‘Red striped curtains,’ said Hurst.
‘So?’
‘They don’t seem to fit.’
‘He probably didn’t choose them himself.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Check some of those drawers. See what documents you can find. Letters, bills, bank statements.’
‘I know. I’ve done it before.’
Fry examined the clothes in the wardrobe. Glen Turner didn’t have much fashion sense, or even a wide-ranging taste in styles. A few dull suits, some casual jackets and trousers that were only slightly less dull. On a shelf, she found a small pile of sweaters and cardigans with bright Scandinavian designs. They didn’t look as though they’d been worn, though. When she sniffed them, they still smelled new. Christmas gifts, perhaps. Wrap up warm, son.
There were a few personal items in the drawers of the dresser. An electric shaver, a small Kodak digital camera, an iPod, an Xbox 360. She wasn’t surprised that Turner was the type to be playing on a games console well into adulthood. There were a surprising number of adults using Nintendos and Game Boys. Mostly men, of course. It was a sign of the failure to grow up properly.
She switched on the camera, hoping the battery was charged up. There had been a higher specification camera in his briefcase, which presumably he’d needed for his work. This must have been for personal use. When the display came up, she pressed REVIEW on the menu and scrolled through the images stored on the memory card. Fry sighed when she saw them. Glen Turner was becoming so predictable. All she saw were pictures of stately homes and show gardens – among them, she thought she recognised Chatsworth House and Haddon Hall, two of the best-known attractions in the Peak District. Some of the shots were general views of an elegant facade or a colourful flower bed. But many of them included Glen’s mother, Ingrid Turner, smiling for his camera as she posed against a picturesque backdrop. So that was how the two of them had spent their weekends in the summer.
‘There are a few statements and receipts in a box file here,’ said Hurst. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary. They’re household bills, mostly – he seems to have kept about five years’ worth. Very organised of him. And it looks as though the majority are printouts from the internet, Diane.’
Fry nodded. ‘So he did most things online. We’ll need to look at his emails.’
‘What are we looking for?’ asked Hurst.
‘Any indication of who he’s been in touch with recently, and why. He must have had some contacts, apart from work and domestic affairs. He had dealings with someone who met him in those woods. And if there’s no obvious sign of them, Mr Turner must have had a reason for hiding the traces.’
16
Tonight, Ben Cooper was driving in the south of the area, in the district known as the Derbyshire Dales. And he was there for a good reason.
This was where Josh Lane lived. The former barman at the Light House had moved into a park home located a few hundred yards off the A6 near Cromford, just east of the river Derwent.
Lane’s home had a small conservatory and an area of decking which reached into the surrounding woodland. From the months he’d spent looking at estate agents websites trying to find an affordable property, Cooper knew that some of these park homes sold for around ninety thousand pounds. From what he’d heard, there was one park nearby where the rules excluded children. That was probably a big attraction for some people. Though how anybody could object to children, he didn’t understand. It was part of the life he and Liz had been planning for themselves.
For a moment, he thought he was going to faint. The sky whirled around him, and his feet stumbled on the tarmac. He stopped for a few minutes at the entrance to the park, taking deep breaths until his head stopped swimming. This happened sometimes. He wasn’t sure whether it was his body letting him down, or his mind. No matter how often he told himself to think only about safe subjects, to steer his thoughts away from dangerous territory, it still happened. It struck him out of the blue, like lightning from a clear sky. This would go on for ever, he knew. He could never be entirely confident that the lightning wouldn’t strike at any moment, when he was least expecting it. He could understand why people gave up the struggle, if they believed it would be like that every day of the rest of their lives.
He looked up at a St George’s flag flying over the entrance to the park. Two rows of mobile homes and small bungalows curved away from him into a wooded dell formed from the site of a small disused quarry. He could hear traffic passing on the A6 between Cromford and Ripley, but he guessed it would be quieter once he entered the park, the trees and quarry walls providing insulation against the noise.