Dead And Buried

The hostility in his voice sounded genuine. It was more than just the resentment of an ungrateful public that was common among people working in the hospitality and service industries. Maclennan’s tone suggested that he knew too much about these particular customers personally.

But a moment later he seemed to have second thoughts. He straightened up, took a look round, stubbed out his cigarette.

‘Well, it was a shame when they had to close the pub,’ said Maclennan. ‘I suppose they’d seen it coming for quite a while, though.’

‘The Whartons, you mean?’ asked Cooper.

‘Yes. Well, Maurice in particular. You could see him getting more and more depressed. I reckon it was weighing on his mind for years before they eventually had to pull the plug. I mean, a man wants to believe that he can support his family and run a business properly. Maurice was a proud sort of bloke. I’m not surprised it hit him so hard.’

‘You say he was getting depressed?’

‘Oh, aye. Morose, he was. He’d always been such a character. Cantankerous, you’d say. Crabby and bad-tempered maybe. But a lot of it was show. He liked to live up to his reputation.’

‘His image as Mad Maurice,’ said Cooper.

‘That’s it. He loved all that. It gave him a bit of fame. He played up to it something rotten at times, winding up the tourists and so on. Regulars who knew him thought it was hilarious. “That’s Mad Maurice for you,” they’d say. But, well … when the pub started to get into trouble, you could see it was more than that. Maurice lost heart all of a sudden. One day we all realised that he wasn’t joking any more. He really was moody. He began to drink, too. Well, when a landlord starts to drink his own booze, it’s the beginning of the end, in my view. A very slippery slope. Poor old Maurice.’

‘I dare say you know Mr Wharton’s health is very poor?’ said Cooper.

‘That’s on account of the booze, though, isn’t it? The booze and the stress. I couldn’t say which caused which. Probably a bit of both. Like a vicious cycle.’

‘Circle,’ said Cooper.

‘What?’

‘It’s a vicious circle.’

‘That’s what I said.’

Cooper found himself distracted by the sight of a couple of estate agents he wasn’t familiar with. They didn’t have offices in Edendale, so their properties were probably more on the western borders of the county.

He realised Maclennan was looking at him strangely.

‘Sorry, what were you saying?’’ asked Cooper.

‘I was saying that you might want to talk to Josh Lane, Sergeant. He was their regular barman. The Whartons had quite a few casual staff while I was there, but Josh was full time, right up to the end. He became almost like one of the family.’

‘Thank you.’

Cooper took a last look round Chapel-en-le-Frith. The men’s hairdresser’s was doing good business. Two women were chatting outside the post office, near a recruitment poster for Hope Valley Rugby Club. At a beauty parlour in the high street they were offering a fish foot spa treatment. Ten pounds for a fifteen-minute session.

‘I can’t tell you anything else,’ said Maclennan. ‘As you can see, I got out before it was too late. You might call me a rat deserting a sinking ship, I suppose. That would be fair. But if you ask me, Maurice Wharton was sinking in a sea of his own alcohol.’

16

At the council house on the Devonshire Estate, Nancy Wharton was on her own. She examined Cooper critically for a moment on the doorstep. He knew she would be weighing him up, placing him for what he was, but hopefully remembering him too.

She glanced then at Gavin Murfin. It had been a difficult decision whether to bring Murfin along. In many ways, Carol Villiers would have been a better choice. But Gavin had been well known at the Light House. Mrs Wharton should recognise him, even if she didn’t know Cooper himself.

‘Old faces,’ she said. ‘I suppose you want to come in.’

‘Please, Mrs Wharton.’

Every house had a unique smell. Cooper never got tired of walking into someone else’s home and trying to identify the aromas. Sometimes it was a mix of artificial scents — air fresheners, perfumes, furniture polish. At other times it could only be called a stench. Substances too noxious to mention oozed out of the furniture, and the carpet stuck to his feet as he crossed a room.

Here, the Whartons seemed to have brought subtle hints of the Light House with them on to the Devonshire Estate. He couldn’t quite put a name to the smells, but they were creating those momentary flashes of memory, the way scents sometimes could, being so much more evocative than the other senses.

It might be the type of furniture polish used, or the mingling of old beer and smoke that you might get used to if you’d lived with it for years. But if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine himself sitting in the snug at the Light House. He could practically taste the beer, hear the buzz of conversation around him.