Stephen Booth - Scared to Live

‘Thanks, Georgi.’

‘And I’m not to beat up any suspects, OK?’

Fry glanced at him, seemed to recognize that he was joking, and let it pass.

‘I’ve told the inspector in charge of the uniformed operation that we’re here, but I didn’t give him any more details than he needs to know. He’s far too busy to bother about us, anyway. He’s expecting a crowd of six thousand people and a lot of traffic problems. All he’s got to handle it are a dozen bobbies and a few CSOs.’

‘So what are we looking for exactly?’ said Murfin.

‘Brian Mullen. And, I hope, Luanne.’

Cooper coughed uneasily. ‘Diane, if your theory about Brian Mullen is right, what will happen to the child? Will she be sent back to Bulgaria? Surely she wouldn’t have to go back to her real father after all?’

But Fry’s face was hard, giving nothing away. ‘That won’t be our decision to make. All we have to do is find them.’

‘So our responsibility stops there, does it?’

‘Ben, I hope you’re not going all social worker on me again.’

‘But don’t you sometimes wonder what happens to people afterwards — I mean, when we’ve done our job and the courts have done theirs? Don’t you worry that all you’ve done is make a whole lot of people’s lives even worse? Do you always sleep properly at night, Diane?’

‘Yes, like a log.’

‘I’m not sure I believe you.’

Fry looked at Cooper more closely. ‘Are you all right, Ben? Look, don’t worry too much about John Lowther’s death. You did your best to help him. It was the system that let him down, not you.’

‘There’ll be an enquiry. It might decide that I did the wrong thing. There’s only my word for what happened.’

‘You have a witness,’ said Fry. ‘Georgi was there.’

‘No, he didn’t see what happened,’ said Cooper. ‘I told him to stay back on the stairs.’

Fry looked at Kotsev, who gazed back at her impassively.

‘On the contrary,’ he said. ‘I saw everything.’

‘You can’t have done,’ said Cooper. ‘Georgi, there’s no need — ’

‘I will tell the story, if I’m called upon. Ben acted well. He was a hero.’

Cooper flushed, uncomfortable with both the sentiment and what seemed to be Kotsev’s misguided loyalty.

‘Let’s get on with it, shall we?’ he said.

He couldn’t help being sceptical about what Fry hoped to achieve in Matlock Bath tonight. A suspect loose among the crowds, strolling through Derwent Gardens with all these families? It didn’t bear thinking about. The risk to the public represented an operational nightmare.

DI Hitchens had made the right decision, in Cooper’s view. No responsible senior officer would authorize an attempt to carry out an arrest in these circumstances. The most they could do safely was to keep Mullen under surveillance — and even then it would be at a distance. So no heroics. Follow him until he was in a location where the situation could be safely contained. Oh, yes. And pray he didn’t get away again.

‘Oh, and make sure you all stay in touch,’ said Fry. ‘That’s what the radios are for.’

‘Yes, how come you manage to get these radios and ear pieces issued, if we’re here unofficially?’ asked Murfin.

‘Gavin, haven’t you learned when not to ask questions?’

They started from the northern end of the village and separated, taking the riverside walk and the parade of shops in pairs. The village really was getting packed. This was the last night of the illuminations, and the night would climax with a fireworks display from the top of High Tor.

Tomorrow, the Heights of Abraham would close for the winter. The cable cars would stop running, the gift shops would shut, and the terraces of the Hi Cafe and Summit Bar would be left empty. The clocks went back an hour in the morning, and winter would have arrived.

Actually, Cooper knew he should be glad of something to do tonight. He needed to occupy his mind. Ever since the incident on the tower, he’d been aware of a deep ache that he was reluctant to explore, a doubt that he’d never have the answer to. Could he have done more to save John Lowther? If he’d acted differently, if he’d stayed back, if he’d made a grab for the man sooner … Despite telling his story three or four times since the tragedy had happened, he didn’t know whether he’d done the right thing or not. He supposed it would be for other people to judge him.

‘This is more like home,’ said Kotsev, watching the crowds.

‘What?’

‘A big party in the street. People having fun. Give me a few stalls selling sunflower seeds, and I would be happy.’

‘You’ll have to make do with fish and chips.’

Kotsev laughed. ‘ Mnogo vkusno . Delicious.’

They walked slowly through the beer garden behind the Midland Hotel, overlooking the river. Clusters of people were gathered at the Bikers’ Well near the war memorial. Here, the shallow river was bordered by horse chestnuts, branches skimming the surface of the water. Disused, ivy-covered steps led down to the water’s edge. Tilted beds of rock formed multi-coloured cliffs on the opposite bank. An old ceramic drainage pipe lay embedded in the mud near a scattering of shingle.

The illuminated boats were due to parade from New Bridge at the southern end of the village as far as the Pavilion, passing along the length of Derwent Gardens. On a map showing the start and finish, some comedian had drawn in a black shape halfway along the route and marked it ‘Bermuda Triangle’.

Cooper looked across the road. Fry and Murfin were standing in front of the chop house at the bottom of Holme Road, watching the crowds using a pedestrian crossing opposite the Thyme Restaurant.

Behind the Riverside Fish Restaurant was a boating jetty, then a row of shops leading to the Pavilion. Hulley’s buses were ferrying people from the park-and-ride area to the Pavilion car park, which had been reserved for emergency vehicles. Scores of motorbikes now lined the kerb on South Parade, all the way from the ice-cream parlour up to the aquarium. A girl was selling ice cream and slush puppies from a kiosk. A pair of mallard ducks stood hopefully on the pavement outside a fish shop.

There was no sign of Brian Mullen, and Derwent Gardens weren’t open to the crowds yet. Cooper crossed the road to the corner of Temple Road. The car park here was full, too. He and Kotsev walked along the rows of cars, looking for Mullen’s red Citroen without success.

Cooper turned at the end of a row, and Kotsev touched his arm.

‘Ben, it’s OK.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You shouldn’t worry about such things. About such people.’

For a moment, Cooper thought he was going to lose control. He felt as though he might let all the stress out in a burst of anger against the wrong person.

‘Look, just give me a minute, Georgi.’

Just below the car park, he found a pond. It lay in a circular hollow near the road, overhung by bay trees. In the middle of the water, a fountain sprayed over a column of tufa. Dozens of the black beetles called waterboatmen sculled on the surface among floating lilies, perhaps fooled by the strings of coloured lights into thinking it was still daytime. In fact, the column looked to be more moss than tufa. But on the bank behind it were patches already turning to stone. The vegetation looked normal from a distance, except for its colour. But it was already dead and hard, retaining only the appearance of life.

‘It looks as though the gardens are being opened up,’ said Fry through his ear piece. ‘The crowds are starting to move that way.’

‘Well, at least they’ll all be in one place. There are thousands of them. And they’re still coming in. There’s another busload arriving now.’