Already Dead(72)

Whether that was true or not Fry wasn’t sure. Cooper had tried to explain lots of things to her during the years she’d been in Edendale, and she was still convinced that he’d made some of them up. They sounded too bizarre, even for Derbyshire.

But it was true that the solicitors’ offices were all in old buildings and prominently located, probably some of the most valuable properties in the town.

The premises of Richmond Jones looked as if it might once have been the home of a wealthy merchant. Through an archway like the entrance to a coaching inn she glimpsed half a dozen expensive cars parked in a cobbled yard. The signs outside were discreet, and the front door was a heavy affair, with a bell that rang when she opened it to step inside.

Kenneth Chadburn was expecting her. He was exactly what she would have expected for a provincial solicitor. Middle aged, grey haired, wearing glasses and a faded pinstriped suit that was getting a little too tight for him. When she walked into his office, he seemed to be sweating. But that might have been because of the enormous radiator on the wall behind his desk. It was an ancient iron affair that would have been more suited to a hospital ward or a cavernous classroom in a Victorian school. She could feel the heat it was throwing out the moment she stepped through the door.

‘Yes, yes. Ah, yes.’

Chadburn was nodding agreement before Fry had even asked him a question. He shuffled through a set of files on his desk until he found the right one. It was fastened with a strip of ribbon, an archaic touch that contrasted sharply with the computer monitor displaying a familiar landscape screensaver.

For a moment, Fry wondered why lawyers insisted on retaining these ancient trappings and traditions when they had so much modern technology at their disposal. But then she remembered she was a police officer. Some of her colleagues flew in helicopters full of high tech equipment but others still wore headgear designed in the 1860s and modelled on Prussian army helmets. Solicitors weren’t alone in clinging to tradition.

‘Mr Turner. Yes, that’s very sad.’ Chadburn looked up at her over his glasses. ‘Do we know what happened?’

‘No, I’m sorry,’ said Fry.

‘Yes, of course. Confidential information.’

‘No, sir. We just don’t know what happened.’

‘Ah, well. Criminal law isn’t my area, I’m afraid.’

‘I thought I hadn’t seen you in court, sir. But I’m familiar with some of your colleagues.’

Chadburn cleared his throat and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

‘Of course, confidentiality is our watchword here. And normally I wouldn’t be able to share any information with you about our client’s affairs. I’m sure you understand that, Detective Sergeant.’

‘But since he’s dead…?’

‘Yes, that does make a difference. And naturally we want to be of help to the police in discovering who perpetrated the crime. I, er … take it Mr Turner’s death was the result of a crime?’

‘We’re treating it as a murder inquiry,’ said Fry.

‘That’s what I understood. So how can I help?’

‘Well, we’ve been told that Glen Turner was planning to sue the Eden Valley Adventure Centre for injuries he sustained during a recent paintballing session.’

‘I thought that might be it. Well, it’s true – in a way.’

‘He did suffer injuries,’ said Fry. ‘They were visible on his body.’

‘Yes, of course. And, in fact, we have some photographs.’

‘Really? May I see them?’

Chadburn passed her a series of fairly low quality pictures, which looked as though they’d been printed on a standard laser printer. They showed Glen Turner with his shirt removed, from the front and from behind, the lesions on his torso clearly visible as painful looking red blotches, though the accuracy of the colour on the printouts was doubtful.

Fry recognised the background in the photographs. The red striped curtains, the computer work station with two monitors. They had been taken in Glen Turner’s bedroom at the cottage on St John’s Street.

‘Who took these?’ asked Fry.

‘I believe it was my client’s mother,’ said Chadburn.

Fry put the photos down. As evidence, they were dubious. Any one of Kenneth Chadburn’s colleagues on the criminal side of the practice could have demolished their validity in court in a few minutes. It was impossible to tell whether the marks on his body were genuine bruises or had been created using make-up. And they were taken in his bedroom by his mum?

‘Of course, they were relatively minor injuries,’ said Chadburn. ‘Soft tissue damage, causing considerable pain but with complete recovery expected within twelve months. Normally, we’d be looking for a level of compensation at around three or four thousand pounds. That would be in the case of a car accident, say, or if you slip on a spillage and suffer a fall in a supermarket. We deal with a lot of those.’