Blood on the Tongue - Stephen Booth

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didn’t work with Uncle Gerald – he died before he could even get round to knocking any walls down.’

      ‘I’m sorry.’

      ‘Aunt Dorothy wasn’t. She was over the moon to be rid of him. She had the house next door split into two flats. She had a proper job done of it. I think she wanted the workmen to pound the memories of Uncle Gerald into dust with their sledgehammers and cover him over with a nice layer of plaster and some magnolia wallpaper.’

      ‘And one of the flats is empty, is it?’

      ‘It was, when she asked me to put the card up,’ said Lawrence. ‘It might have gone by now, she hasn’t said. I’ve told her to make sure she lets it to the right sort of person. Reliable and trustworthy professional people only, you know. I do worry sometimes about who she might take in, if she’s left entirely to her own devices.’

      ‘I think I’d be interested, if it’s still vacant,’ said Cooper.

      ‘It might not be up to your standards, you know. Aunt Dorothy is getting a bit vague in her old age. Not quite barmy or anything, you understand. But vague about life’s little details.’

      Cooper looked at the card again. ‘Reliable and trustworthy? Do you think I would qualify, Lawrence?’

      ‘No, but you could lie.’ The bookseller laughed. He reached out a hand and patted the corduroy collar of Cooper’s waxed coat. ‘I love the cold-weather gear, by the way,’ he said. ‘Policemen usually dress so boringly, don’t they? But the cap really suits you. It shows off your eyes.’

      Cooper edged away a few inches. ‘I might give the flat a try,’ he said. ‘Mrs Shelley, 6 Welbeck Street? I’ll mention that you recommended me, shall I?’

      Lawrence chuckled. ‘Believe me,’ he said, ‘you’d be better off lying.’

      On the way out, Cooper noticed a morocco-bound volume of A Tale of Two Cities, which lay in the dust on the top of a set of shelves. It looked almost as if Mr Dickens himself had wandered into the shop one day and put the book down on the shelf, where it had stayed ever since.

      Outside, in High Street, Cooper watched a Hulley’s bus splash slowly by like a dark blue ship. It threw a bow wave of slush to either side, which threatened to sweep away the pedestrians walking on the pavement.

      As he walked back past the Clappergate shopping precinct towards West Street, Cooper patted his pockets thoughtfully. In the huge poacher’s pocket inside his coat were the books on Peak District aircraft wrecks, including the crash of Lancaster SU-V, which had brought Alison Morrissey to Edendale. In another pocket he had the estate agent’s leaflets for unsuitable properties. Cooper knew he didn’t really want to live on his own. He was moving out of Bridge End Farm because he felt so strongly it was time for a change in his life – and that was all.

      He wondered whether Alison Morrissey lived on her own. Probably not. And she was nothing to do with him, anyway. She was in Edendale only as a passing visitor. Soon, she would be flying back to Canada, to an entirely different world, and he would never see her again after today. But perhaps he could hope that there was a person a bit like Alison Morrissey, waiting for him somewhere.

       7

      Diane Fry was waiting for Ben Cooper when he arrived back at divisional headquarters in West Street. She glared at him as he came into the CID room.

      ‘You didn’t answer your phone,’ she said.

      ‘I was in the middle of something,’ protested Cooper. ‘I was going to call you back. How’s the double assault case shaping up?’

      ‘Oh, you can forget about that for now.’

      ‘Forget it? There were a couple of serious assaults, wounding with intent, possession of offensive weapons Not to mention being potentially racially motivated

      ‘Yeah, yeah, and somebody probably dropped some litter on the pavement as well when you weren’t looking. Forget it.’

      ‘But, Diane –’

      ‘Add it to your pending file, Ben. We’ve got more important things to do.’

      ‘What’s so important? Have we got another body or something?’

      ‘What’s so important,’ said Fry, ‘is that we’ve got a meeting on the Snowman case. It just became a murder enquiry.’

      Without really thinking about it, Ben Cooper had expected E Division’s new Detective Chief Inspector to be female. If not, then a member of an ethnic minority. Or at least gay. It was almost inconceivable that a senior appointment had been made without an attempt to address the balance of gender, ethnicity or sexual persuasion.

      But no matter how carefully Cooper studied DCI Oliver Kessen, he still seemed to be a middle-aged white man with receding hair and bad teeth, an ill-fitting suit and a paunch. Seated next to their old DCI, Stewart Tailby, Kessen was the centre of attention for the entire room. It was the first time anybody there had set eyes on him, though he had only come from D Division, which wasn’t exactly Australia.

      ‘Good afternoon, everybody,’ said Kessen. ‘Glad to meet you all. Is everything under control?’

      Several people opened their mouths to reply, but didn’t manage to get a word out when they saw the expression on DCI Tailby’s face. He looked like a headmaster who had warned his pupils not to talk to strangers.

      ‘Yes, I’m sure it is,’ said Tailby.

      ‘Well, I’ve just arrived and I’ve got to settle in here, so I rely on you people to bring me up to date. But I dare say everything is going smoothly. I can see Mr Tailby has been running a good team.’

      The new man nodded round the room, trying to make eye contact with as many officers as possible. Cooper saw several of his colleagues freeze like rabbits caught in car headlights, their social skills failing them disastrously when faced with suddenly conflicting demands from two equal-ranking senior officers. Kessen must have thought he had walked into a waxworks from the amount of response he got. With the right lighting, it would have made a tableau for the chamber of horrors.

      It was always a bit awkward when new bosses came. But it had been Stewart Tailby’s own decision to move on, to take up a desk job at headquarters. So he could hardly object to the new man’s arrival, and he could hardly resist having his successor sitting next to him and addressing his staff. Kessen was too inexperienced to be Senior Investigating Officer on a major enquiry. So until E Division got a Detective Superintendent to be its new CID chief, Tailby was trapped. There were others here who had expected to get Tailby’s job when he moved, but that was a different matter. It was no use telling them not to be resentful.

      ‘As some of you know, we have the preliminary results from the postmortem examination of the unidentified body of an adult male found on the A57 Snake Pass,’ said Tailby. ‘As a consequence of those results, we have opened a murder enquiry. I appreciate that all of you here have other enquiries on which you’re engaged, and I don’t need telling that we’re short of manpower. We’re hoping to get some help from other divisions, and the Chief is on the phone right now. But I have to tell you that everybody seems to be in the same boat as regards resources.’

      It was true that the room seemed more sparsely occupied than for any major enquiry Cooper could remember. It was ironic that the crisis in manpower should coincide with an unidentified murder victim and a serious assault with multiple suspects. There was a lot of routine slog involved in those cases, and not many people to do it.

      ‘DI Hitchens and DS Fry will fill you in with what information we have so far,’ said Tailby.

      The Snowman’s blue bag was on the table at the front of the conference room, wrapped in latex to preserve it as evidence. Everyone kept glancing at the bag, as if somehow it might tell them everything they needed

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