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Before that, Murfin had made a reference to Devdan Sharma ‘doing his diversity training’ by transferring to the rural territory of North Division. Was it really just part of the relentless drive to create a service that reflected the diverse population it served? Up here in the High Peak and Derbyshire Dales, ethnic minorities represented only two per cent of the population. Police officers recruited from the Asian community were in such short supply that they were most often deployed in areas where their presence might help community relations, as well improving the public perception of the police.

Carol Villiers couldn’t wait to chip in.

‘Another farmer lost a barn full of hay last night,’ she said.

‘Arson?’ asked Cooper.

‘Of course.’

‘No animals killed this time? No vehicles burnt out?’

‘No,’ said Villiers. ‘But it’s still someone’s livelihood.’

‘Yes, yes. I know.’

Cooper felt momentarily irritated that Villiers should feel it necessary to point that out to him. Was she suggesting that he’d forgotten his own history, abandoned his own background? He’d grown up on a farm, for heaven’s sake. His brother was still in farming. He could hardly escape it, or leave it behind. Yet it seemed as if Villiers thought he was becoming a townie, like Dev Sharma. But surely he wasn’t?

Sharma was definitely a city boy, though. He had no idea what a barn full of hay was worth to the owner, and no idea how easily it could be destroyed in a fire. In a way, it was just like with Diane Fry all over again.

Cooper sighed. The optimism he’d set off with from Foolow this morning seemed to have dissipated pretty quickly.

Cooper fetched himself a cup of anonymous brown liquid from the vending machine, then went into his own office and began to check his emails.

He was becoming far too familiar with the jargon used in the internal memos. He’d even fallen into the trap of using some of the phrases himself when he was writing a report. Re-prioritising resources. Due diligence. Overarching strategy to ensure best practice. They seemed to leap naturally from the keyboard to the screen. He imagined a superintendent or chief inspector at headquarters in Ripley nodding in approval when he read them. The words might not mean much, but they ticked all the boxes, rang all the right bells. So why did he feel so guilty about doing it?

Within a few minutes there was a knock on his office door and Carol Villiers appeared.

‘Carol, come in.’

‘Have you got a few minutes, Ben?’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Sit down.’

There was just enough room for a couple of chairs on the other side of the desk. Cooper had thought about asking for a move to more spacious accommodation, which now lay vacant on another floor. But he was nervous about the answer he might get. Someone was likely to tell him that his next office would be in the storage shed at the back of the yard.

‘Is everything okay?’

‘Yes, fine,’ she said.

Cooper studied her expression, hoping it wasn’t too obvious that he didn’t believe her.

The woman sitting across the desk from him was a different Carol Villiers from the one he remembered when he was growing up. When she returned to Edendale, she was older, leaner and more tanned. And there had been something else different, an air of self-assurance, a firm angle of the jaw. He still sometimes saw her as she was in her military photograph, the uniform with black-and-red flashes, her corporal’s stripes on her sleeve, an MP’s badge. And there was that extra dimension — a shadow in her eyes, a darkness behind the professional façade.

Since he’d moved to Foolow, Cooper now lived only a few fields away from Carol Villiers. Her parents ran a bed and breakfast on Tideswell high street. But had it really brought him any closer to her?

‘You must be wondering when you’ll stand a chance of getting promotion,’ he said, forced to guess at the reason for her visit in the face of her silence.

Villiers shook her head. ‘Not really. It’s not something worth worrying about. It’s probably never going to happen anyway.’

‘Oh, it will. There just isn’t a vacancy right now.’

‘I’m not waiting anxiously to push Dev Sharma out of the way.’

‘Do you like working with him?’

‘Of course,’ said Villiers. ‘He’s fine. He’s a good DS.’

Cooper nodded. ‘You’re loyal. That’s one of your best qualities. I wouldn’t want to change it.’

Villiers looked at him quizzically, but didn’t ask any more.

‘I bet you’re sorry you ever left the RAF Police to come here,’ said Cooper. ‘Derbyshire Constabulary has probably been a disappointment to you.’

Villiers smiled. ‘Not at all. It was the right time for me to get out of the Snowdrops when Glenn was killed. And where else was I going to go?’

Cooper wondered if it had been insensitive to remind Villiers of her husband’s death. They had both been serving with the RAF Police, whose white-topped caps gave them the nickname ‘Snowdrops’, when Glenn Villiers had died in an incident in Helmand Province. But as he watched Carol now, she seemed calm and unperturbed. Her eyes narrowed in the familiar way as she brushed back a strand of hair from her forehead. She still looked the tough, competent ex-servicewoman he’d seen that day at West Street when she joined E Division CID. Derbyshire hadn’t softened her in the meantime. Not too much, anyway.

‘I wanted to tell you about a report DS Sharma didn’t mention,’ said Villiers. ‘He doesn’t think it’s important, but...’

Cooper was intrigued. ‘What is it, Carol?’

‘A misper.’

He frowned. ‘A priority case? A child?’

‘No, an adult male in his early forties.’

‘So why are you bothering me with it? You know we won’t take any action on a missing adult unless they’re vulnerable or there’s a reason to suspect a crime.’

‘Well, true. But you might remember this one.’

‘Someone I know?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Who is it?’

‘A gentleman named Reece Bower. He has an address in Bakewell.’

‘Reece Bower...’

The name was certainly familiar. Cooper felt sure it must be an old case he’d been involved with, but years ago. So many names passed in front of his eyes, written in reports that came across his desk or listed on his computer screen that he couldn’t possibly remember more than a fraction of them. Yet his team seemed to expect him to have an encyclopedic memory stacked with the details of every major case from the past twenty years.

‘Reece Bower,’ said Cooper again, reaching for his keyboard to search the database.

‘There’s no need for that,’ said Villiers. ‘I can tell you the basics. I looked up the case.’

‘Go ahead, then.’

‘Ten years ago Mr Reece Bower was the primary suspect for the death of his wife Annette, and was subsequently charged with her murder.’

Ah, now that rang a bell.

‘I remember,’ said Cooper.

‘I thought you would.’

‘It was a very unusual case.’

Villiers nodded. ‘It certainly was.’

‘But that case is more than a decade old,’ said Cooper. ‘Why are you telling me about it now?’

‘Because this time,’ said Villiers, ‘it’s Mr Bower himself who has disappeared.’

3

Ten years ago

It started with a single drop of blood. There was almost nothing to see — a splash, a spatter, a fading stain on the laminate flooring. When she first saw it, Frances Swann’s initial reaction was to reach for a handful of paper towels from the cupboard. A drop of washing-up liquid in water should do the trick. Or at least, it did on the carpets in her own house. Did it work on laminate?