Stephen Booth - Already Dead

Irvine pulled over an extra chair for her, and the others shuffled aside to make room. But she remained standing, her shoulders stiff and awkward. She had never felt comfortable in unexpected social situations. She needed to be prepared for it. Well, if this was a social situation. Looking around the faces again, she realised they all seemed too solemn.

‘Sit down, Diane,’ said Villiers.

‘It’s okay. I’m just-’

But Murfin had been back to the bar, and now he thrust a glass into her hand. Fry looked at it and caught the aroma. Vodka. She didn’t drink it often, only when she thought she was going to need it to get through the next hour. How had Murfin known? She’d never drunk with him, that she could recall, except when she was on soft drinks, and had always avoided any suggestion of a boozing session. If he’d asked her at any other time she would have chosen a J2O apple and mango flavour. But he hadn’t asked.

With the glass in her hand, she couldn’t help but take the chair. Irvine had placed it at the head of the table, making her feel as if she was the lady of the manor surveying her dinner guests. For a few minutes they all sat quietly, watching her out of the corners of their eyes. Eventually, Fry realised it was being left up to her to break the silence.

‘So what were you all talking about when I came in?’ she said, with an effort at lightness. ‘It looked very serious.’

Glances were exchanged. Hurst fidgeted in her chair, Irvine began to tear a beer mat into pieces. Murfin developed a sudden interest in the barmaid.

‘We were talking about Ben,’ said Villiers.

‘Ben Cooper.’

‘Of course.’

‘I suppose it’s no surprise,’ said Fry.

She could no longer get the lightness into her voice. She had never courted popularity, but deep in her heart she wanted respect, hoped that her team would at least be willing to continue working under her without becoming quite so desperate to get their old DS back.

In that moment, the disappointment struck her harder than she would ever have imagined it could. It felt like a betrayal. They’d been sitting here discussing how they could get rid of her and replace her with Ben Cooper again. And yet they’d invited her to join them and had sat her down at the table with a drink. What a nerve. With an overriding sense of relief, she began to feel angry again instead of hurt.

‘So what have you decided?’ she said. ‘And is it a democratic decision, or have you elected a leader for the revolution?’

Fry glanced from one to the other. They looked puzzled, moody, uncomfortable. Gavin Murfin was calmly drinking a pint of Buxton Brewery’s Black Rocks IPA. She hoped someone else was driving him home tonight.

‘It’s not like that,’ said Hurst. ‘We’re really worried about Ben. He’s not answering his phone at home. He’s not picking up calls on his mobile either. Luke and I went and called at his flat the other day, but we couldn’t get any response. The curtains on the front window were closed, even during the day.’

‘If it was anyone else, his friends would be asking questions by now,’ said Irvine.

‘So, what? Do you want to file a missing persons report? He’s on extended leave, for heaven’s sake. He may have taken a holiday, gone away for a while. He might be doing all the things he’s never been able to do because of the job. In fact, he can do what the heck he likes. I should be so lucky.’

‘That’s just a load of old wazzer,’ said Murfin.

‘Gavin, you’ve known him longer than any of us,’ said Irvine.

Murfin put down his glass and bit into an enormous crisp, licking a salty crumb off his lips.

‘Actually no,’ he said.

‘But…?’

Murfin glanced across at Villiers. She nodded slowly, a little reluctantly.

‘Ben and I grew up in the same area. We were at school together. So I suppose you could say I’ve known him almost all his life. But that doesn’t mean I know him best. Gavin has worked with him longest. I was away from Derbyshire for years while I was in the forces. Just the occasional visit home on leave. You lose touch, miss out on things happening in your friends’ lives back home, no matter how close you once were.’

The others shifted uncomfortably when she said ‘no matter how close’. Fry could understand why. It sounded strangely possessive, as if Villiers felt she had a prior claim on her childhood friend but had diplomatically stayed out of the way in view of his engagement to Liz Petty. It seemed particularly insensitive to be referring to it now.

But perhaps she hadn’t meant it that way at all. People were awkward in these circumstances and said the wrong things all the time. Fry was deliberately keeping quiet. She knew she’d put her foot in it the same way herself. People would be shocked and look at her as if she was a heartless monster. It was best to know your own faults — in her case, it was difficult to deny them when so many others had pointed them out over the years.

The group around the table were looking at her now. Expectant expressions, a respectful silence. They were waiting for her to speak.

‘No,’ she said. ‘No, no. You can’t think that I know him better than any of you. Ben Cooper is a mystery to me. I have about as much in common with him as with that pork pie Gavin has in his pocket for later. You were at school with him, Carol. Gavin, you worked in the same division with him a long time before I came to Derbyshire. You’re both far better qualified than me.’

They said nothing, forcing her to keep on talking.

‘In any case,’ she said, ‘it should be something his line manager deals with.’

That got a response at least.

‘The DI? Paul Hitchens?’ Irvine laughed. ‘We’re not talking about filling in a form and booking a counselling session. It needs a bit of action outside the HR process.’

‘His family, then,’ said Fry. ‘He has an older brother. The one who runs Bridge End Farm. There’s a sister too. One of them, surely…’

They still watched her, letting her run out of ideas. Well, she’d met Matt Cooper herself, and knew he was hardly the ideal person to handle an issue sensitively.

‘The sister,’ she said again. ‘Does anyone know her?’

‘She’s called Claire,’ said Villiers. ‘She’s a bit odd, in a New Agey sort of way. Doesn’t really have her feet on the ground. I don’t think Ben is all that close to her anyway. Not the way he is with Matt.’

Fry sighed, starting to feel trapped. Those eyes fixed on her face were like the walls of the pub closing in around her.

‘Friends, then,’ she said. ‘He’s talked about a couple of mates he used to go on walking holidays with.’

‘Yes. Rakki went back to Mombasa, where he grew up before his family came to the UK. Oscar got married last year and moved to Bristol.’

‘All right. But … Ben must have been seeing a doctor.’

No one commented on the obvious fact that she was straying further and further away from practicalities. The people who could realistically do something about the situation were all sitting around a table in this grotty Edendale pub. The ability was here. But perhaps only some of them had the will.

‘Anyway,’ said Fry at last. ‘You can count me out. I’m the wrong person for this.’

‘But, Diane-’ began Hurst.

‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s a definite, definite “no”.’

Diane Fry was driving as she and Becky Hurst turned the corner into Welbeck Street. She pulled the Audi in to the kerb and turned off the engine.

‘It’s number eight,’ said Hurst. ‘A bit further down the street. The blue door.’

‘I know.’

‘So why have we stopped?’

‘We can walk the rest of the way.’