Scared to Live (13 page)

a blank page in her address book, though. It's just three digits: 359.' 'A dialling code, perhaps,' offered Kessen. 'Well, we checked it out. The Highbury area of London comes closest - 0207 359.' 'Inner London?' 'Yes, London N1.' 'What about the 0359 code? Where's that?' 'Nowhere. It's a BT code all right, but it's allocated for future network expansion.' 'Could it be a country code?' said Cooper. 'Is there a directory somewhere?' 'On the shelf.' He picked up the directory and leafed through the pages towards the back. 'They don't list international codes by number, but by country, in alphabetical order. Hold on ... Well, that didn't take long. It says here 359 is the code for Bulgaria.' 'Oh, great. There's a job for someone to follow up. Any volunteers?' There was a ripple of laughter round the room as the atmosphere eased and officers recognized the end of the briefing approaching. 'I know it's going to be a pain in the neck for Scientific Support, but we should get someone to go over the whole house for fingerprints,' said Kessen. 'The fact that the victim didn't spend too much time dusting should work in our favour.' 'Meanwhile, the IT team are giving the laptop a going over,' said Hitchens. 'If Rose Shepherd had information stored somewhere, it might be online. There are plenty of sites offering free web storage space.' 'Protected by a password, of course. So we just have to hope we strike lucky.' 'Basically, the victim's story seems to be this: she kept herself

hidden away in Bain House for the best part of a year, then for some reason decided to go for an afternoon out in Matlock Bath. That same night she was murdered by person or persons unknown.' 'It's as if she was hiding from someone. Do you think she was frightened of being recognized if she went out?' 'Yes, she thought she was in danger. And it looks as though she exposed herself to that danger on Saturday. But we don't know why. We're working on the theory that the victim was seen in Matlock Bath by someone who followed her home to find out where she lived. Somehow, they also obtained her ex-directory phone number. Then they wasted no time in eliminating her.' 'She must really have upset someone in the past.' 'Absolutely. If we can establish why Rose Shepherd was in hiding, it should give us a lead on her killer. At the moment, she's still something of an enigma. But that was all her own doing. In making it difficult for anyone to find her, Miss Shepherd also made it harder for us to identify her murderer.'

After the meeting, Cooper collected the actions he'd been allocated on the enquiry, then went straight to his computer. He Googled the Matlock Bath webcam and soon found the site. Life in a Lens, that was the name of the photography museum. The camera seemed to be mounted on the roof. According to the caption, the webcam picture was updated every sixty seconds on weekdays, but it seemed to be more like thirty seconds when it began to reload. The picture was pretty grainy, of course. They'd have a hard time identifying anyone, unless there was detailed information available about what they were wearing at the time. Matlock Bath was a bit like a seaside resort, but without the sea. Beyond the railings to the right there was just the shallow water of the River Derwent. The camera covered only a section of the road and the river beyond it. This was

North Parade, looking northwards to Jubilee Bridge. But the picture showed almost nothing of the shops and cafes on the promenade, except for a glimpse of some buildings in the background. It was a grey, damp day in Matlock Bath. The river was brown and choppy, and Cooper could see mist hanging on the slopes of the narrow valley. Cars and people were reflected in the wet tarmac of North Parade. Fry stopped to look over his shoulder. 'Is that Matlock Bath?' 'Yes.' 'It looks pretty miserable.' 'It's one of those places that changes completely at weekends, or in the summer. On a busy bank holiday, you wouldn't recognize it.' 'I'll take your word for it.' Cooper looked up at her. 'Diane, do you think the internet is how Rose Shepherd created a social life for herself?' 'It's beginning to look that way, isn't it? Why?' 'I always find that a bit sad. I don't think the internet was ever intended to replace social contact, only to make communication easier for people who were isolated from each other.' 'As far as we can tell, Miss Shepherd was isolated,' said Fry. 'It's just that she'd cut herself off deliberately.' 'I can't even begin to imagine living like that,' said Cooper. 'I'd get desperate very quickly.' Fry reached for her phone as it rang. 'It looks as though Miss Shepherd must have been a pretty strong-willed, self sufficient woman, don't you think?' Cooper couldn't answer her, because she began to talk into the phone. He thought about it for a moment, though. No matter how strong-willed and self-sufficient Rose Shepherd had been, she'd still got desperate in the end. So desperate that she'd made a bad mistake. Then he noticed the webcam picture reloading on his screen.

Within the space of thirty seconds, the stretch of promenade he was looking at had become deserted. The people had run for cover, the cars had moved on. Now there was no one at all to be seen in his grey, misty glimpse of Matlock Bath.

In response to a summons, Fry had joined Hitchens in the DCI's office. Kessen didn't look happy, despite his attempt to strike a positive note for the enquiry team when he wound up the briefing. 'Sir, Rose Shepherd wasn't on someone's witness protection programme, was she?' asked Hitchens. Kessen shook his head. 'I've already asked the question, Paul. But where's her panic button? Where's her minder? There's no sign of anyone ever being in the house with her.' 'It's still possible, though.' 'If she was an individual our intelligence is aware of, we'll hear back soon enough. If not, one of the phone numbers in her book ought to turn something up. And if that still doesn't bring anyone running, let's hope the media coverage does.' 'It's like you said yesterday, there must be someone somewhere who's going to miss her. But there doesn't seem to be any family, no one to give us the background on her relationships.' A family liaison officer had been assigned to Brian Mullen and the Lowthers. But in Rose Shepherd's case, there was no grieving family, no one for an officer to be assigned to. 'I wonder if I could borrow DC Cooper some time?' asked Fry. 'I could use a bit of help on the triple-death fire for a while.' 'You can have him - once he's completed his actions on the Shepherd enquiry. He and DC Murfin are going to check the sightings in Matlock Bath.' 'Perhaps first thing tomorrow morning?' 'I suppose so, Diane. All being well.'

When Cooper put his jacket on, he noticed some sheets of paper sticking out of his pocket. He pulled them out and unfolded them. 'Damn you, Matt.' They were the pages his brother had printed out the previous evening. He must have slipped them into Ben's pocket when he wasn't looking. Cooper threw them down on his desk, intending to put them in the bin later. He walked to the door and opened it. Then he turned, went back to his desk, and picked up the papers. He felt tugged by some sense of obligation, but he wasn't sure who to. His brother? His mother? Or perhaps to himself, or some unborn generation.

Researchers are studying genes that may be involved in schizophrenia and looking for ways to direct treatment according to genetic make-up. Brain imaging has identified differences in the brain for people at risk. Many studies have found evidence of abnormal brain structure and function in unaffected siblings. The advice is to talk with a psychiatrist face-to-face about what you're experiencing, even if it is only occasional forgetfulness or a feeling that you're 'losing it'. What you're experiencing may be related to stress, and not to schizophrenia.

Cooper shuddered. Everyone thought they might be losing it at some time in their lives, didn't they? It didn't necessarily indicate a deeper problem. But occasionally, such ideas did rise from the depths of his mind to settle on the surface, like a scum of decomposing leaves. It was best not to disturb them. They were black and slimy with putrescence. Leave them alone, and they'd sink to the bottom again, vanish in a bubble of gas. That was the best way. He wished Matt would understand it.

11

Flowers had started to arrive at Darwin Street. Floral tributes to Lindsay Mullen and the two children. They came from relatives, friends and neighbours, and even from people who'd never known them. Communal grief had become fashionable, even in Edendale. Next door, Keith Wade was complaining to a uniformed constable that he'd had to park his car at the end of the road because of the outer cordon. Fry saw that he was still wearing the same sweater. It must smell like a badger by now. No wonder Mr Wade lived alone. And, of course, the fire investigator from the Forensic Science Service had arrived at Darwin Street when Fry wasn't looking. As a result, he'd already assessed the scene and was setting out his equipment in the Mullens' sitting room when she found him. 'Glad you could make it,' she said. 'DS Fry.' He was a small, middle-aged man whose white paper suit emphasized his pear-shaped body. And when he spoke, he revealed a Scottish accent. 'Quinton Downie,' he said, taking off a glove to shake hands. 'Do you have all the background information you need?'

'All that you can give me, apparently.' 'You know the time of the call to the fire service, and the apparent seat of the blaze, based on the firefighters' observations. We can't tell you anything about the contents of this room.' 'Yes, yes. So what is my objective? The cause of the fire? Mode of spread? Want me to comment on the accuracy of witness statements?' 'The cause of the fire will do for now, thank you.' 'Just so we're clear. It would be very useful to examine photographs of the scene during the fire.' 'Oh?' Downie looked up at her. 'Try asking around the neighbours - someone may have taken photos or videos of the fire. It's amazing how often the offender stays on to watch the fun.' 'It's already been done. Right now, I just need you to concentrate on your own job.' 'OK. So ... Locate seat of fire. Consider possible ignition sources. Excavate seat?' Downie tilted his head to one side and looked at the charred remains around him. 'Yes, I think so. Then take samples, formulate hypotheses. And report conclusion.' 'I'll look forward to it,' said Fry. Downie was unpacking what looked like a series of pre prepared forms. 'You'll get a location plan, as well as photographs as I excavate the seat of the fire. Samples will go straight to the lab.' 'Fine.' 'By the way, I examined the outside of the building before I came in. Do you know that you have unsooted broken glass in the vicinity of a side window?' Fry had been about to leave the room, but turned back. 'What?' 'A broken side window. I wondered if your people had

noticed it already. There don't seem to be any markers round there.' 'A lot of these windows are broken,' said Fry. 'That's the result of heat from the fire, surely?' Downie looked up and smiled. 'If that were the case, the glass would be sooted on the interior surface. It isn't, which implies it must have been broken either in the early stages of the fire - or before it started.' 'You mean a point of entry?' 'Could be. I took samples anyway. But you might want to get that window examined for fingerprints or tool marks before the evidence is compromised any further.' 'You don't have to tell me my job.' Downie just sniffed, as if she wasn't even worth a reply. Fry glared at the back of his head as he continued to lay out his equipment. Looking around for someone to give instructions to, she caught sight of the fire officer standing in the doorway, grinning. At that moment, her phone rang. It was the sergeant in charge of the search team. 'I thought you'd want to know straight away, we've found an empty lighter fluid can. It's butane, but quite an unusual brand, I believe. It looks like someone found a use for a hundred millilitres of Swan Extra Refined recently.' 'Where did you find it? How near the house?' 'It had been chucked in a wheelie bin a hundred yards down the street, near the corner of Lilac Avenue. The householder says no one at this address smokes, and she has no idea how the can got in her bin. She insists it wasn't there on Sunday when she last put some rubbish out.' 'You've got it bagged properly?' 'You bet.' 'Thanks.' Fry ended the call and turned back to Downie. 'Show me this side window,' she said.

He sighed and stood up. Together, they made their way out of the house and into a side passage near the garage. Brian Mullen's car still stood on the drive. It was a red Citroen, almost the same colour as the fire appliances that had surrounded it on Sunday night. 'OK,' sighed Downie. 'Look, you have plumes of soot deposited on the exterior wall by smoke emitted from the window. But the broken glass on the ground beneath the window is unsooted. So, we can conclude that the fire didn't touch this glass.' 'Yes, I see.' 'Even from here, I can see tool marks on the window frame,' said Downie. 'You might care to check whether the firefighters obtained entry this way.' 'They didn't. They came in through the doors.' 'Right.' Downie turned to look at her. 'Pity about the shoe impressions, though.' 'What shoe impressions?' 'Precisely.' Fry looked at the ground where they were standing. It was a muddy mess, covered in crushed vegetation and trampled by size ten boots. 'Shit.' Downie shrugged. 'Think yourself lucky to get this much. The site of any fire is a challenge to the principles of crime scene management.' 'If the lab finds butane in your samples, it won't be up to me any longer anyway, lucky or otherwise,' said Fry. 'It becomes a murder enquiry.' 'I know, I know.' Fry felt herself getting angry. 'Three people died in this fire. The evidence mustn't be compromised.' 'I can assure you, Sergeant Fry, everything will be done by the book.' Fry looked at the rest of the houses in the street. A few

neighbours were clustered outside the cordon. By the book, eh? That was all she needed, some civilian lecturing her about procedure. She knew what 'by the book' meant. She also knew the principles Downie was referring to: protect, record and recover. Crime-scene examiners said that contamination only really occurred after the scene had been preserved. Anything before that was normal procedure. But in this case, procedures had involved smashing down the doors and flooding the place with water, then sending in firefighters in big boots to trample the sodden evidence. Well, the principles still applied. As long as compromises were recorded and reasons given. 'By the way,' called Downie, passing the RV point on the way to his vehicle, 'the usual advice is not to fit a smoke alarm in the kitchen. Steam and cooking fumes can set it off too easily. For a two-storey house like this, the bottom of the staircase is the best location, with a second one on the landing as an extra precaution.' 'I'll be sure to let Mr Mullen know,' said Fry. 'Who?' 'The householder. The husband of the dead woman, the father of the two dead children. He's in hospital right now, but I'm sure he'll be pleased to know that he installed the smoke alarm in the wrong place. I bet it's the information he's been waiting to hear.' Downie scowled, and seemed about to lose his temper. 'I'm just doing my job,' he snapped. 'So you said.' She watched him stamp off in his scene suit, like an angry paper bag. It wasn't much of a moral victory, though. Fry knew how much she relied on people like Downie following procedures to the letter. If she didn't have a watertight chain of custody when evidence was presented in court, it could undermine the whole case.