felt an obligation to Quinn and had done him a favour when he was approaching the end of his prison term.
Of course, Raymond Proctor had felt some obligation to William Thorpe, in his turn. He’d put Thorpe up at his caravan park for a while when he needed somewhere to stay. And Proctor hadn’t been in the army, so it couldn’t have been due to comradeship among ex-soldiers. Did the origins of the obligation go back to the events of 1990, or beyond?
Cooper turned to look at Thorpe. The most interesting fact in this three-cornered relationship was the absence of any similar bond between Quinn and Proctor. It was understandable in the circumstances, he supposed. Proctor believed that Quinn had killed his wife, after years of carrying on an affair with her.
Curiously, it seemed that Will Thorpe had been the one to feel guilty. But guilt could make people act in strange ways. Thorpe had felt under some obligation to Quinn, certainly. But he feared him, too.
A patrol car pulled up near the door at last, and he signalled to Thorpe. He watched the man get to his feet, looking thin and tired. Cooper knew that fear and anger were simple emotions, easy to understand. Guilt was far more difficult.
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25
Somebody had managed to open one of the big sash windows in the CID room. No breeze came in, only waves of humidity. But at least when the phones stopped ringing for a while, they could hear the sound of children playing in the gardens on West Street, a snatch of music from somebody’s radio, and the tune of an ice-cream van. They were sounds that suggested normal people enjoying themselves, out there in the real world.
Ben Cooper had so far failed to track down a copy of Death Underground. The library didn’t have it, and the local branch of Ottakar’s didn’t have it, but had offered to get one on special order within a few weeks. It was a shame that the only worthwhile secondhand bookshop in town had closed a few months ago when its owner died; the place had been a treasure trove of hard-to-find books on specialized subjects.
Thinking about specialists, he decided to phone the company that ran Peak and Speedwell Caverns. They told him that Alistair Page was his best bet, and promised to give him a message. Within half an hour, Page rang back.
‘Yes, I’ve got a copy of that at home,’ he said. ‘It’s fairly old, though. I can suggest something much more up to date.’
‘No, that’s the one I want. Can I borrow it?’ said Cooper.
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‘Of course. But it’ll be a day or two before I can get into Edendale.’
‘Don’t worry about that, I’ll pick it up. Will you be home tonight?’
‘Yes, that’s fine. You know where it is, don’t you? Rock Cottage.’
Cooper put the phone down. At least that was something achieved today.
‘Ben, did Will Thorpe get away all right?’ called Diane Fry, without lifting her head from her desk.
‘Yes, Diane.’
‘It’s a pity we couldn’t keep him in custody.’
‘He hasn’t done anything,’ said Cooper.
Fry looked sceptical. ‘I’m convinced he knows a lot more about Mansell Quinn than he’s telling. If that’s the case, we could have hirn on a charge of withholding information.’
‘That won’t worry Thorpe very much.’
‘Well, at least we know where he is now. We can have another go at him tomorrow - it’ll give us time to put a strategy together.’
‘A strategy?’
‘An interview strategy. We need something to use against him, some detail from his background that would make him open up.’
A large red-and-black butterfly came in through the open window. It flapped madly across the office ceiling, found itself caught in the draught from Fry’s fan, and came down again suddenly. It fluttered so close to Cooper’s face that he could feel the waft of its wings and hear its quiet flapping. Then it left him and headed back to Fry’s desk, perhaps mistaking the movement of the fan for the outside air. Fry picked up a file and swatted at it, missing by a mile.
‘What are you doing?’ said Cooper. ‘It won’t harm you. It’s only a Red Admiral.’
‘It should get back to the sea, then,’ said Fry.
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Cooper got up from his desk and followed the butterfly around the room until it came within reach. He cupped his hands around it gently, feeling its wing-tips tickling his fingers for a moment before became still.
‘Hey up, Ben’s made an arrest,’ said Gavin Murfin. ‘Do you want the handcuffs, Ben?’
‘Have you nothing better to do?’ said Fry, without looking up.
‘It won’t take a minute.’
‘Ben doesn’t like killing anything,’ said Murfin. ‘This is the man who rescues wasps and puts them out of the window.’
‘You’re joking? Wasps are on pretty high on my extermination list.’
‘That’s quite a long list, I bet.’
‘Could be. Do you want to know where you come on there, Gavin?’
‘As long as it’s below wasps, I’m happy.’
Fry didn’t say anything.
‘Or at least, not too many places above them,’ said Murfin.
