Stephen Booth - The kill call

No choice here. If Fry denied it, she would be forced to quote examples to support her argument. And right now, nothing came to mind.

‘I suppose so, ma’am.’

Branagh nodded. ‘I’m glad you agree. It’s a shame, because your early reports suggest that you were once considered a potential high-flier.’

Fry’s heart gave a lurch of shock. That was a real punch below the belt. All this time, she’d been considering herself a high-flier, on the surface at least. Deep down, she must have known that she wasn’t, not any more. Still a Detective Sergeant at the age of thirty? For heaven’s sake. It must have been obvious to everyone around her that she’d lost ground. She had been too busy with other concerns, taken up by so many distractions that she hadn’t been focusing on the job. Not the way she should have done.

When had it all started to go wrong? Not when she first transferred to Derbyshire. Well, not immediately, anyway. She’d been given the promotion almost straight away. But maybe that had been on the strength of her previous record. Somewhere, somehow, she had then taken her eye off the ball, had let her career get stagnant. She’d been drifting with the current, when she ought to have been swimming for land.

Damn it, Branagh was right. DS Diane Fry’s career had been ruined. In this stinking backwater, she had become soft and lazy. She’d gone native. Jesus, if she wasn’t careful, she could even end up like Ben Cooper.

Detective Superintendent Branagh was still talking, listing entries from her Personal Development Reviews. Targets and assessments, the occasions when guidance had been given, one instance when words of advice had been issued following a complaint of rudeness from a member of the public.

But Fry wasn’t really listening. She was recalling her first week on the job in Derbyshire, meeting her DI, and Hitchens asking her what she was aiming to achieve. ‘ I’m good at my job,’ she’d said. ‘ I’ll be looking for promotion. That’s what’s important to me.’

And, of course, she’d soon become aware of the talk around the station. Everyone said the force was short of female officers in supervisory ranks, especially in CID. Provided she kept her nose clean and smiled nicely at the top brass, she would shoot up the promotion ladder without trying. And there had been a quick promotion, too — the step up to Detective Sergeant, which hadn’t been popular with everyone.

But what had she done since then? Her brain searched for an answer that she could give Superintendent Branagh, some wonderful achievement that she could point to. But her mind was still coming up blank. That was the effect of shock tactics.

By a stroke of luck, the superintendent took her silence for absorption in some other subject than the one at hand.

‘We can resume this conversation at another time,’ she said. ‘I appreciate that you’re busy with the suspicious death case.’

‘Yes, ma’am. That’s true.’

‘Very well, then. We’ll resume tomorrow. That will give you a chance to think about what we’ve said so far.’

Reluctantly, Fry got up to leave. Then Branagh sniffed.

‘What is that smell?’

Fry became aware of the aroma that she must have been carrying around with her all afternoon on her jacket, and on her hands. And maybe on her shoes, if she’d been really unlucky. She’d better check in a minute, as soon as she got out of the room — but not while Branagh was watching her.

‘Horses, ma’am,’ she said. ‘It’s the smell of horses.’

‘I see,’ said Superintendent Branagh. She said it in the tone of someone who didn’t see at all, but considered it hardly worthwhile demanding an explanation.

As the temperature fell that evening, the moisture in the air began to form dense banks of fog on the higher ground. When Ben Cooper closed the front door of 8 Welbeck Street, he always looked up to see the hills. He found their presence reassuring, even in the dark, when they were black against the sky. But tonight, the hills above the town were masked by a grey blanket, and wisps of fog could be seen swirling above the streetlights.

Cooper’s local in Edendale was the Hanging Gate, a pub sitting in its own little yard off the High Street. When he first moved into the flat at Welbeck Street, he’d taken some trouble in finding the right sort of pub. He wasn’t a heavy drinker, not like some of his colleagues, who relied on alcohol to help them deal with the pressures of the job. A drink or two did help him relax. But most of all, a decent pub provided company, and a meal when you didn’t feel like cooking for yourself — which, in his case, was quite often.

Like so many pubs in the area, the Hanging Gate had framed scenic Peak District views on the walls, and even a few hunting prints. But the beer was good, and the choice of rock classics on the juke box was familiar and reassuring.

As he and Liz Petty stepped through the door on to the stone flags, Cooper nodded to a few acquaintances. He was pretty well known here now, but people left him alone. It wasn’t the sort of place where you got bothered if they knew you were a police officer. Another plus for the Hanging Gate.

He and Liz had been going out for several months now. It was one of those relationships that had grown up gradually from a casual awareness of someone in a different department at work into something more than friendship. It was supposed to be the way the best relationships developed, if you believed what the women’s magazines said.

They got their drinks, and found a table. Liz was a bit on edge, because she was due to meet Ben’s sister for the first time. Claire was expected to arrive in another half an hour, though it would be par for the course if she was late. So he and Liz had some time together first.

‘How did you get on at the vet’s?’ she asked.

Cooper looked at her over his bottle. ‘Oh, that’s nice. I like the way you’re concerned about the cat, but you haven’t bothered asking how I am.’

‘I don’t need to ask about you. I can see you’re as always.’ She studied him for a moment. ‘It didn’t go well, then?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s kidney failure. It seems old Rand must be more ancient than he looks. That, or he’s led a riotous life.’

‘Is there anything they can do?’

‘Not without putting him through a lot of pain and discomfort.’

‘I see.’

‘So it’s just a matter of time.’

She grasped his hand. ‘I’m sorry.’

Cooper felt embarrassed. ‘He’s only a cat.’

‘Yeah, right.’

There was a silence while they drank, each with their own thoughts. And then, in that inevitable way that it always happened, they began talking about work. No, not really work — office gossip.

After a few minutes, Liz looked away as she asked him another question.

‘Do you think Diane Fry might be in need of some support?’ she said.

Cooper put down his drink. ‘What?’

‘Support. You know what support is, Ben.’

‘Right. But Diane — ’

‘Yes, Diane Fry. She’s only human, you know. The talk is that she might be going through a bad time.’

Well, Cooper suspected that every week was a bad time for Diane Fry in one way or another, but he let it pass.

‘Why particularly now?’

‘The word around the station is that the new superintendent has it in for her. Doesn’t think she fits in.’

‘How is it that civilian staff always manage to gather far more information than detectives?’ said Cooper. But he didn’t really feel like joking. What Liz was saying matched his own feeling too closely.

He looked around the Hanging Gate. A thick brass rail and stools lined up at the bar. A trophy cabinet for the darts team. Rooms were separated by coloured glass panels. A florid-faced man with a bald head and a dark moustache came into the pub, and a young woman with unnaturally pale hair and sunglasses followed him. While he waited to be served at the bar, she walked past and found a seat near the back of the room. The bald man watched her all the way.