yards away, an old man in overalls was raking the gravel, but taking a keen interest in what was being said. The maintenance man who was useless with water, presumably.
Out of curiosity, Cooper strolled towards the old caravans. They all looked a little battered round the edges and not so clean or well cared for as the mobile homes on the main part of the site. They’d been parked too near the trees, and their white panels were green with mould, their roofs spattered with bird droppings.
The window of the nearest one was badly cracked, too. He couldn’t imagine Raymond Proctor managing to rent these out to his German tourists. They must have been old stock, now obsolete and beyond restoration. But if so, why hadn’t they been scrapped and removed from the site?
Cooper approached the nearest one and peered through the cracked window. He was trying the second one when Fry came up behind him.
‘Ben, what the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Those questions you were asking about the murder of Carol Proctor. You seem to have forgotten which enquiry you’re on. That case was dealt with years ago.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry.’
‘There was a trial and a conviction. The man has served his sentence, for God’s sake.’
‘I said I’m sorry, Diane.’
She narrowed her eyes at him.
The don’t know what you’re up to, Ben. But I always know when you’re up to something.’
‘Diane, aren’t Raymond Proctor and William Thorpe old friends?’
‘Yes. The three of them were very close - Quinn, Proctor and Thorpe. Why?’
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‘I wonder if Proctor and Thorpe stayed good friends. If you had spare accommodation like this that you didn’t need, wouldn’t you put up an old friend who had no home of his own?’
Fry smiled. ‘You’re right.’
To their surprise, Raymond Proctor admitted it straight away when they asked him. ‘Yes, Will stayed for the winter,’ he said.
‘And then he left?’
‘Look, he can survive perfectly well on the streets in the summer. In winter, it’s a different matter. A winter spent outside would kill him for sure. That’s why 1 let him come and stay in one of the ‘vans. I didn’t want that on my conscience as well.’
‘As well as what?’
Proctor shook his head. ‘Nothing you need to know about.’
‘It’s good to know you have a conscience, though, sir. Not everyone would have done something like that for a homeless person. Most people would just have said it wasn’t their responsibility and sent him packing.’
‘He’s an old mate,’ said Proctor. ‘That’s all there is to it.’
‘So where did Mr Thorpe go?’
The don’t know.’
‘You just kicked him out without any idea where he would go, or whether he had somewhere else to live?’
‘I’m not running a homeless hostel.’
‘There’s a limit to your friendship, then?’
‘I gave Will a place to class for six months while he sorted himself out. That was the agreement. It was understood that he’d leave at the end of April. If he couldn’t find himself somewhere else to live, it’s not my problem. Will called in a favour for old time’s sake, and I paid up. But now we’re quits. I’m not obliged to be his keeper for ever more.’
‘I see.’
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‘I needed the caravan. That’s how I make my living.’
‘But there’s no one in it.’
‘Not now. But there might be. Things could pick up any time.’
‘Mr Proctor, are you sure you have no idea where William Thorpe might have gone when he left here?’
Proctor shrugged. ‘Not my business.’
He locked the Westmorland and began to walk back towards the house. Cooper followed him, making a show of examining the security lights. He noticed there was only one vehicle parked outside the Proctors’ house - a bright red Renault panel van with white lettering on the side. A business vehicle, presumably. But no car?
‘You should think seriously about your security, sir,’ he said. ‘Don’t just hope for the best. Think about your family.’
Proctor cut across him with weary insistence. ‘I am not,’ he said, ‘frightened of Mansell Quinn.’
‘You realize we’re giving you advice entirely in your own interests?’
‘Oh, really? Well, thanks and all that.’
Proctor reached the door of his house. He took hold of the Yale lock and fiddled with it restlessly, rattling the latch in its barrel.
‘Mr Proctor?’
