Dead And Buried

The man in the photo was about thirty. He was leaning on a sports car, smiling at the camera with the sort of intimate smile that suggested he knew the photographer very well. He wore faded jeans and a white T-shirt with a slogan that had been made illegible by the angle of his arms stretching and folding the fabric. Cooper thought he could see a ‘the’. Perhaps it was the name of a band.

In the background, familiar hills and the glint of water. One of the major reservoirs in the Upper Derwent. Howden, he guessed. The picture could have been taken at one of the pull-ins along the single-track road that skirted the edge of the reservoir.

‘Do they look like hikers to you?’ asked Cooper.

‘I think Trisha was the outdoors type. She had a couple of horses back in Surrey, member of the RSPB, donated to animal charities.’

‘A bit of an odd couple, do you think?’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘Had they been to the Peak District before?’

‘Yes. They’d even stayed in the same cottage, but during the summer of the previous year.’

‘I see.’

‘And?’ said Fry impatiently.

But Cooper ignored her. There was something familiar not only about the background, but about the stance of the man, the intimate expression. But most familiar of all was the face — blue eyes, a shock of fair hair. Yes, a young Robert Redford, with a hint of Brad Pitt.

‘Do you fancy him, or what?’ said Fry.

‘No,’ said Cooper. ‘But I remember him.’

‘So when did you see David Pearson?’

‘I’m not sure.’

She glanced at him suspiciously. ‘You never were a good liar, Ben.’

He shrugged. ‘It might just be that I’ve seen the photographs before. In connection with the missing persons inquiry. I don’t know.’

Fry was silent, forced to accept it as a possible explanation. But he could tell that she still wanted to ask more questions.

‘He’s distinctive,’ she said at last. ‘Looks like a film star. I can’t quite remember which one …’

‘Robert Redford.’

‘Oh?’ She seemed to think about it for a moment. ‘Before my time, I think.’

‘Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid? All the President’s Men?’

‘I can’t quite picture-’

‘Think of Brad Pitt, then.’

‘I suppose so. I prefer Johnny Depp myself.’

Cooper shook his head. ‘Wrong type altogether.’

‘So — you’ll be going over the ground again in the Pearson inquiry. Where are you heading first?’

He looked at her vaguely.

‘Back into the past, I think,’ he said.

‘I suppose I shouldn’t say it …’

‘What?’

‘Best place for you,’ said Fry.

‘No, you shouldn’t.’

Murfin was beaming at them from his desk, his phone poised in mid-air. He seemed reluctant to let Fry leave the office without a parting jibe.

‘Happy to be back among the sheep again, Diane? I bet you’ve been missing the little woolly darlings.’

Fry spun on her heel, an angry glower on her face.

‘Once I drive away from Edendale for the last time, I’m never going to leave civilisation again. Trust me, I’ll be happy if I don’t have to see another damn sheep ever in my life.’

As an exit line, it wasn’t bad. It was certainly one Cooper would remember.

8

It really was such a shame about the Light House. For generations, people had known where they were when they saw the pub. They had chosen it as a meeting place, as a halfway point on a journey, as a perfect spot to stop for a breather and admire the view.

The trouble was, not enough of them had actually been going inside, except to use the toilets. No one had recommended eating a meal there for years. No one even chose the Light House for a drinking session. It was impossible to include in a stag-night pub crawl because it was so far out of town. In its last few years it didn’t even have real ale on tap to attract the aficionados, and that meant even morris dancers stayed away. Reputation was everything in the pub business. The Light House had possessed a good reputation once. But that had long since trickled away — and with it the majority of its customers.

Cooper walked up from the car park on to the front terrace, which looked out over the valley. It had been a favourite spot to sit in the summer, when the weather was good. He’d sat there many times himself, gazing towards the horizon where the hills disappeared in a warm haze.

But his eye was still drawn towards the pub itself — blank, windowless and dead. The facade had looked Georgian in style, with big sash windows placed in perfect symmetry. Now, those windows had vanished underneath the boarding. He wondered if they would ever re-emerge and light up the way they once had, re-creating that familiar landmark. He didn’t feel optimistic about the prospect. Once things had gone, they tended to stay that way. The past didn’t come back.

‘I thought they would be here already,’ said Villiers, leaning against the bonnet of Cooper’s car. ‘I wonder where they are.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Cooper. ‘They don’t intend to share everything they do with us, that’s obvious.’

‘Is that the way it is these days?’

‘I think we just got unlucky,’ said Cooper.

‘DS Fry is a good officer, I think.’