Already Dead(51)

‘Fringe.’

They all turned to stare at Gavin Murfin.

‘It’s called Fringe,’ he said. ‘The TV show that Luke is talking about. There’s this FBI agent and this mad scientist—’

Fry turned away from the conversation in frustration. How was she going to track down witnesses to the death of Glen Turner, or whatever went immediately before it? There were too many white vans, and too many dark nights. One vehicle looked much like any other in the black, rain-lashed depths of the Derbyshire countryside.

She looked out of the window as the thought came into her head.

‘Oh God, look at it out there,’ she said. ‘What have we done to deserve this?’

Murfin turned and examined the water lashing against the panes. A thundering downpour filled the air, surging off the tarmac and overwhelming the surface drains in an instant to form swirling pools between vehicles in the parking compound. But for the sweep of headlights in the road outside, the world had been plunged into saturated gloom.

‘Perhaps it’s the kind of rain you can run through without getting wet,’ said Murfin.

‘Do you think so, Gavin?’

‘Nope.’

Fry put on her coat and took an umbrella from the corner. It wasn’t far across the compound to where her car was parked – just twenty-five yards or so. But it was far enough to get thoroughly soaked in this weather.

The umbrella was still wet from the last time she’d used it, and a patch of carpet underneath it was darkening with damp. They didn’t provide umbrella stands for CID rooms. They weren’t considered standard office furniture, she supposed, even in the Peak District. There was probably a crumbling patch of floorboard under this carpet by now, eaten away by wet rot. It was a fate she might be about to share.

A few minutes later, she was in the driving seat of her car, dripping on the carpet, with the wipers working, while she waited for the fan to clear the condensation from her windscreen. The noise of the rain drumming on the roof almost drowned out the radio, and she turned it off.

When her view was clear, she fastened her seat belt and drove out through the barrier, her tyres splashing through a stream of water running down the edge of the road. E Division headquarters had been built at the top of a hill, so all the rain was running down West Street and gathering at the bottom near the lights.

When she reached the foot of the hill, she could see that the junction might be closed completely later on. Drivers were already negotiating their way cautiously through a shallow lake, throwing up waves on to the pavement. Lights had come on in the shop windows, and passers-by were sheltering in doorways waiting for the downpour to stop, trusting that it was only a cloudburst. Without exception, they gazed upwards in awe, fascinated by the sight of gallons of water hurtling from the sky.

Fry had to admit there was something mesmerising about heavy rain. People could get quite obsessed with it. They dedicated their lives to recording rainfall and analysing weather patterns. They knew that Seathwaite in Cumbria was the wettest place in Britain. They could tell you that almost twelve and a half inches of rain had fallen there once in a twenty-four-hour period. Those self-appointed weather experts could reel off statistics all the way back to 1850, when official records began. Rain was one of the highlights of their week. They loved downpours, delighted in showers, positively purred over a torrential deluge like this one. They probably had forty different words for rain.

But for her, it was just wet. Ludicrously wet. It was starting to become unnatural.

As she drove through the town, taking care on the wet tarmac, it occurred to her that it would be quite different at the end of the journey. At her crime scene in Sparrow Wood, there was no tarmac, only mud. And then probably a lot more mud.

Back home in Birmingham, it had rained a lot too. But at least in the city you could go indoors. And if you did have to venture outside, you weren’t forced to wade through six inches of sludge to reach your car, or get your feet wet just crossing the road.

Fry knew this was a punishment. She’d done something wrong in a previous life. Whatever it was, she just hoped it was something she’d enjoyed.

Luke Irvine met her at Prospectus Assurance. ‘Mr Edge is waiting for us,’ he said.

When they entered his office, Ralph Edge spun in his chair and turned his shirt cuffs back, like a man preparing for a fight. He was older than Nathan Baird, and softer in outline, with smooth hands and a pudgy neck. His hair was receding to the point where he’d decided to shave the rest of his head, which gave him a strangely aggressive look that was at odds with the rest of his appearance.

‘So how can I help?’ he asked. ‘What do you want to know about poor old Glen?’