Stephen Booth - Already Dead

But Matt was still speaking.

‘And now I’m getting worried that he might do something really stupid,’ he said.

The idea of Ben Cooper doing something stupid wasn’t exactly a new one in Fry’s experience. She’d first set eyes on him when he was making a fool of himself, and his capacity for doing stupid things hadn’t diminished over the years. She could have begun to list them and still be remembering more when it was time to go home for the night. But probably his brother wouldn’t want to hear them right now.

‘Like what?’ asked Fry instead.

‘Well, you know how the death of Liz Petty has affected him. She was his fiancée. It should have been their wedding next week, and it’s all such a nightmare…’

‘Yes, I know about that,’ said Fry impatiently.

‘The thing is, Ben is all eaten up with the idea that some of the people responsible might get away without being punished properly for what they did. Obviously, he’s seen an awful lot of cases — and I’m sure you have too — where the guilty parties are let off by the courts. Not enough evidence, and all that. Reasonable doubt, some technicality in the law, a clever defence lawyer. You know what it’s like.’

‘Mmm.’

On the other end of the phone, Matt took a deep breath. He finally seemed to be winding down, or getting to the end of his speech. Not that it had been much of a speech so far. Fry remembered him as a sullen, taciturn Derbyshire farmer who didn’t say more than a few words if he could avoid it, and then only to complain about the weather and the price of milk. This call must already have used up all his available words for the rest of the year.

‘And I think Ben might be going to take things into his own hands and make a mistake that he’ll regret. That we’ll all regret.’

‘Like what?’ she said again.

But he didn’t spell out what he meant. Perhaps he couldn’t. He was a member of the public, and they were notoriously vague and unable to explain themselves. Her life would be so much simpler if she didn’t have to deal with MOPs.

‘Well, I’m wondering if we should do something about him,’ said Matt. ‘Oh, when I say we … I mean, I’ve tried and it’s all gone wrong. Not that Ben ever listened to me anyway. Not to his older brother. Oh, no. That would be much too sensible. So when I say we , I mean I’m wondering if you …’

Fry rolled her eyes to the ceiling in exasperation and banged her mouse on its mat with an angry little flash of red laser light. So after all, this was just one more person who’d decided she was the perfect choice to sort out Ben Cooper and whatever his damn problems might be. Were they all mad? In what crazy, upside down universe did everyone go rushing to Diane Fry for help in coping with their personal problems? And not even their own problems, Ben Cooper’s, for heaven’s sake. If there was a league table of people who cared about Cooper’s psychological welfare she’d be right at the bottom of it, deep in the relegation zone and in danger of dropping into another division altogether, where she didn’t care at all.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Cooper, but I think you’ve called the wrong person,’ she said, her fingers already tensing to put down the phone.

‘It’s just …’ said Matt hastily, as if sensing correctly that she was about to hang up. ‘I thought you ought to know … he’s got my gun.’

Fry froze, wondering if she’d misheard him. She pressed the receiver closer to her hear.

‘Did you say…?’

‘Yes, he has my gun. My shotgun. And a box of cartridges.’

‘What is he planning to do with it? Where is he going?’

‘I don’t know for sure,’ said Matt. ‘But he’s been obsessed for weeks with this barman, Josh Lane. You know, he-’

‘Yes, I know.’

Fry had a horribly clear recollection of the moment she’d entered Ben Cooper’s flat in Welbeck Street with Becky Hurst and set eyes on the collage of cuttings on his kitchen wall. The arson at the Light House, the shocking death of Derbyshire Constabulary civilian scenes of crime officer Elizabeth Petty. The funeral, the tributes the uniformed pall-bearers. Killed in the line of duty . And all the photos of Eliot Wharton and Josh Lane. The free space left for the ultimate fate of the owners of those two faces.

She put the phone down, her mind whirling. Around her, the normal activity of the CID room continued. Hurst and Irvine were engaged in calls and were taking no notice of her. Murfin was out of the room, probably gone to the Gents, or to sneak a surreptitious snack.

Only Carol Villiers looked up, sensing that something had happened. Fry refused to meet her eye. She was staring out of the window at the rain, feeling thoughts falling in and out of her mind as fast as the raindrops hitting the pane. She ought to say something at once, report what she’d been told by Matt Cooper. She should raise the alarm. Within minutes, armed response would be mobilised, units would be despatched to locate Cooper, there would be a massive, high-profile operation. Ben Cooper would be arrested at gunpoint. But how could she allow that to happen?

But the longer Fry sat there thinking about it, the more certain she became that she wasn’t going to do that. She couldn’t set off that kind of commotion, couldn’t put Cooper through it.

She remembered their last conversation clearly. The talk about his obsession with Josh Lane and the fire at the Light House in which Liz Petty had died.

‘There’s no evidence, Ben. The CPS won’t even consider amending the charges against him.’

‘So he stays out on bail.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry. Really sorry.’

‘So am I.’

‘So what are you going to do next?’

‘Is that any of your concern?’

But it was her concern. She was responsible for this situation. And, when it came down to it, there was the question of loyalty.

In Welbeck Street, Diane Fry was not surprised to find that there was no answer to her knock at Ben Cooper’s flat. In no mood for patience or discretion now, she went straight to the landlady’s house next door.

‘Can I help you?’ said the old lady from behind her security chain.

‘Mrs Shelley,’ said Fry.

‘Yes? Who are you?’

Fry realised that the old lady didn’t remember her from five days previously, when she’d called here with Becky Hurst.

‘I’m a police officer.’ Fry showed her warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Fry.’

Again, Mrs Shelley didn’t even look at her ID, but peered at her as she shushed the dog.

‘I’m a friend of Ben’s,’ said Fry, speaking as loudly as she could. ‘Do you remember-?’

‘He told me he’s fine,’ said Mrs Shelley. ‘Just fine.’

And she slammed the door.

Ben Cooper had tuned the radio in his car to the local BBC station in Derby to catch the news bulletins. That morning, the Environment Agency had already issued flood alerts for five rivers in Derbyshire, including the Derwent and the Eden.

Several of the major waterways in the county were prone to flooding. In neighbouring Nottinghamshire, a fifty million pound project had been completed to construct flood barriers on the River Trent to protect the city of Nottingham after disastrous flooding thirteen years ago. But not here in Derbyshire. Not yet.

Today, the Trent was the first river to be affected. Low-lying agricultural land was flooding, and residents were being warned that access to villages could be cut off if water levels continued to rise. Nearby, the River Erewash was presenting a risk, and another alert had been issued for the Amber. But those were the concern of D Division, down there in the south of the county.