Martin Edwards - The Coffin Trail

It didn’t take the forensic specialists long to break the news that the victim hadn’t died here. Trouble was, this information provoked more questions than it answered. Most murderers move their victims for the purpose of concealing their crime. Not this one. If fell-walkers hadn’t been deterred by rain and the thick morning mist, Gabrielle’s body would have been found even sooner. So what was the purpose of bringing her here? A symbolic ritual? An ironic nod to the myths of a godless past?

Hannah remembered wild conjectures jumping in her brain like fire crackers. She knew better than to voice her ideas. Ben Kind was a Puritan amongst detectives, addicted to facts and scathing about enthusiasts who got off on theories. Speculation was a dangerous self-indulgence in his book, draining an investigation of time and resources, leeching all the energy out of it. No one ever solved a crime by guesswork. You might as well hire a psychic or peer into a crystal ball.

As Hannah exchanged a word with the DC recording the scene on video, she kept an eye on Ben Kind. He was standing on the fell-side, arms out-stretched, directing his team to their tasks as though conducting an orchestra. Nothing about his gestures was flamboyant, but his self-assurance was unmistakable. She didn’t see anyone to whom he gave an order hesitate or ask questions. They did what they were told, not out of fear, nor even out of unthinking self-discipline, but because they knew that he was very good at his job. Although he might not have made it quite to the top of the greasy pole, Ben Kind commanded loyalty from those who liked him and respect from those who didn’t. His face was a mask; you would lose a lot of money playing poker with him. But as Hannah moved away, she caught a hint of suppressed fury in the set of his mouth and jaw.

Within hours it emerged that Barrie Gilpin, who lived in the nearest dwelling, had disappeared from home. He was the obvious suspect and before long his body was found. Mystery solved? The powers-that-be were content: the Press climbed off their backs and turned their attention to other stories. Ben Kind was unhappy, but there was little he could do. The inquiry ground to a halt. Barrie’s death had cheated them all.

Hannah hauled herself out of her chair. While wading through the reports about the most promising calls to the hotline, she’d missed her lunch and now the hunger pangs could no longer be ignored. Maybe she’d cope better with the bureaucracy if she had something in her stomach.

In the canteen, she bit into a Cox’s orange pippin. In her head she could hear Ben’s voice.

‘Everyone remembers who was in charge of an undetected murder.’

He never spoke a truer word. Failure to trace a murderer gnawed away at any senior investigating officer who cared about the job. Sometimes he’d talk to her about it and once she asked how he squared his doubts about who had killed Gabrielle with his mistrust of intuition.

‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but is it just because your son played with him as a boy?’

Without flinching, he said, ‘I never said that there’s no room for a detective’s instinct. Gut feel, based on experience, it’s the most valuable asset we’ve got. When you analyse it, a sound instinct is always based in fact. Like Barrie’s record of violence.’

‘He hasn’t got a record of violence.’

‘Shades of the dog that didn’t bark in the night-time. A crime like this doesn’t come out of the blue. Ask any profiler.’

‘I thought you loathed profilers.’

‘The ones who let their imagination run away with them, sure. Barrie Gilpin was a mystery to most folk in Brackdale. He could seem cold and he was often rude. It’s the nature of the condition, I’ve read up on it. But none of that makes a young man a murderer.’

‘We know that he fancied Gabrielle.’

‘And that he’d made a play for a number of girls in the village, most of whom turned him down flat. Sometimes mockingly. Each time he crept away with his tail between his legs. He must have felt wounded, but he didn’t threaten any of them, let alone harm a hair on their heads.’

‘One witness said he was a Peeping Tom.’

‘Okay, so he might have liked to hide in the bushes and wait for a pretty woman to take her clothes off without bothering to draw the curtains. Not very nice, but it doesn’t mean that he was a murderer.’

‘His body was found near the scene.’

‘He was the sort who was always likely to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. If that’s what happened here, someone took advantage of him to get away with murder.’

‘Penny for ’em.’

Lost in the past, she hadn’t even heard Les Bryant march up to her table. He plonked down his polystyrene cup and sat down opposite her without asking if it was all right. As yet she hadn’t made up her mind how to play things with him. He was leaving it to her to speak first. Elbows on the formica surface, jaw cradled in his palm, studying her face as if it were a cipher that he’d been tasked to decode.

Pushing her plate aside, she said, ‘We had a call about a case I once worked on.’

‘Yeah, I heard. You and Ben Kind.’

‘You knew him?’

‘Our paths crossed a long time ago.’ Bryant pondered and for a moment she wondered if he was teasing her, making her await his verdict. Had he — somehow — picked up on gossip about her and Ben? It seemed unlikely, but after all, he was a detective. ‘Yeah, he was all right. So — what do you think he would’ve made of Sandeep Patel?’

The question knocked her off balance. She took a breath, telling herself not to let this man rattle her. That was his game, for sure. He’d been asking questions, checking up on the woman he was supposed to report to. He meant to see what stuff she was made of, test her out. No way would she let him walk all over her.

‘He’d have wanted to see him put behind bars. If you mean, would he have taken the risk of staking so much on Ivan Golac’s confession, God only knows. I think he’d have done the same as me.’

Bryant shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

The smart thing was to leave it there. She didn’t want to be forced on to the defensive, but he’d succeeded in needling her. She couldn’t help saying in a cold, flat tone, ‘Hindsight’s wonderful, but someone had to take a stand. No regrets.’

Swinging on his chair, he said, ‘Suppose that’s right. Tell you the truth, I’d have done the same myself.’

He had this knack of taking her by surprise. ‘You reckon?’

‘What was there to lose?’

‘Vast amounts of public money.’ She hesitated. ‘Credibility. Career progression.’

Did she detect the glimmer of a smile? ‘So you think that this new job is all about keeping you out of harm’s way?’

‘The thought’s crossed my mind.’

‘Mine too.’ He shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. It’s still an opportunity.’

‘You’ll be telling me to think positive next.’

A bite of cynical laughter. ‘I don’t give a toss for all that motivational crap.’

‘Well, then.’

He jerked a thumb in the direction of his heart. ‘If you ask me, a detective’s either got it here or he hasn’t. You wanted Patel locked up. It didn’t work, but I’ll bet you had him wetting himself for a few months.’

‘That’s not the object of a prosecution.’

‘No, but it’s not a bad consolation prize.’

She laughed as she thought back. ‘You should have seen his face the day he was arrested. Sheer panic. That’s when I thought — yes, you’re guilty! For a while I believed, I actually believed, we were going to get the right verdict.’

‘You know what they say about the judicial process.’ He made a face, as if spitting something out. ‘A system designed to find out which is the better of two lawyers. Tell you this, though. I don’t see it as a game.’