unit, tinkering with the connection on a plastic water pipe.
‘You lot again,’ he said when he saw them. ‘Still fretting about my health?’
‘We wondered what steps you’ve taken to improve your security, Mr Proctor,’ said Fry. ‘And whether you might benefit from some more advice.’
Proctor snorted, banged a spanner into his toolbox and shoved his head back under the sink. He didn’t notice his wife, who appeared around the corner of the caravan, breathing a bit hard as if she’d run down from the house when she saw the car arrive.
‘Are we going to get police protection?’ she said.
Fry opened her mouth to give her all the reasons why it was impossible, but before she could say anything, Proctor interrupted. ‘We don’t need police protection, thanks very much.’
His wife didn’t even look at him. ‘There are the children to think about. I’m not having them put in danger. And he’s no use looking after us. He goes out drinking every night and staggers home late. I mean, what good is that? He’s been doing it since Monday, no matter how much he tries to tell you he’s not scared.’
Proctor sat up and heaved himself out of the door of the caravan. ‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘Yes, I heard,’ said Connie, stony-faced.
‘I’m afraid it wouldn’t be possible anyway,’ said Fry. ‘We
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can advise you on precautions and safety measures. If you’re worried, Mrs Proctor, you might want to consider taking the children away somewhere for a short while.’
‘Surely, if you think Quinn will come to the caravan park, you should have somebody here watching for him,’ said Connie.
‘If we had the resources …’
Proctor pushed his way in front of his wife. He stood only a few inches from Fry and repeated: ‘We don’t need police protection. Got it?’
Cooper thought Proctor was probably taking his life in his hands doing that. Fry was perfectly capable of reducing three Raymond Proctors to a quivering heap. But she didn’t move a muscle. He thought he ought to divert attention, all the same.
‘Don’t you think you should worry about Mansell Quinn being in the area, Mr Proctor?’ he said.
‘No, it’s rubbish. Why should I worry about Quinn?’
‘Rebecca Lowe was murdered on Monday night. If Mansell Quinn calls here, it might not be to say “hello” to an old friend.’
‘Why me? There’s no reason for him to come here.’
‘At his trial ‘
Proctor snorted. ‘That was fourteen years ago. We’ve all forgotten about that now.’
‘Have you?’
‘Look, it was a bad time, I won’t deny that. But I put all that behind me. I’ve got a new wife now, and a new family. There’s no point dwelling on the past - it doesn’t do a bit of good.’
‘Do you think you might be able to convince Quinn of that?’
Proctor glowered. ‘If necessary. But you’re barking up the wrong tree. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got this unit booked out to some German tourists, and the water supply had better be working when they arrive. My maintenance man should be doing this, but he’s bloody useless with water.’
Cooper looked in through the window of the mobile home
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Proctor had emerged from. It was well equipped, with a kitchen about the same size as his own back at Welbeck Street, plus a toilet and shower, and a separate bedroom at the far end.
‘Quinn expected you to give him an alibi for the time of the murder, Mr Proctor,’ he said. ‘The main plank of his defence was that he’d been with you and William Thorpe until nearly a quarter past three, so couldn’t possibly have been home by the time your wife was killed.’
‘But it wasn’t true,’ said Proctor. ‘He’d left the pub half an hour before that. I think Mansell expected me to lie for him. But why should I lie for somebody who’d just - well …’
‘Murdered your wife?’
‘Exactly.’
Cooper watched Raymond Proctor for signs that he really had put the death of his first wife behind him so completely. He would have liked the opportunity to test Proctor’s statement to see if his version of events stood up to questioning after nearly fourteen years. Lies were difficult to sustain under proper probing - and it was even more difficult when you might have forgotten the lies you told the first time round.
But he wouldn’t get the chance. Diane Fry was already giving him a warning look that told him he was straying into forbidden territory.
‘It was all gone through at the trial,’ said Proctor. ‘I don’t see how it matters now.’
‘But it matters to Mansell Quinn.’
‘Ben, thank you,’ said Fry. ‘Perhaps you could go and wait in the car. We’ve nearly finished here.’
Reluctantly, Cooper went back to the car. It was parked in the area reserved for touring caravans entering the site at night - three or four pitches with separate points for services, so that late arrivals didn’t disturb the rest of the residents. Beyond the gravelled area was a patch of grass where four older static caravans stood.
Cooper glanced over his shoulder. He could see Proctor
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trying to get back into the Westmorland to carry on with his work, while Fry continued to lecture him. A few
