It was funny how that could happen to people. It made her wonder whether she’d changed too, in other people’s eyes. Had she become a different person during these last few years, as a result of her time in Derbyshire and all the things that had happened here? She thought not. Oh, there might be a new scar, a few painful memories, and a lot more clutter in her life – not to mention a reunion with her missing sister, which seemed a century ago now.
But she was still the same person, wasn’t she? She felt too much in control of her own nature to let any of those circumstances change her. There was no being swept along by the tide for her. Self-determination, that was what she believed in. She was in charge of her destiny, and it was important to remember it. Others should remember it more too. Yes, of course. Diane Fry was the same person she’d always been.
In Grosvenor Road, the little flat she’d lived in for years was starting to feel too small and too dismal now, the students and migrant workers upstairs too annoying. She didn’t like the idea of sharing the house any more, got irritated every time she heard the front door slam. She’d got into an argument one day with a girl from Slovakia, and now no one spoke to her. They probably thought of her as a bad-tempered old witch. They certainly made her feel old anyway. She did have twelve or fifteen years on any one of them. And somehow, those years had aged her more than they should have done.
She looked in the fridge, and found nothing on the shelves that hadn’t been there yesterday, and probably the day before. Half a two-litre bottle of milk, some limp lettuce, a few ounces of Cheddar. There was a small bottle of something dark at the back. Possibly soy sauce.
‘Damn it,’ she said, slamming the door. ‘And nothing to drink anyway.’
Fry walked into the Wheatsheaf and paused in the doorway, surveying the bar. At a table in the far corner, under an enormous decorative mirror, she saw a huddled group, heads bent close together over a clutter of empty bottles and half-full glasses.
‘Interesting,’ she said to herself.
She saw DC Carol Villiers first. She was dressed off duty in jeans and a T-shirt, looking strong and fit, and full of vitality, like a woman who’d just come out of the gym – which she probably had. Luke Irvine was next to her, nursing a bottle of American beer. And Becky Hurst came into view across the table when Villiers leaned over to pick up a glass. An unholy trio, if ever she’d seen one. Up to no good, plotting in the pub behind her back. So where was—? Oh, yes – here he came. Gavin Murfin, lumbering back from the bar, a drink in each hand, four packets of McCoy’s ridge-cut crisps dangling from his clenched fingers like trophies.
Fry watched as Murfin distributed the crisps – a red packet of plain salted for Hurst, orange Mexican chilli for Irvine. Villiers left hers untouched on the table as Murfin sat down and ripped open a green packet for himself. Cheddar and onion. She could almost smell it from here.
She wondered who’d organised this little gathering. She knew the youngsters were restless. It was unsettling to have so much disruption in the early part of your CID career. Hurst in particular was ambitious, and wanted to move up the ladder quickly. Fry recognised it – she was the same herself at that age. Becky was careful to keep her nose clean, and tried to earn approval whenever she could. In fact, Ben Cooper really rated her – he’d often said that Hurst was the best of the new recruits to Edendale CID. But she’d be itching with impatience if she felt something was holding her back, if a lack of stability in the department was depriving her of opportunities.
Irvine was a different matter. To Fry’s eye, he looked like a potential troublemaker. He adopted that sardonic style, made too many satirical comments, had too jaundiced an outlook for someone so young. Irvine was far more impulsive than Hurst, too. He was likely to act first and consider the correct procedure later.
But Fry’s money was on DC Carol Villiers. She was older than Hurst or Irvine, and certainly no innocent. Villiers had been a corporal in the RAF Police before she left the forces and was recruited to Derbyshire Constabulary. She must have seen lots of servicemen go off the rails, heard plenty of mutinous barrack room talk in her time. She was capable of dealing with a developing situation like this, if she felt like it. But she could lead it too, if that was her inclination. She had the confidence, that elusive air of authority. And here she was in the pub with the rest of the team, when she was supposed to be on secondment assisting C Division until later in the week.
Fry’s mind went back to a day not long after Villiers had arrived in Edendale. She’d wanted to talk about Ben Cooper, and Villiers knew more about him than anybody. Fry had made the effort, tried to be nice, smiled and done all the small talk. But Villiers hadn’t been forthcoming. She’d been positively tight-lipped, in fact. Fry had felt vindicated in her belief that there was no point in trying to be friends with anyone. You could never rely on them.