Irvine looked at her. ‘Yes, the “who” is sometimes easy, isn’t it? But the “why” can be a lot more complicated.’
Fry blinked, taken by surprise. That was something that Ben Cooper would have said. She could almost hear him saying it now. Cooper was one who always wanted to look for the complications, to explore the tangled subtleties of people’s relationships. He would certainly have wanted to know the ‘why’. It was often the place he started from in an investigation, rather than the obvious ‘who’.
In the past, she’d never worried too much about the differences in Cooper’s approach. Sometimes he got there, but often he didn’t. Sticking to the book, following the laid-down procedures – that always worked, eventually. So why was she thinking about what Cooper would say? If he’d been here in the woods alongside her she would have ignored what he said, treated his opinion with contempt, even. But it was another thing when he wasn’t here. His absence was more powerful than his presence.
Fry turned to look at the landscape of the White Peak beyond the woods. An isolated farm, a derelict field barn, a couple of old cottages nestling in a narrow valley, trapped in a network of stone walls between wet hills scattered with sheep. It was Ben Cooper country. He should definitely be here.
‘Do you think we have a murder, then?’ she said.
‘It’s hard to tell,’ admitted Irvine. ‘So far, there’s no evidence of a struggle, or even of a second person being present. And we’d need to know the cause of death.’
‘Right.’
Fry shoved her hands in her pockets. Was it wrong for her to be standing in this damp wood hoping that an unidentified man had been the victim of a criminal act? Probably. This might well have been a suicide or an accidental death. There were certainly more of those around than murders. But her instincts were telling her something different. This man had ended up dead in the stream as a result of someone else’s actions.
‘Luke, call Becky Hurst and get her down here,’ she said. ‘We’re going to need another pair of hands before long.’
Although it was daytime, the overcast sky made the woods gloomy, and arc lights had been set up under the trees. Fry had found a remnant of stone wall that was just the right height to sit on while she waited.
When Becky Hurst arrived at the scene, she ducked through the cordon and looked down at the body.
‘Look at the way his eyes are staring,’ she said. ‘Like a blind person.’
‘That’s probably right,’ said Irvine. ‘Imagine it was night-time, with a heavily overcast sky. And no source of light nearby. It would have been pitch black out here. I mean, really black.’
‘Of course,’ said Fry. ‘So he wouldn’t have been able to see a thing.’
‘Yes, it’s just like being blind,’ said Irvine. ‘I was visiting one of those show caves in Castleton once with Michelle, and the guide turned off the lights…’
‘I know all about that,’ she said. ‘I know about darkness.’
Irvine glanced at her. ‘I dare say you do.’
Fry shuddered. There was one thing for sure. Without the benefit of these arc lights, she wouldn’t be out here in the woods at night, overcast sky or not. There were too many insects and tiny, crawling creatures waiting to drop on to her face from the trees when she couldn’t see them coming. It wouldn’t be her choice for a suitable place to commit suicide, or to have an accident. It wasn’t her idea of a place to die at all.
She realised that Irvine had kept looking at her, as if he was expecting something. Fry sensed one of those moments when her people skills were about to fail her. She supposed someone other than her would know instinctively how to behave, and what to say. But it was impossible to figure out logically what was required of you: people had to tell you. While Irvine waited, she went back over what he’d been saying.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Who’s Michelle?’
‘My new girlfriend.’
‘Great.’
The face of the dead man continued to stare up at the trees, his eyes so close to the surface of the water that they reflected the glare of the arc lights. Strands of fair hair were matted with something dark. Blood? Perhaps.
Fry had felt quite comfortable on the wall until now, but suddenly the stones had started to feel harder, their edges sharper. She shifted uneasily, stood up and paced outside the cordon, until Abbott called her over.
‘One of the search teams has found the victim’s clothes. All neatly piled up on a rock. It looks for all the world like he just decided to go for a shallow swim.’