Already Dead(80)

‘There was a particular inquiry I was remembering,’ said Cooper. ‘You were a big help at the time.’

Walker laughed. ‘Yes, I recall. You were wet behind the ears in CID then. You needed a bloke with experience like me.’

‘You’re right, I did. Do you remember…?’

‘Hicklin,’ said Walker promptly. ‘Poor old bugger. Chaps like him always come off worst when they encounter the Gibsons of this world.’

‘When you knew him, Ryan Gibson had a straight job though, didn’t he?’ asked Cooper.

‘Yes, both Gibson and Roger Hicklin were working in the stores yard for one of the quarry companies. Gibson drove a forklift truck, as I recall.’

‘What was the name of those employers?’

‘Wait a bit,’ said Walker. ‘It’ll come to me in a minute.’

Cooper waited patiently. He knew the information he wanted would be there, filed safely away. It was just the retrieval system that had become a bit slow.

‘Now, it’s funny,’ said Walker, ‘but I heard that Ryan had gone back working for that same company when he got out last time. You’ve got to hand it to employers who have loyalty to staff like that. You wouldn’t get some folk round here giving you a job if you had a record.’

‘Maybe he was just very good with a forklift truck,’ said Cooper.

‘Yes, that was it,’ said Walker. ‘I knew it would come back to me. They’re called A.J. Morton and Sons.’

When Cooper left Stanley Walker, he called Carol Villiers on her mobile. From the background din, it sounded as though she must be in a pub. He wondered who she was with, for a moment picturing a strapping ex-squaddy with a desert suntan and tattoos. But it was none of his business, was it?

‘Ben, what is it?’ she said. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes, I’m … I’m all right.’

The noise was reduced suddenly, as if she’d stepped out of the bar and closed a door behind her. Somehow, that made Cooper feel better. It suggested that she was giving him her undivided attention, no matter what else was going on.

‘Carol, I need to see the crime scene,’ he said.

‘The crime scene?’

‘The area of Sparrow Wood where Glen Turner’s body was found.’

‘Oh, that crime scene.’

‘Could you take me there this weekend?’

‘Ben, I can’t just do that. I mean, what would Diane Fry say?’

‘Make it Sunday,’ said Cooper. ‘She won’t be around then. There’ll just be a scene guard, maybe some forensics staff at most.’

‘No, I can’t.’

‘You’re the only one I can rely on, Carol,’ he said.

She was silent for a moment. He heard laughter, a few bars of music, the faint chink of glasses. At one time, he would have longed to be there himself in the bar, chatting and drinking with a crowd of friends. Right now, the thought made him nervous. The idea of that sea of curious faces staring at him was intolerable. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He felt the tremor beginning in his hands, the irritation burning at the back of his throat. In another second, he would have to put the phone down and forget the whole thing.

‘You’ll get me in real bother, you know,’ said Villiers.

‘It’ll be worth it,’ he said.

He heard her sigh. ‘It had better be, Ben. It had better be.’

That night, Ben Cooper sat above Josh Lane’s home at Derwent Park. He was watching the colour of the stone in the quarry change from grey to black as clouds covered the stars. It was as if someone had turned the lights off in the Peak District, plunging the valley into darkness. The air felt chilly. And he could see from the sky in the west that another deluge was on its way.

Cooper settled down under a hawthorn tree to watch. A few cars arrived, people greeted each other, but no one came near Josh Lane. Music played somewhere, a woman laughed, a phone rang. But Lane’s curtains remained drawn, and his door closed.

As midnight approached, it began to rain again. Cooper unfolded his waxed coat, pulled it on and drew up the hood, letting the raindrops drum on the fabric. A sheep approached the tree, stared at him with wild eyes, then moved on to the next shelter, bleating its annoyance.

Sitting here, the feeling of freedom was invigorating. Tomorrow, Diane Fry would be up to her neck in prioritisation and resource allocation. But he would still be free. It was only when he went to sleep that reality came crashing into his head, the reek of smoke and the scorch of flames, the images of a roaring inferno.

His nightmares did change sometimes. There were nights when he dreamed he was choking on a tube, unable to breathe normally because of the plastic cylinder thrust down his throat. He would wake up thrashing in his bed, wanting to pull the tube out to get air into his painful, burning lungs.