Stephen Booth - Already Dead

‘Are you okay?’ asked Fry when he returned.

‘Fine. It’s nothing.’

‘So,’ she said, ‘you’re still suffering a few after-effects, I suppose. From the smoke inhalation.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, that’s what causes the cough now and then.’

Fry tilted her head, waiting for him to speak again, listening for his voice. Sheena had said: There was something about his voice. It wasn’t right. It made me shudder .

‘But it will pass,’ he said.

Fry opened her mouth to speak again, but her phone rang. She answered it automatically. She always did during a major inquiry. Nothing reflected more badly on you than being out of touch when you were needed. It was Gavin Murfin.

‘I thought you’d want to know, Diane. We’ve got test results.’

‘I’m on my way,’ she said.

Fry looked out of the door of Cooper’s flat. His Toyota stood at the kerb. She’d seen his car often enough. So why had she forgotten that it was red?

‘Ben, did you say that you sometimes drive around the area at night?’ asked Fry.

‘Yes. So?’

‘Even in the rain? And you don’t really know where you are, or where you’ve been?’

‘When you put it like that, it makes me sound a bit crazy.’

‘Yes.’

Fry looked down at the cat as it walked into the room. It gave her a hard stare and turned its back on her. It was time to leave.

‘Okay. Well, I suppose that’s all.’

Cooper shrugged. ‘Whatever it was.’

‘I hope we see you back permanently before too long.’

‘I think it will be soon now.’

But before she reached the street, Fry stopped in the hallway of the flat. A coat rack was fixed to the wall just inside the door. It was an unusual design, made of polished steel and shaped like the head of an upturned rake. Over the prongs were hooked jackets, a scarf, even a set of keys.

‘It was a flat warming present from my uncle when I first moved in,’ said Cooper, noticing her interest.

‘I think I remember.’

Fry had been here that day herself, briefly. She’d called in at the flat with a gift for Cooper, thinking it was something you were supposed to do, a gesture to a colleague, a minor effort to oil the wheels of social interaction. A nuisance, but not a huge commitment of her time. She’d bought him a plant, she recalled. No idea what species. She almost looked round to see if it was still there in his flat, thriving. But in the next instant it dawned on her that she couldn’t remember what she’d bought, and wouldn’t recognise it if she saw it.

‘It’s a bit of a joke, I suppose,’ said Cooper. ‘The design is called Harvest. I moved here from the farm, you see-’

‘Yes, I know.’

Still Fry hesitated, knowing she would have to ask the question that was burning in her mind. Her professional instincts wouldn’t let her leave the flat in Welbeck Street without making the inquiry. It was as if her feet were literally nailed to the floor. She couldn’t make it to the door without releasing herself with the question. She knew without turning round that Cooper was watching her curiously. She could feel the silence between them growing, becoming more and more uncomfortable until it had to be broken.

Finally, she laid a hand lightly on one of the garments hanging from the rack. She could feel the dampness still in its fabric. Her fingers came away with traces of mud.

‘Can I ask you …?’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Where did you get the coat?’

It was Cooper’s turn to let the silence develop. Fry had the feeling she sometimes got in an interview room, when a routine question struck a nerve, drew an audible gasp from the suspect, and filled the the room with a sudden charge of nervous static. The times when she’d knew she’d scored a hit.

She forced herself not to meet Cooper’s eye, though she could sense him tensing, knew that he was considering his reply, trying to steady his voice before answering.

‘It was a present,’ he said. ‘It was the last thing that Liz ever bought me.’

Fry turned the garment over and opened it. It was just what she thought. Hanging behind Cooper’s front door was a dark red rain jacket with a peaked hood and a storm flap. It had the Berghaus logo above the left chest pocket.

When Fry had gone, Cooper took down the coat. It was a Berghaus Hurricane with a two-layer Gore-Tex shell and a roll-away hood, adjustable cuffs and shock cords, with dual zip fastening to allow a fleece layer to be attached. Liz had known that he liked lots of pockets. The coat had two on the front, zipped internal and external pockets on the chest, and an internal map pocket. But best of all was its double-layered storm flap. It was vital in this weather. Especially if you didn’t want people to see your face.

Liz had bought him the Berghaus because the old waxed coat he’d worn for years hadn’t been smart enough. Perhaps it was too rustic, or too ingrained with dog hairs and the smell of cows. It had lasted him well, and would be perfectly fine for a good few years yet. But he’d put it aside without regret. It was one of the symbols of a life he was leaving behind.

But he hadn’t worn the Berghaus for a week, not since last Tuesday. It had been spattered with mud that night, and somehow he’d never got round to wiping it off. Hanging in his hallway, it hadn’t even dried properly. It didn’t seem right to wear it in that condition, so he’d reverted to the waxed coat for a few days, intending to get the rain jacket properly cleaned.

Why had Fry been so interested in it? What was she looking for? There must be lots of them around, like white vans.

Cooper looked at the cat, feeling bemused.

‘What was all that about, do you think?’

The cat seemed to shrug, but it was probably just his imagination. Perhaps a flea was bothering her. Yes, that was most likely. It was time to get out the Frontline. Sometimes it was necessary to dispose of the irritating parasites.

When he thought about Liz, he still experienced a stab of fear. It wasn’t the usual form of dread any more. It was a fear that he might be remembering her wrong.

Diane Fry had known she would have to wait until this week for test results. It was five days after the body of Glen Turner had been found in the stream. But it seemed to Fry that she’d been talking about him for much longer than that.

When she was back at divisional headquarters in West Street she stared out of the window at the sheets of rain blowing across the west stand of Edendale FC. It had been raining continuously since last Thursday, too.

On her desk were two reports, one from forensics and the other from the pathologist, Juliana van Doon. Even though the case had passed into the hands of the Major Crime Unit, Mrs van Doon had sent her a copy of the final post-mortem report. It was about the first courtesy that Fry could remember receiving from her.

‘Luke, what do forensics have to say?’ she asked.

‘They’ve been going over that BMW belonging to Charlie Dean,’ said Irvine. ‘You know they’ve been investigating the cause of the crash, looking for mechanical defects. But the first thing they found was a hand print on the boot. Sharp eyes, one of those forensic examiners has. He realised there was something iffy about the print, and ran a few appropriate tests. Lucky for us that he did. Whoever that hand print belonged to, it left traces of blood on the paintwork.’

‘Really? So someone injured themselves when they interfered with the vehicle?’

‘It doesn’t seem likely. There was enough blood scraped off the car by the examiners to get a DNA match in the database. That DNA — well, it seems it came from our earlier murder victim. It was Glen Turner’s blood.’