Dead And Buried

But Fry reminded herself that Nancy had gone through particular troubles of her own in the last couple of years. She’d lost the Light House after a fruitless struggle against financial difficulties, and now she had to deal with the husband’s terminal illness, which was likely to be another long, futile battle.

Betty Wheatcroft lived in an old cottage right on the outskirts of Edendale. It must have been in a village once, but the town had swallowed it up decades ago. Now the cottage, and a few others like it, was sandwiched between the clubhouse of Edendale Golf Club and a small industrial estate whose units housed an MOT test centre and a signmaker’s.

When he got out of the car, Cooper inhaled the air, detecting an all too familiar smell. Even on the edge of Edendale, a hint of acrid smoke was on the wind. He looked at the roof of a car parked outside the nearest house. Black flecks speckled the surface like the first spots of a dark, soot-filled rain.

As soon as he knocked, a woman’s face appeared round the edge of the door and scrutinised his ID.

‘Detective Sergeant Cooper, Edendale CID,’ he said. ‘Are you Mrs Wheatcroft?’

‘Come in, come in,’ said the woman. ‘Don’t stand outside. Our neighbours are like the CIA — they’ll have the binoculars and microphones trained on you already.’

Cooper thought she was joking, but she took hold of his sleeve and almost dragged him into the hall.

Betty Wheatcroft had wild grey hair, and her eyes showed a faintly manic gleam. If there had been any weapons in the room, a kitchen knife lying on the table maybe, he wouldn’t have felt entirely safe. As it was, he found himself checking his route to the door, in case he needed to make a hasty retreat. Strange, how that fixed stare could be so unsettling. He supposed it was an instinctive fear of insanity, a primal distrust of the unpredictable.

‘It’s very distressing,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been able to eat since I heard. I haven’t been out of the house.’

‘There’s no need to be afraid, Mrs Wheatcroft,’ said Cooper.

‘Are you sure?’

She looked towards the window, as if fearing a murderer stalking her street. But what threat could there be to her from the golf club or the MOT test centre?

‘Aidan,’ she said. ‘Yes, I knew poor Aidan. Shocking business. Shocking. But that’s the sort of thing that happens these days, isn’t it? It goes on all over the place. None of us is safe. We’re not safe even in this street. That’s why the so-called Neighbourhood Watch knock on my door all the time.’

‘Aidan Merritt,’ said Cooper, realising straight away that his main task would be to keep Mrs Wheatcroft on track. He was very accustomed to these visits to old people living on their own. They were often lonely, and didn’t get many visitors. The result was that they seized eagerly on any human company and the chance of a bit of conversation. It was one of the things that made them so vulnerable to distraction thefts, and attractive as prey for the smooth-talking conmen who pretended to be from the electricity company. Many elderly people had lost hundreds of pounds just because they wanted someone to talk to.

But this was his last job of the day, and he hoped the visit wouldn’t stretch out too long. Liz had plans for the evening. She’d lined up a viewing of her preferred wedding venue, and his presence there was essential.

‘I felt sorry for him, trying to teach children these days,’ said Mrs Wheatcroft. ‘It must be a thankless task. Schools are all about targets and test results. You don’t really get a chance to teach them anything. Well, that’s what I told him. And he seemed to agree with me.’

Cooper smiled as he looked round the interior of the cottage. Plenty of books and papers in haphazard piles, framed photographs of a younger Mrs Wheatcroft with groups of small children, a home-made farewell card covered in scrawled signatures.

‘Were you a teacher yourself, Mrs Wheatcroft?’ he asked.

‘Yes, how did you know?’

‘It was just a guess.’

‘I worked in local schools for thirty-five years,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen some changes, I can tell you.’

‘Aidan Merritt,’ said Cooper. ‘Who else did he talk to at the Light House?’

‘Oh, well … I suppose there was that Ian Gullick. Horrible man.’

‘Gullick?’

‘He’s a van driver, delivers motor parts to garages or something.’ She chuckled. ‘At least he does when he’s got his driving licence.’

‘Meaning?’

‘He got banned from driving.’

Mrs Wheatcroft’s look of satisfaction was unsettling. The smile was a little too smug — the contentment of a trick or spell that had worked successfully.

‘What happened?’ asked Cooper.