They’d decided to try the theatre menu at the Old Hall Hotel. Chloe had been tempted by the salmon terrine and the pan-fried sea bass with crushed new potatoes, samphire and lemon butter sauce. Cooper chose tian of crab and apple salad, followed by fillet of pork with black pudding mashed potato, creamed cabbage, and whole grain mustard sauce.
According to the plaque on the wall outside, Mary Queen of Scots had stayed here between 1576 and 1578. Well, not exactly in this building, since the present hotel was built in 1670. It was likely that a lot of other events had happened here in the last three hundred and fifty years. Cooper was pretty sure he’d been to a wedding reception at the Old Hall some years ago. So it had played a part in his own life, in a way.
He looked across the table at Chloe Young. She was eyeing him speculatively over a forkful of sea bass.
‘I suppose I seemed to have behaved a bit oddly in the opera house,’ he said.
‘I’m not sure. Isn’t that the way you normally behave?’
‘Only when I’ve got a bit too involved in an inquiry.’
‘And how often is that?’
He laughed. ‘Quite often, to be honest.’
‘I thought that might be the case.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, don’t apologise. I like it. It means you’re dedicated. Passionate about your job. That’s a good thing, in my book.’
‘And you’re the same?’
‘Yes, I think I am,’ said Young. ‘Though I try not to embarrass myself in public too often.’
Cooper laughed. ‘You didn’t get the murder victim from Shirebrook, did you?’
‘Not in my mortuary. It’s in a different area. But I heard about it. Sad case.’
‘Mmm.’
He was conscious of Young watching him closely as he ate. Her eyes were keen. She didn’t miss very much, he was sure.
‘Is something else bothering you, Ben?’ she said.
‘Oh, just that it’s Friday tomorrow.’
‘The start of the weekend? People usually look happier about that.’
‘No, sorry. I mean — it’s my sister-in-law, my brother’s wife Kate. She has an appointment at the hospital.’
‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
‘It could be.’
‘I see. Well, she’ll be in good hands.’
‘I hope so.’
‘You care about her, don’t you?’
Cooper was taken aback.
‘I care about them all — Matt, Kate, their two girls Amy and Josie. They’re my family.’
‘There’s no need to feel embarrassed about that. I like it.’
There was more meaning in her gaze than he dared to acknowledge. Cooper felt a sudden rush of emotion, a feeling that he would like to spend the rest of his life with this woman. But it was too soon. He had to take it more slowly.
He toyed with his mashed potato, seeking a way to change the subject. He let a few moments pass, hoping it would feel more natural.
‘So how are you liking being back working in Derbyshire?’ he asked.
‘I love it,’ she said. ‘It’s like coming home.’
He felt himself relax. ‘I’m glad you feel that way.’
‘I’m starting to think that I’d like to live further out this way rather than in the suburbs of Sheffield. Totley is nice, and it’s close to the Peak District of course. But it isn’t quite the same.’
‘No. I can’t imagine ever living in a city now.’
Young studied him as he ate his pork.
‘You know I have a brother?’ she said.
‘Yes, you’ve mentioned him. Martin?’
‘That’s right. He works near here, at the Nestlé bottling plant.’
‘Oh, the one at Waterswallows, where Buxton Mineral Water is bottled?’
She nodded. ‘They claim that the whole process from rainfall to bottle takes five thousand years. The water fell on Derbyshire at the end of the last Ice Age, slowly filtered down through about a mile of limestone, then was naturally pumped up again.’
‘Is that true?’
‘Martin thinks it is.’
‘Five thousand years,’ said Cooper. ‘I thought the last Ice Age was longer ago than that.’
‘Me too. Though actually the scientists say we’re still in an Ice Age now.’
‘It feels like it sometimes.’
‘Well, that’s the way I think of Derbyshire,’ said Young. ‘A long, slow process of absorption, until you think what you’re looking for has long since vanished. Then up it comes again, out of the landscape.’
‘Ah, like my missing body. It might just pop up again, after ten years.’
She smiled. ‘You never know.’
‘It would be nice. But I’m not depending on help from the Peak District landscape. It doesn’t always yield up what it’s absorbed.’
They ordered dessert. Warm chocolate and vanilla ice cream, glazed lemon tart, coffee and chocolate truffles.
‘Nestlé relocated the Buxton Spring Water bottling plant a few years ago,’ he said. ‘It was right here in the centre of Buxton before that, on Station Road. It had been there for a hundred years or so.’
‘Yes, that’s right. The new factory is on the edge of the national park, so Martin says they clad it in recycled stone and gave it a wavy roof to fit in with the setting.’
‘But the water comes from right here, at St Ann’s Well,’ said Cooper. ‘Didn’t they have to build a pipeline from the old site to supply the new plant?’
‘Yes, more than two miles of it.’
Cooper paused over his coffee, imagining water flowing two miles underground below Buxton. Then he pictured the water being pumped out of the flooded mine workings in Lathkill Dale. Miles of underground tunnels and soughs. Would they yield up what they had taken? Would they even give him a clue exactly where to look?
He realised that Young was still gazing at him. In fact, she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off him.
‘I think you need to relax more,’ she said with a lift of an eyebrow.
‘How do you suggest I do that?’
‘I’m sure we could think of a few ways.’
Cooper felt a warm glow that had nothing to do with the heat from his coffee.
‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘Your eyes look lovely when you smile.’
29
Day 5
Evan Slaney sat uncomfortably in Interview Room One at West Street. In the harsh lights, without the shadows of his lamps, Slaney looked pale and vulnerable.
Sitting across the table from him, Ben Cooper produced two photographs from the evidence log.
‘Do you recognise this, sir?’ he said, sliding the first one across.
Slaney barely glanced at it. ‘Well, I can say with confidence it’s a mobile phone.’
‘Yes, it’s an Apple iPhone 7.’
‘Who does it belong to?’
‘It belonged to Reece Bower,’ said Cooper. ‘As does this wallet.’
Now Slaney leaned across the table, touching the edges of the photograph with his large right hand.
‘Those marks. Is that... blood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Cooper. ‘That’s blood. In fact, it’s Mr Bower’s blood.’
He withdrew his hand quickly with a frown of distaste.
‘That’s horrible.’
‘You might be interested to know that we’ve checked all the calls and messages on Mr Bower’s phone. Do you know who his last message was sent to?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘To you, Mr Slaney.’
Slaney sat back in his chair. ‘To me? His last message was to me?’
‘It seems so. He texted you asking you to visit his house on Sunday morning.’
‘Yes, I remember,’ said Slaney. ‘I was rather taken aback. We hadn’t spoken for a long time.’
‘He doesn’t say in the text what he wanted to see you about.’