

‘Darren Turnbull’s car was seen in Foxlow on Saturday night, at about the time Rose Shepherd was shot. I mean — ’

‘Rosica Savova.’

‘Yes. Well, Turnbull doesn’t live in the village, so we need to know what he was doing there, and what he might have seen. And why he didn’t come forward in response to our appeals.’

Kotsev eased his legs with a sigh. ‘If I had seen Rosica Savova’s assassin, perhaps I would not come forward and tell the police either.’

‘Why, Georgi?’

‘It could be dangerous.’

Fry looked at him, surprised all over again. He was like some oversized alien sitting in her car, a visitor from another world.

‘He can’t possibly have known it might be dangerous,’ she said. ‘Turnbull is just an engineer in an aircraft engine factory.’

‘It depends what he saw,’ said Kotsev. ‘In my experience, many people see things that they keep quiet about, for their own safety.’

‘Maybe.’

Kotsev suddenly sat up straight. ‘Is this the man?’

‘Let’s see which car he goes back to.’

A man was strolling along the line of vehicles. He was in his thirties, sandy-haired, wearing a black parka. The hood was down, which gave them a good look at his face. He stopped, hesitated as if he wasn’t quite sure which was his car, then pulled a key from his pocket and approached the blue Vauxhall.

‘Yes, that’s him. Let’s go.’

Turnbull looked up nervously and saw them coming. He mouthed a curse, then turned and began to run towards the station. God knew where he thought he was going.

Fry broke into a sprint, but Kotsev easily outpaced her, his long legs covering the ground in seconds.

‘Politsia! Police!’

Catching up with him, Kotsev took hold of Turnbull’s arm and twisted it sharply behind his back, pushing his face into a wall.

‘My friend, you shouldn’t try to escape. You have to tell us what we want to know.’

Fry was frozen for a moment, shocked by Kotsev’s action. ‘Georgi!’

He looked at her, his eyes glinting, his jaw set as if he intended to face her down. She was glad Kotsev wasn’t wearing his gun.

‘Sergeant Kotsev, you don’t have any jurisdiction here. This isn’t Bulgaria.’

Slowly, he relaxed his grip on Turnbull’s arm, but didn’t let go completely. Nor did he stand back, so Turnbull’s face remained pressed against the stones.

‘You’re right, of course. You do things a little differently, Sergeant Fry. But I know the methods that work with these people.’

‘Let go of him,’ hissed Fry.

Another moment passed. Finally, Kotsev stood back, and smiled.

‘I apologize. I have no jurisdiction. This is your suspect.’ He turned Turnbull gently away from the wall and pretended to dust down his clothes. ‘I apologize to you, too, my friend. I intended you no harm. I hope you feel comfortable, and that you are well enough to be questioned by my colleague.’

Turnbull didn’t look reassured. In fact, he looked more frightened than ever at the sudden change. Now, he had no idea what was happening.

‘What the hell is this?’

‘You are Mr Darren Turnbull?’ said Fry.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you the owner of a blue Vauxhall Astra hatchback, X registration?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘Were you in the village of Foxlow on Saturday night?’

Turnbull’s mouth dropped open. His brain still seemed to be working, but so slowly that no connection was being made with his vocal cords.

‘Sir?’

‘I can’t tell you,’ he said.

Kotsev had been standing by quietly, but now made a sudden gesture. It might only have been impatience he couldn’t restrain, but the suggestion of imminent violence communicated itself to Turnbull.

‘No, I really can’t tell you,’ he said. ‘I’d be in big trouble. Big, big trouble.’

‘Let’s all go back to the station, then,’ said Fry. ‘And we’ll talk about which sort of trouble you’d rather be in, Mr Turnbull.’

In the mortuary, the pathologist turned to Kessen and Cooper. ‘The bruise on his temple was the only physical injury. It wasn’t enough to kill him, but it could have caused mild concussion.’

‘There’s a little more to it than that,’ said Kessen.

‘Well, I found exceptionally high levels of alcohol in the bloodstream — and that would have been enough to kill most people. But tolerance varies, you know.’ Mrs van Doon raised an eyebrow. ‘If he was an experienced drinker, he could have survived the alcohol poisoning. Short- term, anyway.’

‘It sounds as though he was very experienced,’ said Cooper.

‘I thought so. Well, here’s an unwise combination for you — the victim was also malnourished. I’d say he hadn’t eaten properly for some time.’