Dead And Buried Part 24

'I was really hoping I wouldn't have to be the one who told you this, Ben,' he said.

'What? What?'

'There was something going on at the Light House, something that had nothing to do with drinking beer. Maurice Wharton had lock-ins, you know.'

'Why? What was going on?'

'Drugs, they reckon.'

'I had no idea. You mean someone was dealing at the Light House?'

'Yep.'

'Did Wharton know about it?'

'I couldn't say. Though it's hard to imagine him not being aware of what went on at his pub.'

A blue Land Rover drove in to the gateway and stopped.

'Who's that?'

'The lads you were supposed to be meeting,' said Matt.

'What?'

'They phoned and said you weren't alone, that someone else was here.'

'So who were those guys?' said Cooper. 'I must have been followed. Was it a white pickup?'

'Ben, I have no idea.'

20.

Ben Cooper woke up the next morning sore and angry. When he looked in the bathroom mirror, he could see a bruise developing rapidly on his temple. His hands were scratched and raw where he'd grappled with his a.s.sailants, trying to get a grip on a waxed jacket and a bloated body.

He'd reported the incident, without any expectations of a result. He was unable to identify the two men, and the farmers who'd turned up with Matt knew nothing about them, or what sort of vehicle might have been following him.

Turning his face from one side to the other in the mirror, Cooper hoped that nothing like this happened just before the wedding. He'd be in big trouble then. Very big trouble.

He had the impression that Gavin Murfin was whistling as he entered the CID room at West Street that morning. Murfin seemed to have perked up considerably since the arrival of Diane Fry. Everything he did was contrary to his previous behaviour. He'd disparaged Fry for years, referred to her in private as the Wicked Witch of the West. Now he seemed glad to see her.

It gave Cooper an uneasy feeling. In Murfin's present end-of-term mood, he might be planning something drastic. A final farewell that would ensure he was remembered for ever, his name enshrined in station legend.

Murfin placed his bag carefully on the desk, looking thoughtful. Over the years, Cooper had learned that his colleague could occasionally produce a flash of insight from his long experience in CID. This might be one of those moments, if he was lucky.

'What are you thinking, Gavin?'

Murfin sniffed. 'I'm thinking about what's in this bag.'

'Which is?'

'A steak and kidney pie and a vanilla slice.'

'What else have you been buying?'

'Oh, nothing.'

Cooper peered into the bag.

'Blow-up Bonking Baa Baa? Seriously?'

'Stag night,' said Murfin, s.n.a.t.c.hing the bag away.

'No need to be embarra.s.sed, then.'

'I'm not.'

'That had better not be for me, Gavin,' said Cooper.

'Course not. I wouldn't dream of it.'

'Who else is getting married, then?'

'No one you know.'

'Really?'

'Yes, really. I do have a life outside the office.'

'A mate down your local pub, maybe?'

'Could be.'

'Well you don't have any other social life. Unless you're in the habit of making friends at the chippy.'

Becky Hurst was shaking her head in disbelief. 'Blow-up Bonking Baa Baa. Does that sort of thing still go on at stag nights? Incredible.'

Irvine laughed. 'What? Are you saying women don't get up to the same sort of stuff on hen nights? Have you seen Edendale town centre in the early hours of a Sunday morning?'

Cooper leaned towards Murfin and spoke to him quietly.

'We need to talk, Gavin.'

'All right, I don't mind.'

'And I mean soon. When we go off shift today.'

'It's a date.'

Cooper straightened up again, turning back to face the room 'What's going on then? Anything?'

'You asked me to track down the vehicles owned by Ian Gullick and Vince Naylor,' said Irvine.

'Yes?'

'Gullick has a blue Ford Transit van. He's a market trader, so that makes sense.'

'And Naylor?' asked Cooper.

'A Toyota Hilux pickup.'

'A pickup? What colour?'

'White.'

'Of course it is.'

For a moment, Cooper forgot his bruises. Were things starting to come together at last? If so, it would be worth it.

'Did we know that Maurice Wharton was an ex-copper?' he asked.

Irvine nodded. 'Yes, it's in the files.'

'It's not unusual to find a retired police officer running a pub, is it?' said Villiers.

'He wasn't retired. He got kicked out. Gross misconduct.'

'Was he bent?'

'No. He put the boot into a suspect once too often. You wouldn't have heard about him because he wasn't serving in this region. He was down in London, in the Met. He was rooted out of the Territorial Support Group in one of the Met's regular clean-ups.'

'It's hard to imagine.'

'He went to seed a bit after they dumped him,' said Murfin.

'You can say that again.'

'He's a big guy, though. At one time, when he was younger and kept himself fit, he would have been pretty intimidating.'

Diane Fry entered the CID room, came to a halt in front of Cooper and tilted her head on one side to examine his bruises.

'I suppose you're going to ask what happened,' said Cooper.

'No, I heard.'

He wondered for a moment who would have rushed off to spread gossip to Diane Fry. She wasn't usually the sort to be whispering in a huddle over the coffee machine. But then he remembered her ability to enter a room un.o.btrusively, a trick that must allow her to overhear all kinds of things.

'I gather there's even a suggestion that it was some members of the local farming community who were responsible,' she said. 'I didn't know there was a provisional wing of the National Farmers Union.'

Cooper gave her a curt nod. It seemed the only suitable acknowledgement to the closest that Diane Fry had ever come to making a joke.

'Someone else's blood on David Pearson's anorak,' he said. 'So what happened, do we think?'

'The Pearsons did something bad, and realised they had to disappear?' suggested Irvine.

'They attacked or killed someone? But who?'

He shrugged. 'It's funny, isn't it? Apart from the timing being so far out, you'd think it might have been Aidan Merritt.'

Fry snorted. 'Oh yes. Out by around two and a half years, that's all.'

'It would be convenient, though. We'd solve two mysteries at one go.'

'Have we got any other theories, aside from these fantasies?'

Everyone was silent, until Hurst chimed in. 'We'll just have to hope for a DNA match from the blood.'

'Is that the best we can do?'

No one answered, and Fry sighed.

'It looks as though it is.'

'Otherwise, we're going to ask all the same questions that were asked before?'

'Yes, and as many more as we can think of,' said Fry.

'Why?'

'If you ask enough questions, the person who's lying will eventually change their story. Anyone who's telling the truth can't do that.'

'A small bunch of regulars were looked at closely by the original inquiry team. Vince Naylor, Ian Gullick.'

'Their stories tallied.'

'Everyone's stories tallied. At least anyone who was sober enough to remember what happened.'

'You left a name off the list,' said Hurst.

'I know. Aidan Merritt. It's too late to ask him any more questions.'