Already Dead(52)

‘He was a claims adjuster here, is that right?’

‘Yes. Their role is to determine the extent of the company’s liability. They investigate claims. Interview claimants and witnesses, consult police and hospital records if necessary. Sometimes they have to inspect property damage. As an adjuster, you can work long hours, including nights and weekends. You have to be able to use a laptop, but a fifty-pound ladder as well.’

‘Much personal contact with the public?’

‘Well … you have to help the policyholder. You’re the one familiar with all the technical terms. Depreciation, replacement costs, actual cash value. Most policyholders don’t understand those things.’

‘Would you say Mr Turner was happy with his work at Prospectus Assurance?’

Edge shrugged. ‘I guess so. Everyone grumbles about money, of course. There used to be a bonus scheme. Up to ten per cent of your salary. That doesn’t happen now. Austerity times, you know.’

‘And how does your job fit in with the work he was doing?’

‘We have to investigate claims to make sure they’re genuine. Sadly, some people do lie.’

‘Oh, I know,’ said Fry.

‘Of course you do.’

‘How much did you know about Mr Turner’s personal life?’

‘Oh, I suppose someone has told you that I was his best friend or something, have they?’

‘And were you?’

‘I’d be a bit more upset, if I was,’ said Edge.

‘Yes, I’d noticed you weren’t too distressed by his death, sir.’

Edge held out one hand in apology. ‘Don’t get me wrong. Glen was okay. We did talk a bit. But his personal life? No, not really.’

‘Do you remember anything out of the ordinary about Mr Turner in the previous few days? Anything particularly unusual?’

‘When do you mean exactly?’

‘Say two days before his death.’

‘That would be…?’

‘Sunday,’ said Fry as he looked towards the wall planner for clarification. She followed his gaze and saw that the whole of the previous weekend was blocked out in bright red tape decorated with gold stars, as if it was a special occasion. A celebration, or some kind of anniversary. A wedding, maybe?

‘Sunday?’ said Edge. ‘Oh, yes. I know what Glen was doing on Sunday, all right. He was getting himself killed. Over and over again.’





18





Josh Lane had been going out every day. He wasn’t working, just taking a trip somewhere different each morning. If the rain had stopped, he went for a walk. Sometimes even when it was still raining too. Then he would stop for lunch in a pub somewhere.

As he followed Lane’s silver grey Honda Civic from Derwent Park that Friday morning, Ben Cooper wondered what was going through Lane’s mind when he did this. It was the sort of thing he imagined he would do himself, if he was facing the possibility of a spell in prison. Taking a look at the world around him before he lost it for a while. Getting the most out of that last taste of freedom.

But he couldn’t bear the idea that he and Lane might think the same way. That wasn’t possible. He wanted this man to be eaten up by guilt. He needed to believe that Josh Lane was desperately seeking peace of mind that he might never get. And, if Cooper had his way, he’d make sure he never got it.

Peace was certainly available in many of these places, if your mind was in the right condition to see it. Today, Lane was driving the short distance up the A6 into Cromford, where he turned into the centre of the village at the traffic lights and headed up the long hill going south.

The road from Wirksworth ran steeply down into Cromford, carrying all telltale signs of nearby quarrying. The unnaturally white surface of the carriageway and the presence of crash barriers on every bend were the clues. Lorries loaded with asphalt and aggregates ground their way up and down this hill every day. No matter how well they were sheeted, or how often their wheels were washed, they left their traces on the roads as reminders of the quarry’s existence. The barriers were there to protect residents living directly in the path of the lorries. If the brakes failed as one of them descended the hill, it would turn into an uncontrollable twelve-ton missile capable of demolishing a house.

As they passed the huge tarmac works at Dean Hollow, Cooper heard the siren go off – a long first blast, giving a two-minute warning of firing. The blasting engineer would be ready with his detonator and firing mechanism, sodium chloride fertiliser pellets packed into tubes to create almost instantaneous blasts. He knew from experience that the vibration would be felt down in the valley.

When they reached Steeple Grange, Cooper thought Lane was heading into Wirksworth. A wide arc of abandoned quarries curved west and north of the little town, forming a backdrop to many of the views over it. Several of those old quarries had been absorbed into the site of the National Stone Centre, which occupied fifty acres of land between the Middleton and Cromford roads.