silences that descended whenever a stranger walked into the saloon in a Western film. In here, Fry would have been pretty much a woman with two heads. He bet everyone had stared at her, but no one would have been willing to catch her eye. There were some situations where her approach didn’t necessarily work.
The men in the bar were quiet as Cooper walked in. He greeted the sheepdog, which was the only one to acknowledge him, and went to the bar. At least there was a nice open fire, which was useful while he observed the customary wait. At his feet was a brick step up to the bar, and a bowl of water for customers’ dogs.
Cooper always looked at the beer pumps in a pub — they could tell you so much about the customers. Real ale or keg, lager or Guinness? Here, they had Black Sheep, Ruddles, and Baboushka spiced ale from one of the Derbyshire breweries, Thornbridge. There was also M amp; B Mild, a drink that was definitely out of fashion in the trendy bars back in town.
‘Cooper, did you say?’ asked Ned Dain.
‘Yes, DC Cooper, from Edendale.’
‘And you work with that woman sergeant that came in the other day?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was your dad a bobby?’
‘Yes, he was.’
‘OK, I get it now.’
Dain laughed as he moved along the bar to serve a customer. It was a slightly disturbing laugh that he had, a sound like the deep, wet gurgle from one of his own beer pumps.
‘Oh, and tell that sergeant from me there’s no Billy,’ called Dain. In the corner, a man with a beard laughed.
‘Billy?’ said Cooper.
‘Just our joke. There never was any such person as Billy Sutton.’
Puzzled, Cooper opened his mouth to put another question, but the landlord interrupted him.
‘You ought to talk to the old lady,’ said Dain. ‘My mother. She’ll remember the stuff you want to ask about.’
‘How do you know what I want to ask about?’ said Cooper.
‘Talk to the old lady,’ repeated Dain. ‘You’ll find her through there. And shut the door behind you.’
The old lady seemed to have her own sitting room off the kitchen, where she could supervise what was going on through the open door without taking her eyes off the TV for too long. Cooper entered her lair respectfully, conscious that he was being studied critically. The first impression he made might be crucial, the one factor that could make Mrs Dain decide whether to open up to him or keep her mouth firmly shut, the way so many people in Rakedale were doing.
When he introduced himself and told her what he had come to talk to her about, he could see her bending her head forward to listen closely to his words. He suspected she was not just hearing what he said, but listening to his accent, judging whether he was local, assessing from his manner whether he was worth talking to.
To his surprise, she lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke. So the door to the bar was kept closed for Health and Safety reasons. No one would realize that there was a free passage of air into the kitchen.
‘Who else have you spoken to?’ she said eagerly, when Cooper told her the purpose of his visit.
‘Oh, Mr Palfreyman. Mr Farnham.’
‘Tom Farnham? Did you ask him about his wife?’
‘He’s a widower, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, but you know what they say — a widower by choice.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Well, it’s only gossip, I suppose. It’s just what people were saying at the time.’
‘Are you suggesting that Mr Farnham killed his wife?’
‘Not me. It’s what I heard, that’s all.’
‘He was never charged with anything. The inquest verdict was accidental death.’
‘Well, they never found any evidence. It doesn’t mean he didn’t kill her, does it? The perfect murder is the one they can’t prove you committed.’
‘It’s a point of view,’ said Cooper.
Privately, he wanted to agree with Mrs Dain. There were plenty of cases where the police believed they knew the perpetrators of crimes, but were never able to prove their guilt in court. It was a mistake to believe that their aim was to achieve justice. Most effort was concentrated on putting together a strong enough case for a prosecution. Without sufficient evidence, and without a rigid adherence to procedures in gathering and presenting it, the concept of justice became academic. It was an interpretation of the criminal justice system that wasn’t normally shared with members of the public.
‘I know how easily these rumours get around,’ said Cooper. ‘But it’s unwise to repeat them, Mrs Dain.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t repeat it to anybody else,’ said the old lady hastily. ‘But I thought it would be all right in your case. I mean — you know what it’s like, don’t you?’
When the kitchen door opened again, Cooper caught the sound and smell of sizzling onion rings. He was starting to feel hungry. Cutlery rattled and a girl emerged from the kitchen and went into the bar with two plates of food. Proper countryside portions, too — the plates were laden. Cooper inhaled as the onion rings passed by.
‘It would be about five years ago. Your husband was the licensee then.’
‘His name was over the door. But I ran the pub.’
Cooper smiled. ‘Yes, that’s what I heard.’
‘You heard right.’
‘At that time, there were some itinerant workers employed at Pity Wood Farm.’
‘Pity Wood? The Suttons?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was a shame about those boys. I knew them when they were young men. They were a few years older than me, of course, but as a girl I took quite an interest in them. I always thought Derek was rather dashing. He was the one I fancied, anyway.’
She looked at Cooper with a hint of a twinkle, and he knew she’d been won over.
‘And Raymond?’ he asked.
‘Raymond wasn’t too bad, but he was a bit dour — especially later on, when he got all Bible and black suit.’
‘You mean when he took to religion?’
‘Aye. That was a bit of a shock. He thought we all ought to be as miserable as he was, told us we were going to Hell for enjoying ourselves. We never saw him in the pub after that, of course. Derek had to come in on his own. Sometimes he had a mite too much to drink. I couldn’t blame him, if all he had to go home to was that brother of his. But I bet there were a few rows at home over his drinking.’
Cooper thought of his early image of Raymond and Derek Sutton sitting in their armchairs in silence. He had barely known their names then, but they’d been clear in his mind already.
‘I’m not so sure about that.’
‘And then, of course …’ Mrs Dain began to struggle out of her chair, and Cooper leaned forward to offer a hand to help her up. ‘There are some photographs here somewhere. I keep them in the drawer.’
‘Photographs of the Suttons?’
Mrs Dain pulled out a set of photographic envelopes and began to sort through them very slowly, pausing occasionally, as if for private recollection.
‘Have you found anything?’ said Cooper.
The old lady looked offended to be hurried, or perhaps Cooper had said something wrong. Whatever the reason, she changed her mind.
‘No. Now that I recall, I gave some photos to the new heritage centre for their exhibition.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘I’m sure there was a photograph of the brothers. Decent lads. I was never quite sure about their mother, though. I always had a suspicion she was of the Old Religion.’
For a moment, the faint murmur of conversation from the bar and the clatter of cutlery from the kitchen were the only sounds. In the little sitting room, there was silence. Cooper sat quite still, holding himself in, hoping the old
