Already Dead(67)

‘It probably isn’t. But we have to look at everything if we’re going to find out who caused your son’s death.’

‘I don’t know how it helps.’

‘Nor do I, Mrs Turner,’ admitted Fry. ‘Nor do I.’





22





The western part of Wirksworth was where the old lead miners and quarrymen used to live, a jumble of small cottages built mostly of random stone from the nearby quarries. In the area between the abandoned Dale and Middle Peak quarries, the cottages were linked by a maze of alleys and ginnels. There was no room for vehicle access, and the numbering of the houses seemed haphazard. It must be a nightmare for a new postman.

Ben Cooper knew a bit about this town, thanks to Liz. When they were property hunting, they’d come here to look at a Grade II listed cottage on St John’s Street. It had gas central heating and a wonderful vaulted cellar that he could think of all kinds of uses for. As they passed through the town now, he saw from the estate agent’s sign that the cottage was still for sale.

Liz had liked the idea of living right in the centre of Wirksworth. She’d loved the range of shops and businesses on St John’s Street. There was an old-fashioned chemist and druggist with bow-fronted windows and a double entrance door. Founded in 1756, according to the sign over the doorway. A veterinary surgery, a couple of antiques shops. The Blacks Head pub, tucked away in a corner near the market. There were glimpses of the surrounding hills from every street and alley in the town.

After viewing the cottage, they’d stopped for lunch at a little bistro, Le Mistral. They’d eaten vegetarian soup, salmon fishcakes, Provençale vegetable and goat’s cheese salad, an olive and houmous platter. Every dish was imprinted on his memory. He could taste the fishcakes now.

Cooper wondered why he’d starting thinking so much about food. Perhaps it was because he couldn’t remember anything he’d eaten during the last couple of months. Had he lost weight, he wondered? Perhaps he could ask Villiers. Or would it make him seem even odder if he revealed that he didn’t know?

He left his Toyota in the Barmote Croft car park, where the ticket machine still wasn’t working, and climbed into Carol Villiers’ VW Golf. It was very tidy inside, no CDs or empty water bottles lying around, as there were in his own car. It even smelled of air freshener. Pine or meadow flowers, something of that kind.

‘You’re strictly not here,’ said Villiers. ‘If anyone asks.’

‘Of course. I’m just a member of the public getting a ride-along.’

‘I don’t know whether we’re insured for that. Did you sign a disclaimer?’

‘As long as you don’t crash, we’ll be fine.’

Villiers drove out of the car park on to Coldwell Street. ‘I’ll do my best.’

Even on a wet Friday, the centre of Wirksworth was busy. Liz had discovered the story of this little town from a few minutes at the heritage centre in Crown Yard. History said that it was Henry VIII who’d granted a charter to hold a miners’ court in the town, the Bar Moot. The present court building still contained a brass dish for measuring the levy due to the Crown. As recently as the twentieth century, a thief who stole from a lead mine would be punished by having his hand nailed to the winch marking the mineshaft. He then had the option of either ripping the nail through his hand or starving to death. Sessions were still held at the Moot Hall on Chapel Lane. It was the oldest industrial court in the world, with its own terminology, and regulations dating from Saxon times.

As far as Cooper knew, there was no more nailing of thieves’ hands to winches. But you never knew in Derbyshire. Anything was possible.

Ingrid Turner’s cottage on St John’s Street was the first port of call. Cooper loved the house as soon as he saw it. This was exactly the sort of place Liz would have wanted to live. He knew her tastes so well that he could almost see the furniture she would have bought for the sitting room, the colour schemes she would have devised for these walls. He could practically feel the carpet underfoot.

‘Someone else has just been here,’ said Mrs Turner when they went in. ‘The sergeant.’

‘DS Fry?’ said Villiers.

Cooper looked over his shoulder. There had been no sign of Diane Fry or her car when they arrived. That had been a narrow escape.

‘Yes, that’s her.’

‘Well, we’ve got several lines of inquiry we’re following up,’ said Villiers. ‘So there are likely to be more questions yet.’

‘I know. I suppose it’ll never end.’

Cooper turned back to her. ‘Oh, I’m sure it will,’ he said.