That was the most difficult part to talk about. He’d been through it many times for the subsequent inquiry, the inquest, the trial hearings. But it didn’t make the telling any easier, no matter how many times he ran over the events as if they’d happened to someone else. The stink of smoke, the roar of flames, the crash of shattering windows, the terror of being trapped in the burning building. The knowledge that his fiancée was two floors above him, alone, and unaware of the blazing stairs. And finally the moment when he realised that she was no longer behind him as he fought his way to safety. The moment he lost her to the flames.
Cooper felt himself drifting into his memories as he talked. His immediate surroundings faded away, the dismal first-floor flat receding into the distance. He saw only Diane Fry’s face in front of him, her eyes curiously compelling, as if this had been the opportunity he’d been awaiting for so long.
It was only when it came to talking about the aftermath of the fire that he faltered. The period when he was away from work on extended sick leave was the most difficult to explain. Liz’s death had been tragic and meaningless. But the things he did in the following few months were inexplicable. When he looked back now, they had no logic. He’d lost his senses and he couldn’t explain that to anyone.
‘After it happened,’ he said, ‘I mean, after the fire, there were months and months when I kept telling myself it was all a mistake and Liz wasn’t really dead at all. Some of the time I think I actually believed that.’
Fry nodded.
‘I understand,’ she said.
But Diane Fry wasn’t that good an actress. He didn’t believe she understood at all. She just knew it was something people said in the circumstances. And yet she’d taken in every word he’d told her. He had no doubt about that.
Cooper felt suspicion welling up again. Was all this concern genuine? Surely not. Fry had some ulterior motive. What it was, he had no idea. He supposed it would become evident one day. And whatever it was, it wouldn’t be to his benefit.
After a moment he managed to change the subject. ‘I suppose you’re looking forward to living in Nottingham,’ he said.
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘You can’t wait, I suppose.’
‘You got that right. Look at this place. Well, I know it’s where you’re from and all that, but really…’
‘Is there anybody here you’ll miss?’ asked Cooper tentatively.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Fry.
‘Really?’
‘Mr and Mrs Khan at the corner shop. They’ve always been very nice to me.’
The silence was broken when Cooper’s phone buzzed. At first he tried to ignore it. But Fry looked at him expectantly.
‘Perhaps you’d better answer that,’ she said. ‘It might be important. Some urgent development in your murder inquiry.’
She was right, of course. It might have been that. But the call was from the East Midlands Ambulance Service. They’d been given his name by a patient who’d just been admitted to the Accident and Emergency department at Edendale General Hospital.
He listened for a few moments while Fry watched him curiously, no doubt alerted by the sudden change in his manner.
‘What’s up?’ she said when he finished the call.
‘It’s my landlady, Dorothy Shelley. She’s been taken to hospital. It sounds as though she’s had a stroke.’
‘That’s a shame. You’ve grown quite close to her, haven’t you? I heard you look after her quite a bit.’
‘Yes.’
But Cooper felt a wave of guilt. He hadn’t been paying much attention to Mrs Shelley recently. The old girl had been very good to him, ever since he first turned up to look at the flat in Welbeck Street. She’d treated him pretty much as a grandson and he was sure his rent ought to have gone up substantially in the past few years, but for her indulgence. He should have returned the consideration by keeping a closer eye on her as she got increasingly frail and confused.
He certainly ought to have been there tonight when she needed him. She could have just banged on the wall and he would have gone straight round. He wondered if she’d been able to call the ambulance for herself or if someone else had come to her aid. He wondered how long she’d been obliged to wait for help.
‘She gave them my name,’ said Cooper, in a tone that expressed far more than the mere words conveyed. ‘I’m sorry. But I have to go.’
Diane Fry went to the window and watched for a few minutes as Cooper left the house and got into his car. He didn’t look back. He had someone else to worry about now.
Fry closed the curtains and turned back to the half-empty cardboard boxes littering the floor of her flat. She seemed to have spent a large part of her life watching Ben Cooper walking away.
12
Saturday 2 November
It was so hard to get used to the change from British Summer Time. The clocks had gone back the previous weekend and suddenly the sun was setting before he managed to get away from work. Cooper looked out of the window and saw the sun had gone from the sky. It was dark by the time he got home, which was always too depressing.
Of course, it happened every year, but that didn’t seem to make any difference. It caught him out every time. No matter how many times he was reminded about changing his watch, the reality of its effect on his daily routine didn’t sink in. Not until it happened. And then, somehow, he felt deceived.
It made Cooper feel the way he had when he was a child, expecting the summer to go on for ever and feeling that sense of loss and disappointment when the light faded and he knew that winter was on its way. He could recall the feeling now, remembered how let down he’d always felt, as if even the calendar were prepared to betray him.
Yes, he certainly learned that lesson as a boy. The whole world was the same. People too. He’d discovered that you couldn’t rely on anything or anyone. If you let yourself be fooled into trusting someone, the same betrayal was inevitable. The day would eventually come when the weather changed and winter arrived.
Mrs Shelley’s stroke last night had been a serious one. His landlady’s nephew had turned up at the hospital. Cooper had never liked him — he suspected the man had no interest in his aunt, except for the prospect of inheriting her two properties in Welbeck Street. There was no doubt that Cooper’s rent would go up when that happened — but only until the houses were sold off to the first property developer who came along.
Dorothy Shelley looked more than just frail as she lay in her hospital bed in the intensive care unit. She looked deathly pale and so thin that her fragile bones protruded from the sunken skin on her shoulders. Her eyes were deep set and the shape of her skull stood out as clearly as if it were a specimen in an anatomy class.
It hardly needed saying, but the medical staff had to say it anyway. One stroke was often followed by another, and then another. And if Mrs Shelley suffered just one more stroke as serious as the first, it might well be fatal.
Well, it was the weekend and he wasn’t supposed to be on duty, but the hospital could get in touch with him at any time if they needed to. Though he supposed they would contact the nephew now. Family members always took precedence in hospital procedures. Next of kin and all that. But at least if he heard nothing, he could call later, perhaps on Sunday. Waiting was always the worst thing.
The fact that tomorrow was Sunday put an idea into his mind. There was a retired clergyman he’d known for many years. The Reverend William Latham had been their local vicar for decades. He’d conducted the wedding of Joe Cooper and Isabel Howard, and baptised all of their children, including Ben. He’d guided the young Ben towards confirmation and given him communion a few times. And he’d expressed his disappointment when Ben stopped going to church.