‘Hi, Ben.’
‘Angie,’ said Cooper cautiously.
‘Good to see you.’ Angie smiled, and patted him on the chest. ‘I’d love to stop and chat, but I 30
know I’m in the way. You two have police stuff to talk about, I bet.’
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I
Angle walked back towards the sitting room, and Fry looked on stonily as Cooper turned to watch her. She supposed he couldn’t help it. The T-shirt Angie was wearing failed to cover her buttocks, and the knickers she’d put on did little more.
At least Cooper had the grace to look embarrassed when he met Fry’s eye and found her watching him.
If you’ve finished staring at my sister’s bum,’ she said, ‘we’ve got somewhere to go.’
But before she reached the door, Fry was sure she caught a glimpse of her sister peering around the corner from the sitting room, pulling a face at Cooper. That moment of secret communication between the two of them, no doubt some ridicule at her expense, made Fry flush angrily. She ran down the steps into Cavendish Road, pulling her unbuttoned coat across her chest, and left Ben Cooper to catch up with her in the rain.
They went to the Light House, a famous pub that sat on top of a hill on the Buxton road out of Edendale. It wasn’t a long drive from Fry’s flat, and the evenings were light enough at this time of year for them to enjoy the spectacular views for an hour or two. They managed to get a table on a terrace that had been converted into a conservatory, sheltered from the first drops of rain that were already falling. Cooper bought the drinks, trying to hide his surprise when Fry asked for a vodka.
‘You’ve seen the files from the Carol Proctor case, Diane,’ said Cooper. ‘What do you think? I can’t understand why there were never any serious questions about Mansell Quinn’s conviction.’
‘Well, nobody wants a successful prosecution thrown into doubt, do they?’ said Fry.
‘Nobody?’
‘Almost nobody. And especially when the convicted person
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1
has already spent a number of years in prison. It makes things a bit unpleasant all round.’
‘I’ve been trying to imagine what the effect of this might have been on Quinn. I don’t think we understand what’s going on in his mind.’
Fry snorted. ‘But I bet you think you’ve got closer to his mental processes than anybody, don’t you, Ben?’
‘At least I try,’ said Cooper. —
‘And what conclusion have you come to?’
‘I think he’s a righteous killer.’
‘A whatr
‘A righteous killer.’
‘Where on earth did you get that expression from?’
‘I can’t remember,’ said Cooper. ‘I heard it somewhere, and it seems to fit.’
‘So what does it mean exactly?’
‘It means someone who thinks he’s doing right, not wrong. Someone who thinks his actions are morally justified. Maybe he even thinks he’s achieving justice.’
‘We’re the ones whose job is to achieve justice, Ben.’
‘Yes.’
But Cooper knew that wasn’t right. The job of the police wasn’t to achieve justice but to gather enough evidence to obtain a conviction. There was a big difference.
‘Ben, your empathy is legendary,’ said Fry. ‘But you’re going too far this time. Surely you can’t have fooled yourself into empathizing with Quinn? You can’t think there’s any justification for what he’s doing?’
‘That wasn’t what I was trying to say.’
The next pause in the conversation was so quiet that he could hear the ticking of his watch above the sound of the raindrops on the glass roof. To demonstrate his calmness, Cooper picked up one of the drip-mats and used it to brush the crumbs off the table. He concentrated on doing it, clearing the space around him with the air of having found a task
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that was as important as anything they might have been talking about. He took his time. But he could feel her watching him impatiently.
‘So what is it that’s really bothering you?’ said Fry.
‘What you might not have noticed about the Carol Proctor case was that the arresting officer was my father.’
He watched Fry open her mouth to make a smart comment, but then hesitate as she remembered that Sergeant Joe Cooper was dead - and how he had died. He didn’t know why, but he’d noticed that his father’s memory was one of the few things that had the power to soften her sharpness. He’d seen the way she handled the photograph over the mantelpiece that one time she’d visited his flat.
Now, her mouth stayed open slightly, but no comment came out. A tiny drop of vodka slid from her upper lip, like a tear.
‘So that’s why,’ she said. ‘DI Hitchens knows, of course.’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me about it, Ben.’
