beginning to swell.
At least authorization had come through for her to get information from Human Resources on PC 4623 Netherton, Arthur. According to his file, he’d received the Chief Constable’s Commendation and a Royal Humane Society Testimonial for rescuing a woman who’d been threatening to jump from a bridge over the River Derwent some years ago. Another hero, then.
But Arthur Netherton had retired from Derbyshire
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Constabulary in 2000 after thirty years’ service, and had moved to Spain. Death benefits under his pension provision had been paid to his widow three years later. Netherton had died of a heart attack in his mid-fifties. Too much of the good life in too short a time, perhaps? Fry suppressed a surge of jealousy. Too much of the good life? Chance would be a fine thing.
With both of the uniformed heroes gone to the great dress parade in the sky, her options for a first-hand account of events at 82 Pindale Road in October 1990 were limited. Mansell Quinn was unavailable, while Carol Proctor was the most silent witness of all.
And now Rebecca Quinn was dead, too. What might Rebecca have been able to tell her? Anything useful? Well, perhaps Quinn himself had thought so - or somebody had. Whoever stabbed her with the carving knife had made sure she wouldn’t talk.
Fry sighed. She was starting to sound like Ben Cooper. Quinn was guilty, and no one should have any doubts.
So who was left? The Quinns’ neighbours? She pulled out the Hope Valley telephone directory, but found no listing for any Townsends at 84 Pindale Road. She tried calling a couple of possibilities in Bamford and Bradwell, but they were the wrong Townsends and no relation - or not admitting to it. Then she dug out the electoral roll for the Castleton ward. The current residents of 84 Pindale Road were a family by the name of Ho.
Great. So it looked as though the Townsends had left the area, too. The world was full of people trying to put the past behind them. And some of them were doing it more successfully than others.
The gala was over in Hathersage. As Diane Fry drove through the village, workmen were taking down the bunting, and the bus shelter had reverted to its normal boring state.
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On the Moorland estate, children were playing on the grass and adults were washing their cars. This time, Fry found herself taking notice of small things here and there - a clown puppet hanging by its strings in an upstairs window, a rabbit with long golden fur in a hutch on a front lawn. There was a ‘Not in my name’ poster in a bedroom window, left over from an Iraqi War protest, while across the street someone had painted a smiley face on their wheelie bin. A lady sat outside at a plastic table reading a newspaper, with a collie dog asleep at her feet.
Enid Quinn had a distracted air today. She had been standing in a corner of her garden, wearing her yellow rubber gloves to dead-head the roses.
‘I know it’s hard having to go over it again and again,’ said Fry. ‘But you must understand how necessary it is.’
Mrs Quinn wouldn’t look at Fry, but watched the children on the grass across the road.
‘Of course it’s necessary,’ she said. ‘I know that. It’s all absolutely bloody necessary.’
Fry watched her carefully from the corner of her eye. The woman’s voice had taken on an unfamiliar edginess that might be the first sign of a crack in her composure. The people who seemed most in control were often the ones who disintegrated in a big way when the stress finally became too much. She didn’t want that to happen to Mrs Quinn.
‘We could go and talk somewhere else, if you like?’ she said. ‘Perhaps we could go in the house and have a cup of tea?’
‘No, this is fine.’
The scent of the roses was too strong for Fry. The smell hung around her like cheap perfume. But it was grass pollen that triggered her hay fever, so she might be OK.
The thing is,’ said Fry, ‘we need to go over the past, because it may be the only way of figuring out what’s going through your son’s mind.’
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‘If it’s Simon and Andrea you’re interested in, you should be talking to them, not me. I don’t remember anything. I wasn’t there.’
‘I’ve made an appointment to see them later today. But I think there are things you may be able to tell me, even though you weren’t there. Simon and Andrea are your grandchildren, after all.’
Mrs Quinn looked back towards the house with a half shrug of her shoulders, as if it wasn’t important. Fry frowned at her, trying to divine her thoughts, and failing. She wasn’t a psychologist, she was a police officer. Her own experiences didn’t give her access to the mind of someone like Mrs Quinn.
‘Andrea is all right,’ said Mrs Quinn. ‘A bit too serious, and she doesn’t know how to enjoy herself properly. But she’s a sensible enough girl. The most sensible one of the family, probably.’
‘And your grandson?’
The old woman sighed. ‘Simon had a tough time of it. He was already going through a difficult phase when he was fifteen. And when it all happened, he got very mixed up. I think he still is. It was bad enough for a lad of his age when his father was convicted of murder. Simon still admired his father. He had loyalty. But it completely knocked him for six when someone told him ‘
She fastened her gaze on a climbing rose and snipped at one of its flowers angrily, though to Fry it hardly seemed to have begun to wilt.
Told him what, Mrs Quinn?’
‘Someone told Simon that Mansell wasn’t really his father.’
Fry raised her eyebrows. ‘Who would do that?’
‘Someone trying to stir up trouble, obviously.’
‘But who? Do you know?’
‘I’m … well, I’m not sure. You know what people are like. They love to be malicious.’
‘And was it true?’
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‘It was possible,’ said Mrs Quinn. ‘That
