Martin Edwards - The Coffin Trail

‘We need to take a look at each case, focusing on the evidence that might be improved with a little help from our friends in the Forensic Service. Then we can prioritise in order of re-examination for more detailed work. Looking at the statements that were taken at the time, the exhibits…’

‘If they’ve been retained,’ Bryant said.

‘Obviously it won’t help if stuff’s gone missing. We’ll have to take our chances on that. But as we all know, there’s scope for identifying minute quantities of DNA these days, in contexts where investigators a few years back didn’t have a prayer. We can consider the tests made originally and whether we can improve on them.’

‘Finance permitting,’ Bryant said.

‘Absolutely right, Les.’ She wouldn’t let him knock her off her stride. Above all, she couldn’t allow a negative attitude to take root in the team. A unit like this needed to be highly motivated. It would be so easy to despair of ever achieving a result. ‘Because cash is tight, it’s all the more important to take good care to use it to maximum effect. Maybe you’d like to give us the benefit of your experience? Anything to add?’

Les Bryant grimaced. His trousers seemed tight; Hannah guessed that he’d put on weight since he’d last worn a suit. Had he already spent too long in cardigan and slippers? Maybe he’d lost it and meant to cover up by seeking out for a chance to make her look a fool. Hannah realised she was holding her breath, waiting to gauge his response.

‘Take nothing on trust,’ he said finally.

As was her habit, Linz said what everyone else was thinking. ‘Meaning what, specifically?’

‘Yes,’ Hannah said. Seize the moment. ‘Would you like to elaborate, Les?’

Bryant contemplated Linz’s legs wistfully. For a moment, Hannah thought he was going to crack a locker-room joke, just to see how she handled it. Then he cleared his throat and began to talk in a drab monotone that she found oddly hypnotic.

‘You need to remember, cold case review is different from a typical murder inquiry. There you start with a body and nothing else. Right? In this game, you have a whole load of stuff on your plate from day one. Photo-fits, e-fits, exhibits, a thousand and one facts. Things are simpler when you don’t have too many facts getting in the way.’

‘You can say that again,’ Bob Swindell murmured, but Maggie hushed him with a fierce look.

Bryant didn’t seem to notice the interruption. It was almost as if he was talking to himself, as he defined the nature of the challenge that the ACC had set. ‘You see, a lot of those facts are going to be useless. Worse than that, they’ll lead you astray if you let them. Facts are like ideas, you can have too much of a good thing. We’re walking in old footsteps, ladies and gentlemen, dealing with other detectives’ preconceived ideas. Sure, we’re playing catch-up with the past, but don’t let it get you down. There’s always a reason why a murder inquiry fails to get a result and it’s mostly down to cock-up, not conspiracy. Was a bit of evidence overlooked, a statement not checked? We can’t assume that any of the original work was sound. Maybe all but one per cent of it was — but we don’t know which particular one per cent it might be.’ He folded his arms and looked at Linz, the faintest hint of a cynical smile on his seen-it-all features. ‘That’s why I say — take nothing on trust.’

‘So what do you make of him?’ Hannah asked.

Nick stirred his coffee with a plastic spoon. They were sitting in a corner of the canteen while the four constables sifted through the first calls responding to the press office’s publicity blitz. Les Bryant was upstairs with the ACC, wrangling about the procedure for claiming his expenses.

‘I was hoping for Gandalf. Looks like we finished up with Eeyore.’

She laughed. ‘Under pressure, he did talk a bit of sense.’

‘Pity it had to be dragged out of him. See what I mean? Stereotypical Yorkshireman.’ He put on a cod Leeds accent. ‘If tha does owt for nowt, do it for thissen.’

‘He’s supposed to have all the right experience.’

‘Meaning that he knows just which buttons to press if he wants to be a pain.’

‘You could be right. I can’t see him joining my fan club, somehow.’

Nick gave her a cheeky grin. ‘That’s a pretty select grouping anyway, isn’t it? Never mind, solve a couple of cold cases and everyone will love you. Above all, Lauren Self will love you.’

It was on the tip of her tongue to say I don’t care about being loved. So far as her work as a detective was concerned, it was the unembroidered truth. Yet she realised that if she said it to Nick, she’d feel uncomfortable. Would he infer a dig at Marc, even though she didn’t mean it like that? She didn’t want to risk being misinterpreted. Not by Nick, not about her feelings for Marc.

When she got home that evening, the lights were on upstairs. Marc had converted the loft into an office and he spent hours alone there, revising his stock catalogues and checking prices charged by American book-dealers on the internet. They lived in a sprawling old house with a cellar and out-buildings and he’d been assiduous in filling every inch of available space with books. Books everywhere. Books in boxes, books on shelves. Books lurking behind table lamps, books propping up plant pots, books crammed into racks intended for magazines and videotapes.

Until she’d met Marc, she’d thought herself a book-lover, but now she was not so sure. He was so well-read as to make her feel half-educated, but it was more than that. He worshipped books in a way she had never experienced before. For Marc, books were far more than mere texts to be read. He protected their jackets with archival Brodart sleeves and cosseted those with unwrappered spines for fear that they might split. When there was dampness in the air, he would prowl the cellar feverishly, fearing that moisture in the atmosphere would cause bindings to bulge and pages to curl, rendering the books valueless. Condition was crucial, content seldom came into the equation. An ex-library reading copy of Anna Karenina was worthless, a first edition in a fine wrapper of The Curious Mr Tarrant by the late C. Daly King (whoever he might be) was worth its weight in gold. All this was a mystery to Hannah. When provoked, she would tell their friends that it left her slightly foxed.

She hurried into the kitchen and turned on the coffee machine. As it began to burble, she called out that she was home. Soon, Marc came tramping down the stairs. Head shaking, brow corrugated, footfalls so heavy that they might have belonged to an unhappy policeman.

‘You’ll never believe this,’ he said and recounted the iniquities of the day’s dealings with an especially finicky collector of nineteenth century Cumbrian guide books. After delivering the punch-line, he had an afterthought. ‘By the way, how did your thing go?’

‘My thing?’ she asked, without expression.

‘You know, the press conference. Cold cases and stuff.’

‘Oh, all right.’

‘Great.’ He gave a brisk nod. ‘Told you so.’

As she climbed into bed, he said, ‘Forgot to mention. We had a celebrity visitor at the shop today.’

‘Oh yes?’ From his over-casual tone, she sensed that he hadn’t forgotten, he’d just been biding his time to mention it.

‘He was just looking round, but when I spotted him, I persuaded him to sign his book for me.’

‘Salman Rushdie? Terry Pratchett?’

‘Not even warm.’ He put his hand on her bare shoulder and tugged casually at the strap of her night-dress. ‘I’ll give you a clue. He’s a historian.’

‘David Starkey? Simon Schama? One of the other guys you watch on the box?’