‘Lathkill Dale,’ repeated Cooper.
‘Yes, they walked there often. It’s right on the doorstep, you know. They also liked to visit a cafe in Monyash, I think.’
‘The Old Smithy, is it?’
‘Something like that.’
Cooper stood by the window, and had to bend to peer through it into the street. These old cottages were made for smaller people, he supposed.
‘What do you do for a living, sir?’ he asked.
‘I’m an accountant by profession,’ said Slaney. ‘I worked for a partnership in Chesterfield for many years, specialising in financial accountancy. But I’m a consultant now. It means I can take on as much work as suits me. Or as little.’
Murfin had reached the bookshelves and was running a finger along the spines. Cooper noticed that one shelf was full of Sherlock Holmes stories. The Hound of the Baskervilles, A Study in Scarlet, and several volumes of short stories. There were even some modern interpretations of the great detective. The House of Silk, The Servants of Hell. The collection was impressive.
‘You’re a big Holmes fan, I see.’
‘He’s an eternal character,’ said Slaney. ‘So rational. So astute. If he was alive now, Conan Doyle would be very proud of the way he’s endured.’
‘Didn’t Conan Doyle get fed up with his character and try to kill him off in that fight at the Reichenbach Falls? It was his readers who wouldn’t accept Holmes was dead.’
‘Yes, they believed in him too strongly to accept his death.’
‘Exactly.’
Slaney studied him. ‘I can see what you’re driving at,’ he said. ‘I’m not an idiot.’
‘And?’
‘And? Well, I’m still sure it was Annette I saw.’
Cooper nodded. ‘Thank you, sir. That’s what I wanted to know.’
‘You should be following other lines of inquiry, Detective Inspector,’ said Slaney. ‘It’s Reece’s disappearance you ought to be investigating.’
‘Oh, we are,’ said Cooper. ‘We are.’
Slaney didn’t looked convinced. He led his visitors to the door.
Outside, it still felt dark and full of shadows, as if the whole world was lit by dim antique lamps that threw shapes against the walls that weren’t really there at all. Cooper found himself wishing for some sun, if only a little of it.
‘Actually, we don’t have Sherlock Holmes any more, do we?’ said Slaney as Cooper and Murfin stepped over his threshold. ‘All we’ve got left are the bumbling Lestrades.’
As he left Bakewell, Cooper tried to analyse why he felt so sure that Evan Slaney was lying.
There were certain signs to look for, of course. In interviews he’d heard them so many times. Repetition, as if a lie had to be spoken several times before it was believed. Lack of vehemence, lack of detail, inconsistency. None of those had been discernible in Mr Slaney.
But there had definitely been a lack of eye contact. Generally, if someone was lying they would not look you in the eye. In normal conversation people made eye contact for at least half of the time, so anything less prompted suspicion. Cooper had become so used to it now that he usually left an interview knowing instinctively whether it had verged on the negative side.
And that was definitely his impression on leaving Mr Slaney. It was more than just the difficulty of seeing his eyes in the gloom of his sitting room. Slaney had been looking elsewhere most of the time. He’d been gazing at the lamps, at the floor, at the window — anything but meeting Cooper’s eye.
There could be all kinds of reasons why people told lies. Sometimes they just wanted to present themselves in a better light and that was all. Some felt a need to be seen as braver, cleverer, or more successful than they really were. And the further they strayed from the truth, the more they had to lie. So dishonesty became a part of their day-to-day routine, a central theme in the narrative of their lives. Cooper had met people who hardly seemed to be aware they were lying. For them, deception took less effort than telling the truth.
There didn’t seem any point mentioning it to Gavin Murfin. Instead, Cooper called West Street and discussed his feelings with Carol Villiers. He knew Carol would understand what he meant.
First she had some information for him. Lacey Bower’s address in Sheffield.
‘No luck with Reece’s address book, though,’ she said. ‘We’ve spoken to a few of his golfing friends, but we’re drawing a blank so far.’
‘Thanks anyway.’
‘And I certainly can’t find anyone with a phone number in the Bridlington area.’
‘Well, that was a very long shot,’ laughed Cooper, remembering the holiday photographs in Reece Bower’s house.
‘Mrs Heath seemed quite happy for us to pursue the idea. She didn’t discourage us from thinking of friends he might go to.’
‘It’s still a possibility, to be honest,’ said Cooper. ‘But wherever Reece Bower is, I don’t think it will be Bridlington.’
‘So what do you think the chances are that Annette Bower is actually still alive?’ asked Villiers. ‘Could Mr Slaney be right?’
‘If Annette just decided to disappear, she wouldn’t stay around here, would she?’
‘The supposed sighting of her was in Buxton though.’
‘But nothing since,’ said Cooper.
‘No, that’s true.’ Villiers paused. ‘You said “supposed sighting”. I take it you have doubts about its authenticity.’
‘There’s always room for doubt, Carol.’
‘You don’t find Evan Slaney a reliable and truthful witness?’
‘I don’t know about truthful,’ said Cooper. ‘He may think he’s telling the truth, but that doesn’t necessarily make him reliable.’
He turned the Toyota on to the Sheffield road at Baslow and headed north towards Owler Bar.
‘It’s odd, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘What is?’ asked Villiers.
‘That Annette Bower’s body has never been found after all these years. It’s the wrong way round, in my experience.’
‘I’m not sure what you’re saying, Ben.’
‘I’ve always thought the worst thing to have was an unidentified body. You know what I mean — so many bodies remain unidentified for years, sometimes for ever. The world is full of people who will never be missed by anyone.’
‘Sadly, yes.’
‘But Annette is missed,’ said Cooper. ‘Missed, but never found.’
20
Lacey Bower’s flat was in a high-rise block of student accommodation on the edge of Sheffield city centre.
Cooper checked the details of the address Carol Villiers had given him.
‘The flat is on the seventh floor.’
‘Great, that’s my lucky number,’ said Murfin.
‘And it looks as though the lift isn’t working.’
‘Oh, shit.’
Cooper had to stop a couple of times on the way up the stairs to let Murfin catch up and rest for a minute.
‘Nearly there, Gavin,’ he said on the fourth floor.
‘I can count, you know,’ said Murfin, eyeing the number on the landing with a sour expression.
‘You don’t have to go through the fitness tests any more, now you’re a civilian, do you?’
‘Damn right. Even when I did, I used to cheat anyway.’
‘Cheat?’
‘I used to lie about me age. I told them I was seventy-six.’
Cooper laughed. ‘Come on, only a few more flights.’
There was loud music coming from behind the door of Lacey Bower’s flat. Something Cooper didn’t recognise and wouldn’t understand if he could hear it properly. But he didn’t expect to recognise much that eighteen-year-olds listened to. His nieces were well into their teens and they mentioned names that were a mystery to him. There was nothing better designed to make him feel old.