Blood on the Tongue (Ben Cooper & Diane Fry) (33 page)

*    *    *    *

Cooper picked up the message form he'd put aside. Urgent or important? Neither, of course. Yet, of all of them, this was the call he most wanted to make. He put it into his pocket, pulled on his coat and carried his cap as he followed Fry to the car park.

He found the cold air outside refreshing. To get to his car, he had to cross a treacherous rink of compacted ice where dozens of police vehicles had spun their wheels on their way in and out of the compound. Someone would have to clear the ice soon, or there would be members of the public falling and breaking their legs, and the county court would be full of negligence cases against the police. That would play hell with the budgets, all right.

Cooper supposed he ought to make an effort not to get himself into trouble with Diane Fry. Not only was she his supervisor, but she already had a hold over him, a suspicion that had never been mentioned between them, only ever hinted at, so that it might only have been his own delusion that she knew his secret. But one thing was sure. One more wrong move could blight his career. He could end up one of those embittered old warhorses who'd given up hopes of promotion or recognition. He could end up like Gavin Murfin, who no longer cared whether everyone thought he was a joke.

But there was something about the way Fry approached it that rankled. Every time she gave him the benefit of her advice, it made him want to do entirely the opposite. It was exactly what he heard married men say about their nagging wives.

Cooper looked again at the message form he'd put in his pocket. Miss Alison Morrissey had called to speak to him and would like him to phone her back. It was an Edendale number, so he guessed she was still staying at the Cavendish Hotel. He hadn't yet decided whether he was going to talk to her. He wanted to be sure of his ground before he had the confidence to face her.

But Alison Morrissey needed his help. Fry didn't need him at all – in fact, she would be better off without him, because she could get on and organize everybody the way she wanted them. The contrast between the two women couldn't be clearer.

*    *    *    *

The Snowman looked as though his eyes might open at any moment. The colour of his skin reminded Cooper of the real snowman that someone had built in the churchyard at All Saints. It was close to the road, and over the last few days the fumes from passing traffic had turned it grey and unhealthy.

He looked at Peter and Grace Lukasz. They'd already seemed upset when they arrived at the hospital mortuary.

'Are you sure you're all right?' he said. 'We can do this tomorrow morning, if you prefer.'

'No, it's all right,' said Lukasz.

The mortuary assistant drew back the plastic sheet fully from the face of the corpse. Cooper watched the couple carefully. Lukasz actually seemed to become calmer when he saw the face. But his wife was riveted by the sight. She edged her wheelchair a little nearer to study the details of the Snowman's hair and skin.

'Well, it certainly isn't our son,' said Lukasz. 'I've never seen this man before in my life.'

'Mrs Lukasz?' said Cooper.

'Of course it isn't Andrew.'

'But have you seen him before? Do you think this is the man who called at your home on Monday?'

'It's difficult to tell,' she said. 'Seeing him like this … and, well, I met him for only a moment or two. But I think it could be him.'

 'Have you thought of anything else that might help us to identify him? Any little detail at all?'

'I don't think so.'

'Thank you.' Cooper nodded at the attendant and watched him cover the Snowman's face. The Snowman had been travelling, and he seemed to be unknown locally or in neighbouring areas. He wondered whether Gavin Murfin had contacted Europol yet.

'Mrs Lukasz, did you happen to notice whether this man had an accent at all?'

Grace Lukasz rubbed her hands on the wheels of her chair and looked up at her husband. 'He didn't say much, so I couldn't tell.'

'What did he say exactly?'

'He asked if Mr Lukasz was at home. That was all.' She turned away, and they began to head for the exit.

'But which Mr Lukasz did he want?' said Cooper.

Grace stopped. Her back was towards him, her shoulders tense. Her husband stepped behind her to push the wheelchair. 'I don't know,' she said. 'But Peter wasn't home, and I couldn't let him bother Zygmunt.'

Cooper frowned at their backs, irritated by their apparent lack of imagination, their readiness to ignore the possibilities.

'It didn't occur to you that he might be looking for
Andrew
Lukasz?' he said.

'But Andrew had already gone,' said Peter.

'Exactly.'

*    *    *    *

On her way home to her flat in Grosvenor Avenue, Fry called at the shop on the corner of Castleton Road. It was run by a Pakistani family, who were unfailingly polite to her, whatever mood she was in. Some days she left the shop feeling guilty that she'd failed to respond to their kindness. But those were the days when Edendale was the last place she wanted to be, anyway.

Fry had bought a bottle of milk and a frozen pepperoni pizza. Near the counter, she picked up some newspapers, in case there was nothing on TV tonight that she could bear to watch. She'd lived alone for a long time, but she was hardened to it. She was able to hold back the tide of loneliness quite easily now, as long as there were no people around. The difficult times were when she heard the students who lived in the other flats laughing and calling to each other, coming back from the pub with their friends and playing music as they sat around putting the world right. That was when she needed all her strength. It was clear to her that Ben Cooper would not be able to cope with living alone. He had no idea what it was like.

When she reached the flat, Fry glanced at the local papers while she heated up the pizza and boiled the kettle. The first thing she realized was that the Canadian woman, Alison Morrissey, had been to the newspapers. In fact, she must have contacted them in advance of her arrival with information on the purpose of her visit.

The
Eden Valley Times
had done a full-page feature on her. So had the
Buxton Advertiser
. There had been items in the city papers, too, the
Sheffield Star
and the
Manchester Evening News
. Each of them carried pictures of the woman herself. Fry recognized her immediately as the woman she'd seen talking to Ben Cooper at Underbank.

20

Cooper awoke on Saturday morning thinking of Marie Tennent. He'd been dreaming that his limbs had frozen together, that frostbite had eaten through the membranes of his ears and nose, and that his eyes would never open again. But finally they did open, and he saw his bedroom. It was the same bedroom he'd slept in nearly all his life.

He pulled back a corner of the curtain at his window. The room looked out on to the yard at the back of the farmhouse, and above it a steep hill that was covered in dark conifers until the top hundred feet, where the moors burst through. In his childhood, he'd peopled those wooded slopes with all sorts of imaginary beasts and adventures. He'd followed his brother Matt into many scrapes that had been terrifying and exciting in equal measures. The memory gave him only a small pang of regret at the thought of leaving it behind.

Though the yard was pitch-dark, Cooper could see there would be no more snow this morning. The black sky was full of stars that were piercingly bright. There would be ice lying on the moors, just as there was on the night Marie Tennent died. For a moment, he tried to put himself inside Marie's mind, struggling to grasp the compulsion that had driven her up to the top of Irontongue Hill in the worst possible weather. Had it really been a need to cover the bones of a long-dead baby, wrapping it against the cold that it would never feel?

Cooper shook his head. He knew it was one of those things he would never be able to understand, even if Marie had been here now to explain it to him in her own words. There was too much emotion in it, and too little logic.

On Monday, Marie Tennent would not be his first priority, though a copy of her file still sat on his desk. How much time was he likely to get to spend on her? Maybe he would have to shelve her altogether, until there was more time, or her baby was found, or the pathologist got round to a postmortem examination. He added Marie to a long list of frustrations, cases where he was powerless to help. On Monday morning, the Snowman would again be the main priority, because postmortem results had identified him as a murder victim. He was urgent and important.

Today, though, it was Saturday, and Cooper was off duty. Today it was time for him to leave Bridge End Farm. It didn't take him long to pack his possessions.

'I've got the pick-up ready,' said his brother Matt over breakfast. 'I'll give you a hand to load up.'

'There isn't all that much to take,' said Cooper. 'The flat's furnished, so I don't need much furniture. And it's surprising how little stuff I've collected over the years, when I look.'

'What about your guns?'

'I'll have to leave them behind. They'll have to stay in the cabinet here. I've got nowhere to keep them.'

'It'll be the competition again soon, Ben. You should be practising.'

'I know.'

Matt sat and looked at him helplessly. Neither of them knew what to say. Matt got up from the table so that he wouldn't have to struggle to find the words.

'Give me a shout then, when you're ready.'

All Cooper needed were his clothes, his computer and stereo, a few books, CDs and pictures. He felt like a student setting off for his first term at university, his anxious parents insisting on ferrying him to his halls of residence to settle him in. There were some things he could leave behind at Bridge End Farm. So it would still, in a way, be his home.

The first picture he took down was the one that hung on the wall opposite the foot of his bed. He realized he hadn't looked at the picture for a while. But then, he didn't need to – he knew every detail of it. He was familiar with every face on each of the rows, even with the patterns and texture of the wall behind them and the concrete yard beneath their boots. Without looking, he could have described the way each one held his arms, which of them was smiling, who looked suspicious of the photographer, and who hadn't fastened his tie properly that morning. He knew exactly the feel of the mahogany frame in his hands, the smoothness of the edges, the slight ridge in the wood near one corner that his finger always found, like a necessary flaw. He remembered the slight scratch in the glass that was almost hidden by the shadow of the chair one of the officers sat in on the front row. If you turned the picture towards the light, the scratch became obvious. He couldn't remember how it had happened. Somehow, it had always been there.

He put the photograph in the box first, wrapping it up carefully in tissue paper, then several layers of newspaper. Several less important prints went in after it. Perhaps the photograph would have been better protected if it had been on top. But it felt right for it to be at the bottom, deep in the accumulated objects of his life. It would have to take pride of place in the sitting room of his new flat, though. It would give a sort of tacit approval to the place. Cooper already had in mind the exact spot where it would go.

*    *    *    *

Soon after he and Matt arrived at Welbeck Street, the flat became a whirlwind of activity. His sister-in-law Kate drove down with the girls to have a look, and the three of them insisted on hunting for cleaning equipment and wiping down all the surfaces in the kitchen and bathroom until they shone. Matt stood in the conservatory and looked at the tiny overgrown garden and the backs of the houses that overlooked it. Then he walked through to the sitting room and looked out of the front window at the street. A row of cars stood directly in front of the houses opposite, and melting snow dripped slowly from the roofs.

'Rather you than me, Ben,' he said, after a while.

Cooper knew what his brother meant. Although Welbeck Street was only a few miles from Bridge End, there was a world of difference. But he believed he could adapt to it. It was Matt who would have the most trouble adjusting to a different life, if it ever came to selling the farm.

He'd discovered that his new landlady had a Jack Russell terrier called Jasper. He could hear it now, yapping in the backyard next door.

A little later, Mrs Shelley herself came in from next door to see how he was getting on. Lawrence Daley was with her, and he was wearing his bow tie. He went round and shook hands with everybody, including Josie and Amy, which made them giggle hysterically for more than half an hour afterwards. Mrs Shelley watched Kate cleaning the kitchen, nodding approvingly.

Then Cooper's sister Claire appeared briefly. She always complained of being too busy for anything. But she'd managed to spare him a few minutes, to help him settle in, she said. She brought him a card and a bottle of white wine, then vanished again in a perfumed breeze, off back to her craft shop in Bold Lane. In the conservatory, the girls were cooing over the cat, who was enjoying the attention immensely. His purrs were vibrating the windows.