Dead And Buried

‘He had too much to drink at the Light House one night. Not that that was unusual. But he’d made himself particularly obnoxious that evening. Someone called the police and reported him for drink-driving. But he’d never actually tried to drive away. He was arrested while he was sleeping in his van in the pub car park. The police found the keys in his pocket, and charged him with being drunk in charge of a vehicle. Banned for twelve months.’

‘So who reported him? Who made the call?’

‘How should I know?’

Cooper was starting to get a bit irritated by the way people answered his questions with another question. Especially that one. How should I know? It was always employed to sound like a denial, but it was actually just another evasion.

‘There were a few others,’ said Mrs Wheatcroft. ‘Vince Naylor. Mmm … not many, though. Aidan was a bit of a loner, actually. You might say he was quite odd, in a way.’

Interesting. Those names had already been mentioned earlier, in the office. Ian Gullick, yes. And Vince Naylor. Cooper made a discreet note.

‘The night before the Pearsons disappeared,’ he said, ‘there was another group of visitors in the pub. They were seen talking to the Pearsons.’

‘Not local?’

‘No. Visitors.’

She ran a hand through her hair, disarranging it even more.

‘I think I remember. They were from down south somewhere.’

‘They were staying in a holiday cottage nearby too, were they?’

‘Rented, yes. Most visitors are only around for a week or two.’

Cooper gazed out of the window, and saw that the edge of the moor was just visible beyond the green at the ninth hole of the golf club.

‘If you can remember the name of those people, or where they came from in the south, that would be a big help,’ he said.

Mrs Wheatcroft looked at him with a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘Watford,’ she said. ‘They came from Watford. I can see them now, sitting in that corner near the window. I can see their matching cagoules and woollen sweaters. And I can hear him talking about the football club. They came from Watford.’

‘You went to the Light House often, didn’t you?’

‘Not that often,’ she said cautiously. ‘Not on my pension. Besides, I don’t have a car. I needed a lift to get up there. Either that or a taxi, which is too expensive for a pensioner like me.’

‘And that night?’

‘I went with my daughter. She’s divorced.’

‘And was Aidan Merritt there?’

‘Yes, of course.’ She leaned closer, with a conspiratorial half-wink. ‘But there was one night the previous week when his wife was there on her own.’

‘Mrs Merritt?’ said Cooper in surprise.

‘Samantha, that’s her name. Plain-looking girl. She ought to put in a bit more effort. But I had a bit of a joke with her.’

‘Did you, Mrs Wheatcroft?’

‘I told her that if she sat on her own in that place, she’d be pestered by men all night. But she didn’t seem to care.’

Cooper frowned. ‘Do you think Samantha might actually have been there with the intention of picking up a man?’

Mrs Wheatcroft gave a short laugh, then shook her head again. ‘No, that’s wrong. I shouldn’t laugh. We don’t know anything about other people’s lives, do we? She might have been doing that, for all I know.’

‘Did you see her talking to anyone?’

‘No, I don’t think so. There were people around her, at other tables. But she didn’t seem to be speaking to anyone.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes. Well … pretty sure.’

Mmm. Perhaps a hint of a memory there that might surface later?

‘If you do remember anything later, Mrs Wheatcroft, please give me a call. It could be important.’

‘Yes, I see that.’

‘And it was definitely Watford, was it?’ asked Cooper. ‘The town those visitors came from?’

She looked surprised. ‘Watford? No, no. Coventry — that was the place.’

Mrs Wheatcroft beamed at him, her face lighting up with a smile that suggested pride in an achievement. Cooper recognised that look. He’d seen it often in his own mother as she grew older — that delight in plucking a name from the air that had almost managed to elude her. After a while, every accurate recollection became a minor triumph.

Then she frowned.

‘Or it might have been Northampton,’ she said.

Cooper sighed. When he looked at Mrs Wheatcroft again, he realised that she was just like his mental image of the typical madwoman in the attic — the first Mrs Rochester perhaps, prone to alcoholism and fits of violence.

The impression was so strong that Cooper found himself expecting an insane laugh to follow him as he left her cottage and walked back towards the gate.

14

Cooper’s life was becoming dominated by lists. Their headings ran through his mind like a well-practised litany. Organists, choirs, cakes, cars, bells, banns, veils, vows, videos, rings, dresses, flowers, music, DJs and seating plans for the reception. Bridesmaids, bouquets, ushers, pageboys, speeches, guest lists, gift lists, hen nights and centrepieces for the tables at the wedding breakfast. Even honeymoon outfits, for heaven’s sake. If they ever made it that far.