Dead And Buried (Cooper and Fry) (27 page)

‘The usual reason,’ said Cooper. ‘But … Aidan Merritt?’

‘Why not Aidan Merritt?’

‘I don’t know. He just doesn’t seem the type.’

‘You never knew him. Or wait – did you? Maybe you had a private chat with him at the Light House some time? During the Young Farmers’ soiree maybe? A drunken get-together over a pint of Old Moorland, was it?’

‘No,’ said Cooper calmly. ‘I’ve just talked to a few people about him. That’s what we do. We get an idea of what sort of person the victim was.’

‘You don’t need to to tell me how to do my job.’

‘I’m not trying to, but—’

‘So can you think of another reason why Merritt would consistently lie to his wife about what he was doing after work?’

‘Well, no.’

‘Okay. Then perhaps we could explore the possibility that he was having an affair.’

‘Fine.’

‘That wasn’t too difficult in the end, was it?’

Cooper watched her leave. He wondered if Fry actually thought she’d won him over, convinced him with the force of her argument and brought him on to her side. Well, she might want to believe that. But all she’d done was convince him that he’d have to find a new approach to the problem.

‘We could try asking the first Mrs Rochester.’

‘Who?’

‘Betty Wheatcroft,’ said Cooper. ‘Mrs Wheatcroft was very upset by the death of Aidan Merritt. She’s a bit nervous about being on her own, I think. In fact, she seems to be developing irrational fears about someone coming to her house to attack her.’

‘Violence
like that can be very worrying to old people. They feel vulnerable, and they don’t really know where the danger might come from.’

‘Yes, you’re right. But in my view she was a little too upset. It wasn’t just a general fear. I’m sure Merritt meant something to her personally.’

That morning, Superintendent Branagh sat Cooper down in her office. DI Hitchens was already there, leaning against the window. His jaw was set in a stubborn line, like a man who’d decided on a course of action and was determined to go through with it.

‘DS Cooper, how is your team settling down?’ said Branagh.

To Cooper, it sounded very much like preparatory small talk. His team had been settling down for months already.

‘Very well, ma’am. Thank you.’

‘I’m delighted to hear it. We’re in for rough times, you know.’

‘We’ll survive, ma’am,’ said Cooper. ‘We’ll survive.’

Branagh nodded, but he had the impression she hadn’t really been listening to the answer.

‘I hate having to bring in outside help,’ she said. ‘I would prefer to feel that the division can do the job with its own resources. As you know, there’s only one thing I detest more. And that’s leaks to the press.’

‘Yes, I’m aware of that.’

‘But we had no choice in this case. The Major Crime Unit have taken responsibility for the Merritt murder inquiry.’

She put an unusual amount of emphasis on the last few words. Cooper glanced at Hitchens, who raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement of some unspoken message.

The superintendent frowned, noticing the bruise on Cooper’s temple.

‘Did
something happen to you last night?’

Cooper automatically touched the sore place. ‘No, it’s nothing.’

‘Not falling out with your fiancée over the wedding plans, are you?’

Cooper tried to laugh politely, but Branagh wasn’t fooled.

‘Oh well. None of my business, perhaps?’

‘Thank you for asking, though,’ said Cooper.

‘No problem. The thing is, DS Cooper, we want you to understand that the presence of officers from the Major Crime Unit doesn’t preclude us from taking appropriate action for ourselves when we think it’s necessary. For example, if new information should come to light in our ongoing inquiries into the disappearance of David and Patricia Pearson.’

‘Ah,’ said Cooper, a light beginning to dawn.

‘Which,’ continued Branagh, ‘I believe you’ve been working on.’

‘I have, ma’am.’

‘Well, I would be very happy to hear we’d made some progress in our part of this operation. A suspect or two brought in for interview, perhaps. That would be good news, wouldn’t it? The sort of thing that would reflect well on E Division’s capability. Do we understand each other?’

‘Perfectly,’ said Cooper.

He was sitting up straighter in his chair, feeling the adrenalin already surging through his veins at the prospect of action. Those bruises didn’t hurt at all, now he thought about it.

Cooper stood up to leave the office. Branagh held him back by fixing him with her steady, piercing gaze.

‘DS Cooper,’ she said.

‘Yes, ma’am?’

‘Remember what I told you. Any problems or concerns
you have, feed them back to me via your DI here. You have our full backing.’

‘I haven’t forgotten,’ said Cooper.

‘In that case,’ she said, ‘I’ll take it you don’t have any problems.’

Cooper strode back into the CID room. Everyone looked up as he entered, as if sensing the new mood in the air already.

‘Luke,’ he said.

‘Yes, boss?’

‘Ian Gullick is running a greengrocer’s business, you said.’

‘He has a stall on the market in town twice a week,’ said Irvine. ‘The rest of the week he’s probably setting up pitches on other markets around the county. Chesterfield, Buxton, I don’t know where. But Edendale is his home ground.’

‘And what day is it today?’ said Cooper.

‘Thursday. Why?’

‘Because it’s market day.’

‘Are we going shopping?’ asked Villiers.

‘No,’ said Cooper. ‘We’re going to make some arrests.’

Markets
always seemed to be the coldest, windiest spots. He supposed it was in the nature of the layout – an open space with streets funnelling into it from every direction. In winter, stallholders often shivered in heavy overcoats and fur hats, as if they were trading on a street market in Moscow.

Shop windows all around the market square in Edendale were filled with posters advertising the town’s campaign against the building of a new Tesco store. There was a Sainsbury’s Local right here on the market square, but many of the other businesses were independents.

The register office was still located here in the town hall, but the magistrates’ court and county court round the corner had a less than promising future. Court facilities were being closed and centralised in bigger population centres, just like police stations

Cooper had to admit that Edendale market wasn’t the most exciting in Derbyshire. Chesterfield and Bakewell were both better. On this side of the market, the main attractions seemed to be a fish van, a plant stall, a hot-dog trailer, and a trader selling Union Jack rugs.

Ian Gullick was doing business today on his vegetable stall. Piles of potatoes and carrots failed to hide his beer gut, which stretched a T-shirt and a leather money belt to
breaking point. Though his stall was right in front of Jack’s Barbers, he clearly hadn’t been inside recently for a wash and cut.

‘Okay, we’re going to go in nice and easy,’ said Cooper into his radio. ‘Gavin, can you see him from your position?’

‘Yes, got him.’

Murfin was standing by the window of the tattoo parlour, just behind the artisan bakery, partially obscuring a poster advertising ear-lobe tattoos.

‘Becky?’

‘Right behind the stall.’

‘Excellent. Let’s hope the uniforms stay out of sight until we’ve got the cuffs on.’

Without showing any signs of hurry or drawing attention to themselves, they closed in towards Gullick’s stall. A young assistant was weighing out onions for a customer, and Gullick himself moved down to the end of the stall to shift some empty boxes. When Cooper was within a few yards, the customer paid for her onions and the stall was clear.

‘Right, move in.’

Cooper picked up speed as he moved towards the stall. But Gullick, seeming to sense that something was wrong, looked up and spotted him. Cooper saw the flash of recognition in his eyes. A pile of boxes went flying as Gullick barged his assistant out of the way and ran round the end of the stall, toppling a pile of Golden Delicious, which spilled into the aisle and rolled under the feet of passing shoppers.

‘He’s spotted us, Ben,’ said Hurst. ‘He’s doing a runner.’

Cooper could see Hurst grabbing for Gullick, but missing.

‘Police!’ he called. ‘Stay where you are!’

‘Damn, I almost had him there,’ called Hurst.

‘Police! Stop!’

Gullick
took no notice. It never did work anyway, unless you had a dog handler to enforce the command.

Cooper tried to dodge between the shoppers, who milled about in confusion, getting in his way. There was a crash, a splintering of wood, and someone screamed as if they’d fallen on to the stone paving.

‘Gavin?’ said Cooper.

‘Yeah?’

‘Where the hell are you?’

‘Right here. Just waiting for you to join me, like.’

‘What?’

Cooper pushed his way through the crowd, and Becky Hurst came panting up behind him. When the press of bodies cleared, he saw Gavin Murfin in his old anorak, standing there like someone’s mildly confused uncle out doing his weekly shop.

At Murfin’s feet lay a large shape in jeans and a white T-shirt, squirming desperately in his efforts to free himself from a heap of Union Jack rugs. Murfin bent, snapped on the handcuffs in two quick movements and straightened up again.

‘You youngsters,’ he said. ‘All that running about, and it doesn’t achieve a thing.’

Today was also Emergency Services Day in Edendale. Cooper had forgotten that. The whole of Victoria Park had been taken over to mount displays for the public. Crowds of civilians were passing through in their hundreds.

This park was also the site of the annual Christmas market. It was a popular attraction, bringing crowds of people into town. There was always a smell of roasting chestnuts in the air, and the sound of a fairground organ. In the evening, mime artists, stilt walkers and clowns would mingle with
the crowds in the lamplit streets, and Santa would turn up on his sleigh.

It was where David and Trisha Pearson should have been on their Peak District Christmas break, not trekking across Oxlow Moor.

A few uniformed officers and PCSOs from E Division had been allocated to Emergency Services Day. The mobile police office was here, with a PC inside demonstrating the old-style fingerprinting technique, which was always popular. A liveried Vauxhall Astra sat with its blue lights flashing and its doors open, so that children could sit in the driver’s seat and tap the steering wheel to set off the siren.

‘We’ve located Ian Gullick’s vehicle,’ said Becky Hurst’s voice in his earpiece.

‘A blue Transit?’ asked Cooper.

‘Yes, it was in the town hall car park, close to the market.’

‘It’s not a priority.’

‘I thought not. Uniforms have picked up Gullick, and Gavin’s processing him, since he made the arrest.’

‘Okay.’

Cooper looked around the park. There was a dog handler too, with his modified Zafira and two dogs in cages at the back – a German Shepherd and a young Springer spaniel training for drug-sniffing work. There might only be two handlers on duty in Derbyshire at any one time, and they covered huge areas in those Zafiras. During the course of a shift they could do up to three hundred miles, a lot of that at night, and mostly on blue lights.

To complete the police presence, an off-duty officer dressed in a tracksuit had set up a couple of punchbags in front of the Ozbox van. Ozbox had been one of the big success stories for Derbyshire Constabulary since it was set up by Sergeant Steve Osbaldeston. It ran six mobile gyms, with two hundred officers volunteering their time
to teach boxing skills to thousands of youngsters from problem areas. Old Ozbox himself had got the MBE a few years ago for his work. This was real community relations in action.

‘Carol?’ said Cooper. ‘Are you still on Vince Naylor?’

‘We’re sitting behind him on Hulley Road.’

‘What’s he doing?’

‘He’s in his pickup making a phone call, as far I can tell from here.’

‘Damn, that might mean he’s already heard about Gullick.’

‘Possibly. What do you want us to do?’

‘Nothing hasty,’ said Cooper. ‘Just stay with him for now.’

‘Fine.’

Cooper walked past the E Division Neighbourhood Watch tent. Buxton Mountain Rescue were performing an operation on a scaffolding tower using something called a Petzl nappy. Below the scaffolding stood the BMRT Ford Transit ambulance and Land Rover. Next to them, Derbyshire Cave Rescue Organisation had set up a plastic cave for kids to crawl through with lights strapped to their heads.

He stopped to pat the head of a SARDA rescue dog, a broken-coated collie with odd eyes. It was odd to find the rescue dog here in the park in the centre of Edendale, being fussed by the public. He’d just been thinking that the Pearsons ought to have been here enjoying the Christmas market instead of walking across the moors in the snow. And this dog might have been the very animal to locate them if they’d been lost or injured out there. Despite its appearance, he knew it had the ability to sniff out a human scent over a kilometre away in the right conditions.

‘Hold on, it looks as though he’s moving again,’ said Villiers.

Cooper
looked across the park in the direction of Hulley Road, which ran towards the bridge over the river and the traffic lights at Fargate. He couldn’t see the white Toyota pickup from here, or the CID pool car behind it containing Carol Villiers and Luke Irvine. He pictured them moving off and passing the back of the Royal Theatre.

He began to head towards the corner of the park. A Fire and Rescue team were drawing a crowd by rescuing a mock casualty from an adjacent roof with the extending ladder and cage. He’d probably missed the chip-pan fire demonstration, which always attracted a lot of attention, especially when a firefighter threw water on to the burning pan to illustrate the wrong way to deal with it, sending a sheet of flame and smoke shooting up and over the demonstration vehicle.

He’d once seen a fireman playing up to the kids in the audience by wearing a wig that showed long hair peeping out from under his helmet. Then, after the blaze, he pretended his hair had been scorched, and removed his helmet to reveal a totally bald head. That was always good for a laugh.