At this point, her mind was trained to switch off anything else and start to think about work. There was plenty to do, as usual. Today’s diary included a meeting to plan an operation against Class A drug misuse and a review of a long-running rape enquiry, as well as prioritizing whatever had happened in the last twenty-four hours.
Then Fry frowned. She hated starting the day with irritations that she couldn’t classify. And she had one already this morning, thanks to the call from her DI. What was the name he mentioned? Quinn? It still meant nothing to her. But she would have to know — who the hell was Mansell Quinn?
She looked at her phone. There was one person who was sure to know. She didn’t really want to talk to him if she could avoid it, but it might be preferable to walking into the DI’s office ignorant, and therefore in a position of weakness. Ben Cooper’s number was stored in her phone’s memory, one of a hundred invisible squiggles on its smart card, so that she carried his presence with her permanently, like a scar.
From the moment she’d arrived at E Division, Cooper had been in her hair, probing into her past, turning over all the memories she’d left the West Midlands to escape. And then this business with her sister. Why had he got himself involved in that? The one thing she wasn’t going to do was give Cooper the satisfaction of asking him. It seemed impossible to Fry that there could be any acceptable explanation.
She pulled his number up out of her phone’s memory and dialled, ready to pull over to the side of the road if he answered. But the number was unobtainable. Fry grimaced in frustration. Of course, Cooper was on a rest day today. Why shouldn’t he turn off his phone and enjoy himself?
Water was pouring through the roof. Splashes of it landed on his face, making him blink. Ben Cooper tried to move a hand to wipe it away, but his arms were held too tightly. Then he felt himself travelling up a slope and saw a larger chamber, lit by artificial lights. At last there was a change in air temperature and a glimpse of daylight as the mouth of the cavern opened above him, then he heard the high-pitched cries of jackdaws.
Giving an exhausted cheer, the six men in yellow oversuits dropped the stretcher with a thump. Cooper’s head banged on the plastic cover.
‘Hey, I’m a casualty, you know. Where’s the ambulance? Don’t I get an ambulance?’
After a moment, one of the men came back to the stretcher.
‘Sorry, Ben. But you are dead, you know.’
‘My God, if I’d known it’d be like that, Alistair, I wouldn’t have volunteered. In fact, I didn’t volunteer — I was talked into it.’
Alistair Page took off his gloves and leaned over to unfasten the buckles on the straps. He was still covered in the smelly silt that coated the caves and had been stirred up from the flooded passages by the rescue party. Like the rest of the team taking part in the exercise, he was protected by elbow and kneepads, and had a heavy tackle bag slung from his belt.
Cooper tried to remember which of his friends had introduced him to Page. Whoever it was, he had a score to settle.
‘You’re not telling me you’re claustrophobic,’ said Page. ‘It’s a bit late for that.’
‘I didn’t think I was, until an hour ago. But I’ve changed my mind. I feel quite sick.’
‘You’ll be all right in a minute.’
At last, Cooper was free of the stretcher. His legs felt numb, and he had to walk up and down and shake them a bit before the painful tingling started, a sign that the blood was flowing back into his limbs. Glad to be using his muscles again, he helped Page to lift a bundle of ropes and slide them into the cave rescue vehicle, an old Bedford van that was kept in the police compound in Edendale. The van was well overdue for replacement, but the Derbyshire Cave Rescue was a voluntary group and relied entirely on donations. They’d have to raise tens of thousands of pounds before they could buy a new vehicle.
The chattering of the jackdaws made Cooper look up. The birds were circling the roofless keep of the castle on the eastern rim of the Peak Cavern gorge, hopping restlessly from tree to tree, or flapping on to the cliff ledges.
‘Do they nest on those ledges?’
‘Yes. And so do mallard ducks sometimes,’ said Page. ‘But their ducklings have a habit of falling off. Visitors don’t like that very much.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Cooper, still craning his neck. It was a relief just to be able to move his head and see the sky.
‘You did a good job of being dead, by the way. Don’t forget — you get a free tour through the show cave for doing this.’
‘I’m coming down with my two nieces tomorrow afternoon. They’ve just broken up for the summer holidays, and I promised them a day out.’
‘You can cope with that, can you?’
‘At least you don’t get many real deaths here.’
‘There’s only ever been one in Peak Cavern. That was a long time ago. And, well …’ Page hesitated, looking back anxiously over his shoulder at the mouth of the cavern, as if he heard noises in the darkness but couldn’t see what was there. ‘Well, that was different,’ he said. ‘It was unique. And a long time ago.’
Some of the rescue team were carrying their gear back to the cavers’ clubhouse in Castleton. But Page lived only a couple of hundred yards away, in one of the cottages climbing the hillside on a narrow lane called Lunnen’s Back.
‘I’ll be here between ten and five tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Just ask for me if I’m not around.’
Since it was impossible to get a car anywhere near the cavern approach, Cooper had left his Toyota in the main car park, near the new visitor centre. From there, he could see a long line of people winding their way up to Peveril Castle. The climb was gruelling, and some of the older visitors stopped to rest at every chance, pretending to admire the view while they eased the pain in their knees. As a child, Cooper had himself visited Castleton on a school outing. In term time, the streets of the town were full of children with worksheets.
In the car park, he turned his face to the sun and breathed deeply. Right now, he couldn’t imagine who or what was going to ruin his rest day.
Diane Fry knocked on the door of the DI’s office at West Street, and walked straight in. Paul Hitchens was leaning back in his chair, gazing out over the roof of the east stand at Edendale Football Club. He barely moved when she entered.
‘Sir? You said you wanted to see me.’
Hitchens was silent for a moment, lost in some thoughts of his own that he wasn’t going to let Fry interrupt. So she waited until he was ready. She watched the sunlight from his window cast shadows on his face, making him look older than the DI she’d met when she first transferred to Derbyshire Constabulary, not all that long ago. Since setting up home with a nurse in Chesterfield he’d become middle-aged almost overnight, preoccupied with finding the right wallpaper for the bathroom and tending his lawn at weekends. Hitchens himself had seemed to sense the difference, too. He was a man settling into his position in life.
But now Fry noticed him fingering the scar across the middle knuckles of his left hand, as if remembering an old injury.
‘I hear Mansell Quinn is due out today,’ said Hitchens finally.
Fry felt a surge of irritation and fought to contain it. ‘Who,’ she said, ‘is Mansell Quinn?’
The DI spun a little on his chair, glanced at Fry as if checking who she was. She had a feeling that he’d have said the same thing no matter who had walked into his office. He might have been having this conversation with the cleaner.
‘You won’t remember him, DS Fry,’ he said. ‘Quinn got a life sentence for murder some years ago. He lived in Castleton, a few miles up the road from here, in the Hope Valley. Do you know it?’
‘A tourist honeypot, isn’t it?’
‘Interesting place, actually. I went there as a kid. I remember being particularly impressed by the sheep — they came right down into the centre of the town. I suppose they must have been looking for food. I hadn’t seen one up close before.’