Already Dead(57)

Then, while working at Prospectus Assurance, he’d received an Insurance Diploma from the Chartered Insurance Institute, and was studying for an Advanced Diploma when he died. He’d definitely been serious. He’d probably wanted to get on.

But qualifications weren’t everything. That was certainly true in the police service and Fry had no doubt it was the same in the insurance industry. You needed to demonstrate a lot of personal qualities. Drive, enthusiasm, initiative, an ability to work under pressure. And an aptitude for teamwork. You had to be the sort of person who got on well with your colleagues.

Was that the problem here? Turner hadn’t exactly been the life and soul of the party, by all the accounts. He didn’t chat to his colleagues much, and none of them knew anything about his life outside the office. He didn’t go to the pub after work, or socialise in the evenings. He was everyone’s target during the team building weekend. That wasn’t a picture of Mr Popular. That was the geeky guy who didn’t fit in and was laughed at behind his back. Turner really must have been good at his job to survive in that sort of environment, where it was obvious every day that he wasn’t considered part of the team.

Of course, none of that was in the copy of his personnel file she’d been given. There must have been a regular appraisal or performance review. Didn’t everybody do staff appraisals these days? Turner would have gone through one every twelve months probably. That would have been the task of Nathan Baird, or whoever had been his line manager before that. Appraisal reports were where this sort of issue would come up. Working as part of a team? Room for improvement there, Glen. I’ll have to rate you an E. Let’s set some personal targets, shall we? Any concerns on your part? Bullying? Surely not. But appraisals were confidential, and they’d been removed from his personnel file before it was copied.

She turned another sheet, and discovered that Glen Turner had earned twenty-six thousand pounds a year. Less than a detective sergeant’s pay. So all his hard-earned qualifications and his twelve years’ experience in the insurance industry hadn’t got him very far up the ladder.

There must be individuals in his company pulling in a much higher salary than that – even in Edendale, which wasn’t known for its high pay levels. If she had to take a stab, she’d guess that the Chief Executive of Prospectus Assurance was getting a better remuneration package than Derbyshire’s Chief Constable, who was said to be paid around £140,000. There would be perks too. A company car, private health insurance, a final salary pension scheme. And bonuses? Ralph Edge had mentioned that bonuses were no longer paid to the staff. But did that apply to senior executives?

In Fry’s experience, there was a different rule for the bosses. The individuals with the highest salaries and the best benefits also got the biggest bonuses. That was always the way, wasn’t it? She couldn’t imagine a more effective recipe for creating resentment.

‘Where’s Becky Hurst?’ she said, without looking up.

‘I’m here, boss,’ said Hurst.

‘Check out this paintballing centre. Luke will give you the name.’

‘The Eden Valley Adventure Centre,’ said Irvine.

Hurst didn’t look happy at the assignment, but she repeated the name.

‘Yes, I know it,’ she said.

‘Find out what they remember about the team building weekend for Prospectus Assurance. And in particular the injuries sustained by Glen Turner.’

‘Okay, no problem.’

Fry unclipped a photograph of Turner. It confirmed what she’d already observed at the crime scene, before his body was removed. He was a stone or two overweight. He’d been carrying a layer of fat over most of his torso, marking him as flabby and unfit. Too much of Mum’s cooking, she supposed. Mrs Turner had probably stuffed her son with home-made cakes and cooked him pie and chips on a regular basis. Anything to keep him content, and less likely to strike out on his own, to hanker after living independently, when he might have to cater for himself.

All at once, she felt a pang of sympathy for Ingrid Turner. The loss of her son might have taken away her main purpose for living. Suddenly she would have no routine to follow, no structure to her day, no requirement to see him off to work in the morning and watch for him to return in the evening to a meal ready and waiting for him in the oven. There must be a huge hole in her life – a void that no amount of WI meetings would be able to fill.

Fry put the photo back and closed the file. She might be reading the situation wrongly, of course. It was possible she was misjudging these people, making false assumptions based on her first impressions. At this stage, she would value a different opinion, a sceptical voice to question her judgement.