have seen the van. Can we speak to them?’ ‘They’re at school.’ ‘Someone could call back later.’ ‘I don’t know about that.’ ‘And your wife?’ said Cooper. ‘Was she here at the time?’ ‘My wife?’ Leach finally spat out the irritation that had been troubling his lungs, narrowly missing Cooper’s boots. ‘You’re wasting your time, mister. You can forget all about her.’ Later in the morning, Diane Fry and DI Hitchens walked into the DCI’s office. Tailby looked at them with a faint hope. ‘Is there something?’ he said. ‘A couple of things on the parents. The Weston,’ said Hitchens. ‘Oh?’ ‘Number one, they had a burglary last year, at a weekend cottage they’ve got at Ashford-in-the-Water.’ ‘A weekend cottage? That’s nice, on a teacher’s salary.’ ‘Apparently, the Westons are planning on retiring to this cottage in a year or two. Presumably Mr Weston is taking early retirement. He’s a deputy head, by the way.’ ‘A good pension, I suppose.’ Fry thought the DCI was starting to sound wistful. His own retirement date was a few years away yet,
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but he could make it come closer if he wanted to. She wondered how much the cottage had cost the Westons. She imagined honeysuckle growing by the front door and roses in the garden, a couple of loungers by a small pond with a few Koi carp. She tried to imagine Tailby living in such a cottage. But Eric Weston had a Mrs Weston to retire to his cottage with. It made a difference. ‘A burglary, eh?’
‘And we detected it, too,’ said Hitchens. ‘Who needs Home Office grants?’
Tailby grunted, unamused. The previous year, word had gone round that there was government cash available for special initiatives targeting residential burglaries. Divisions were invited to come up with their own projects - but there were criteria to be met. There had to be a target area with a high enough level of burglaries. E Division had failed to get the cash, because no matter how they juggled the geography or the time periods, the figures just wouldn’t stack up.
‘This was more than a burglary, actually. The place was trashed. It was a real mess - you should see the photos.’
‘There’s nothing new in that.’
‘I talked to the investigating officer yesterday, anyway,’ said Hitchens. ‘At least he’s still in the division. Usually you find they’ve long since moved on somewhere else, or they’ve packed it in and joined that firm of enquiry agents that set up in town a couple of years back.’
‘What’s the other thing?’ asked the DCI.
‘Well, Mr Weston had a little bit of trouble last year.
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There was an enquiry after a fatal accident to a child on a school trip he was leading.’
‘OK. We might as well ask him about it, I suppose.’ ‘More than that, sir.’
Why?, Hitchens tapped the file. ‘It all came out when we made the arrest for the burglary. This convicted offender, name of Wayne Sugden - it turned out he was the uncle of the child that died. It was no secret that the family blamed Mr Weston for the accident, because it was all over the papers. He got death threats, too, but we could never prove where they came from. It seems the Sugdens are a pretty close clan in Edendale. You’re not safe if you harm one of their number.’
‘So the burglary could have been revenge on Weston?’ said Tailby. ‘Is it significant?’
‘There’s one good reason it might be,’ said Hitchens. ‘This Wayne Sugden. He got sent down for twelve months, protesting his innocence all the way to Derby nick. But the trouble is - they let him out two weeks ago.’
Ben Cooper was back in the CID room when Diane Fry returned from her meeting. She saw him, but she started tidying files and brushing biscuit crumbs from an unoccupied desk.
‘So, Diane, how have you been getting on with Maggie Crew?’ he said.
He didn’t think there was anything about his tone of voice that could have made Fry look sharply at him in the way that she did now.
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‘What’s your interest in Maggie Crew?’ ‘Just asking.’ ‘She’s not one of your underdogs, you know.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I heard you at the briefing this morning. You couldn’t help putting your oar in about those two travellers in the quarry, could you? You’re turning into quite the little rebel, with this habit of sticking up for people against all odds.’ ‘That’s not the intention.’ Cooper turned to one side and picked up some papers from his desk, dropping his eyes from contact with hers. He heard her sigh with exasperation and bang a chair on the floor. He let a few moments of silence develop before he spoke again. ‘I’ve heard you’re going to be working with DI Armstrong; he said. ‘When your promotion is confirmed.’ Fry didn’t answer straight away. He looked up to see her frowning at him. ‘She’s doing some very good work,’ she said. ‘Yes, I know.’ ‘You don’t sound too sure about that, Ben,’ she said. ‘What problem have you got with Kim Armstrong?’ ‘No problem, really.’ Cooper eyed the files on his desk. The work had been piling up since the murder enquiry started. There were so many things for him to follow up, when he had time. He was startled when he found that Fry had moved suddenly nearer to him and was staring into his face. He found her closeness intimidating.
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‘Come on, out with it,’ she said. ‘What are you suggesting about DI Armstrong?’ ‘Well, she’s got her own agenda, of course. Everybody says that.’ ‘That’s a load of crap, and you know it. Kim Armstrong is a capable woman doing a good job. She’s in charge of a major enquiry, and she cares about what she’s doing. There was a little girl that was killed…’ Fry ground to a halt. Cooper realized that he was smiling at her. The expression on his face must look ridiculous and derisive, but it was a natural response that had sprung from deep inside him at seeing Fry suddenly passionate in her defence of someone. He nodded at her, though the gesture barely seemed adequate. She backed off, baffled. She picked up a wastepaper bin from the floor and put it on the empty desk, then began clearing out drawers. Cooper watched her hurl the leftover possessions of the previous occupant into the bin without looking at them. ‘OK, Diane,’ he said. ‘You were telling me about this little girl who was killed. What happened to her?’ Fry pulled out a 1999 calendar with pictures of naked women draped over bright red sports cars. With a grimace, she tore it in half and thrust it into the bin. ‘Nobody really knows,’ she said. ‘Nobody knows what awful things might have happened to her before she died.’
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Owen Fox felt his fingers start to tingle. He thought about finding his gloves in his jacket pocket to protect himself from the cold. But he knew it wasn’t just the cold that he could feel.
There were things that had passed through his hands during the past few years that didn’t bear to be thought about. Most days, he could clear the memories from his head. He got out on the tops of the hills and let the wind blow them out of the corners of his mind. But somehow his hands still felt the memories of their own accord; his
