‘Diane …’ he said.
‘What?’
Fry looked at him suspiciously, already alerted by a change in the tone of his voice. Cooper wished he were a better actor sometimes.
‘I know it’s none of my business,’ he said, and paused while she rolled her eyes in exasperation, though she still didn’t move away. ‘But I heard that Angie is staying with you.’
‘Been gossiping round the coffee machine, have you?’
‘Is it true, Diane?’
‘Like you said, Ben: it’s none of your business.’
‘I was involved, in a way — ’
‘In a way? Too bloody involved, if you ask me.’
‘Yes, I know, I know. But is Angie just visiting or has she moved in? I mean, are you sure you’re doing the right thing, Diane?’
‘Ben, would you like me to break your neck now, or do you want to annoy me for a bit longer?’
Fry began to walk across the garden, her shoulders stiff. Cooper had seen her walk away from him like that too often before. He shook his head, spraying more water and brown specks from his hair. Then he hurried after Fry, falling into step alongside her.
‘Have you seen anything of Rebecca Lowe’s children?’ he said.
‘They came in earlier today for identification of the body,’ said Fry. ‘They already knew Mansell Quinn was coming out of prison, of course. Andrea said she’d tried to get her mother to take extra precautions.’
‘Andrea and … Simon?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Any children from the second marriage?’
‘She was too old by then, Ben.’
‘I meant, did the second husband have any children? Step-children for Mrs Lowe.’
‘No.’
‘A woman living alone, then.’
‘That’s right.’
‘But if Mansell Quinn came looking for revenge,’ said Cooper, ‘why his ex-wife? What did she do?’
‘We don’t know. And there’s another thing we don’t know: who else he might be looking for.’
‘What?’
‘What I mean, Ben, is — who’s next?’
Will Thorpe had taken to watching other people breathe. It was effortless and automatic for most of them. They weren’t even aware they were doing it. He liked to watch their chests gently rise and fall, and imagine the smooth flow of air in and out of their lungs. He stared at their mouths as they talked or ate, trying to recollect a time in his past when it had been possible to talk and breathe at the same time, as these people did. He cocked his head to listen to them, but he couldn’t hear them breathing.
There were some, of course, who gave themselves away. Now and then, he heard a wheeze or a cough, and he’d turn around to find where it had come from. They must know the reality — or if not, they soon would. But others he watched so long that he began to believe they didn’t breathe at all. Maybe they absorbed oxygen through their pores, or drew it in with the sunlight, like trees did through their leaves.
These people didn’t understand what breathing was. It was the most important thing in the world, a privilege that had to be fought for every minute of the day and night. Especially the night.
Thorpe was sitting in a small grassy hollow overlooking the entrance to Cavedale. Below him was a series of worn limestone shelves that he’d climbed to reach his vantage point. It had taken him a few minutes, frequently pausing to get his breath, fighting to control the pain in his chest.
From here, he was looking down on people entering the dale through the narrow cleft in the limestone at the Castleton end. Behind him, a clump of elms and sycamores screened the roofs of the tea rooms and B amp; Bs near Cavedale Cottages. If he kept still, even the walkers coming down the dale wouldn’t notice him in his hollow. Once they’d passed below the keep of the castle, they didn’t look up any more but kept their eyes on the ground to avoid stumbling on loose stones.
After a few minutes, Thorpe lit a cigarette. Two young boys entered the dale, chattering loudly, oblivious to the fact they were being watched. They were probably part of the group he’d seen in the village carrying their worksheets, ticking off the things they were supposed to find.
These two had found Cavedale, but they weren’t satisfied with simply ticking it off. They scrambled up the rock across the dale from Thorpe and stood at the mouth of one of the small caves in the limestone cliff. It looked dark and mysterious, but Thorpe knew that it ended after only a few feet. Though the hill was honeycombed by the Peak Cavern and Speedwell system, there was no entrance to it from Cavedale.
The two boys looked around and noticed him. Perhaps it was the whiff of his cigarette smoke that had alerted them to his presence.
‘Excuse me, is this cave safe?’ called one of the boys.
Thorpe was impressed by polite children. They always took him by surprise.
‘Safe?’
‘Are there bats — or anything?’
‘No, I don’t think there’ll be any bats. Or bears.’
‘Thank you. We’re going in to explore.’
‘If you’re not out in an hour, I’ll call cave rescue,’ said Thorpe.
The boys disappeared. Thorpe laughed to himself, coughing and taking a drag on his cigarette. The hollow was quite a little sun trap, and the warmth felt good on his skin. He’d forgotten that it was possible to feel like this. Temporarily, he could even ignore the constant struggle to draw in air. Once he’d got this burden off his mind, he’d be able to breathe properly at last. No dust or poisons would break down his lungs, no holes would erupt into his chest cavity. He’d take a breath with ease, as everyone else did. That was all he wanted.
‘Did you know it was so small?’ called a voice.
Thorpe looked up. The two youngsters were out of the cave, looking disappointed. There had been no bats, then. Only a couple of yards of damp sandy floor and a graffiti-covered rock face.
‘No, I didn’t. Sorry.’
The boys looked as though they didn’t believe him. But Thorpe reckoned you had to find things out for yourself in this life. You had to learn from your disappointments. There would be bigger ones to come later on.
He watched the youngsters clamber down the rocky path and head back into Castleton. What was next on the worksheet? Church, youth hostel, school?
In the distance, Thorpe could hear a hammer tapping on stone, a whistle blowing for a football game, and kids chattering in the market square. He lay back on the grass, letting a cloud of blue smoke drift away into the sky, and closed his eyes. In the warmth of the sun, he began to relax, and was almost asleep by the time Mansell Quinn found him.
10
In the incident room at Edendale, officers found themselves in a reversal of the normal routine — they were drawing up a list of potential victims rather than suspects.
For a few minutes, DCI Oliver Kessen watched Hitchens organizing the enquiry teams.
‘And once we have a list of names, what do we do?’ said Kessen.
‘We warn them of the risk, sir.’
‘Look, we have to be careful here. If the press gets hold of the idea that there might be more murders, it could lead to a general panic.’
‘That goes without saying.’
‘Does it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Ben Cooper hadn’t quite got used to DCI Kessen. He was too quiet by far. In fact, he was so quiet as he moved around West Street that his officers often turned around to find him standing in the doorway, watching them. And they wouldn’t know how long he’d been there, or what he was thinking.
‘All right, so who have we got?’ said Kessen.
‘There are the two children from the Quinns’ marriage,’ said Hitchens. ‘The daughter, Andrea, is twenty-six. I don’t suppose she’ll remember all that much of her father. But the son, Simon, is twenty-eight now. He’d have been about fifteen years old when his father was sent down. He’ll remember.’
‘I should think he damn well would.’
‘But I don’t think we’re looking at the children as potential victims. He’s still their father, after all.’