Actually, Cooper knew he should be glad of something to do tonight. He needed to occupy his mind. Ever since the incident on the tower, he’d been aware of a deep ache that he was reluctant to explore, a doubt that he’d never have the answer to. Could he have done more to save John Lowther? If he’d acted differently, if he’d stayed back, if he’d made a grab for the man sooner … Despite telling his story three or four times since the tragedy had happened, he didn’t know whether he’d done the right thing or not. He supposed it would be for other people to judge him.
‘This is more like home,’ said Kotsev, watching the crowds.
‘What?’
‘A big party in the street. People having fun. Give me a few stalls selling sunflower seeds, and I would be happy.’
‘You’ll have to make do with fish and chips.’
Kotsev laughed. ‘Mnogo vkusno. Delicious.’
They walked slowly through the beer garden behind the Midland Hotel, overlooking the river. Clusters of people were gathered at the Bikers’ Well near the war memorial. Here, the shallow river was bordered by horse chestnuts, branches skimming the surface of the water. Disused, ivy-covered steps led down to the water’s edge. Tilted beds of rock formed multi-coloured cliffs on the opposite bank. An old ceramic drainage pipe lay embedded in the mud near a scattering of shingle.
The illuminated boats were due to parade from New Bridge at the southern end of the village as far as the Pavilion, passing along the length of Derwent Gardens. On a map showing the start and finish, some comedian had drawn in a black shape halfway along the route and marked it ‘Bermuda Triangle’.
Cooper looked across the road. Fry and Murfin were standing in front of the chop house at the bottom of Holme Road, watching the crowds using a pedestrian crossing opposite the Thyme Restaurant.
Behind the Riverside Fish Restaurant was a boating jetty, then a row of shops leading to the Pavilion. Hulley’s buses were ferrying people from the park-and-ride area to the Pavilion car park, which had been reserved for emergency vehicles. Scores of motorbikes now lined the kerb on South Parade, all the way from the ice-cream parlour up to the aquarium. A girl was selling ice cream and slush puppies from a kiosk. A pair of mallard ducks stood hopefully on the pavement outside a fish shop.
There was no sign of Brian Mullen, and Derwent Gardens weren’t open to the crowds yet. Cooper crossed the road to the corner of Temple Road. The car park here was full, too. He and Kotsev walked along the rows of cars, looking for Mullen’s red Citroën without success.
Cooper turned at the end of a row, and Kotsev touched his arm.
‘Ben, it’s OK.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You shouldn’t worry about such things. About such people.’
For a moment, Cooper thought he was going to lose control. He felt as though he might let all the stress out in a burst of anger against the wrong person.
‘Look, just give me a minute, Georgi.’
Just below the car park, he found a pond. It lay in a circular hollow near the road, overhung by bay trees. In the middle of the water, a fountain sprayed over a column of tufa. Dozens of the black beetles called waterboatmen sculled on the surface among floating lilies, perhaps fooled by the strings of coloured lights into thinking it was still daytime. In fact, the column looked to be more moss than tufa. But on the bank behind it were patches already turning to stone. The vegetation looked normal from a distance, except for its colour. But it was already dead and hard, retaining only the appearance of life.
‘It looks as though the gardens are being opened up,’ said Fry through his ear piece. ‘The crowds are starting to move that way.’
‘Well, at least they’ll all be in one place. There are thousands of them. And they’re still coming in. There’s another busload arriving now.’
‘I’ve asked for a car to cruise through the rugby ground to see if they can spot Mullen’s car at the park-and-ride.’
‘Good idea.’
Kotsev was waiting for him on the pavement. Most of the police officers deployed in Matlock Bath tonight were on traffic duty, keeping the lines of cars moving. Across the road, the gardens themselves were being patrolled by security staff and stewards in yellow jackets. As soon as the fairground and fast-food stalls had set up, the barriers were taken down and people began to filter past the volunteers standing by with buckets for donations.
‘There are so many people,’ said Cooper. ‘We’d better split up from here. You know what Brian Mullen looks like, Georgi?’
‘I have the photograph. And there’s the child with him –’
‘Yes, probably.’
Cooper worked his way past the St John Ambulance, the Venetian Boat Builders Association, stalls for the Cats Protection League and a Chernobyl children’s charity. A woman who looked like a gypsy pulled a scarf across her face and turned away from the light. A fortune teller, or perhaps a pickpocket. Well, it wasn’t his business tonight.
It was dark now, and all the children were carrying rainbow spinners, yellow light sticks or flashing fish. One by one, they stopped and pointed at the illuminated butterflies and dragons in the trees. Cooper came to a central area lined with fast-food vans. The local radio station, Peak FM, had set up its roadshow in the bandstand, where an ageing Elvis in a black outfit was belting out songs from a cloud of green artificial smoke.
Further on was the fairground. An old-fashioned ferris wheel, a mini waltzer, a set of dodgem cars and a train ride. Down at this end of the gardens, the mixture of smells was enough to make your head swim: diesel fumes from the generator running the dodgems, chemicals from a row of portaloos, hot dogs and onions from a fast-food van.
He stood between the boom of rap music blasting across the dodgems circuit and the sound of a teenage rock band performing ‘Layla’ in a cloud of green smoke at the Peak FM roadshow. Around him were the screams of children on the pirate boat, the constant clang of a bell on the train ride. A would-be Eric Clapton launched into a dramatic guitar solo.
‘Even if they’re here, there’s no way we’ll spot them in this crush. We don’t stand a chance.’
‘Stay near the front of the crowd. He won’t have Luanne at the back, if he wants her to see the boats.’
‘OK.’
The strings of coloured lights were reflected and elongated in the water, and across the river the trees on the hillside were lit by patches of brilliant colour – blue, green, red. Seven thirty came and went. By the time announcements over the PA system warned of the impending boat parade, people were already jostling for the best positions along both banks of the river and on the new bridge. Above the gardens, a bus passed behind the illuminated trees. In the distance, Upper Towers was lit up on the Heights of Abraham. It floated in the sky like some airborne castle.
‘There are people standing three deep on the bridge. I don’t know how it can take the weight.’
‘That’s nothing. They’re about five deep this side of the river. It looks pretty much the same across the other side.’
‘At least they’re standing in one place now, instead of moving about. Let’s try and get round the crowd while the boats keep their attention.’
The commentary was almost impossible to make out from here. It was a loud blare, an indistinguishable voice echoing among the trees, only the occasional word emerging from the babble. The announcer seemed to be telling the crowd that the winning boat was called American Express.
The boats drifted out one at a time from the boat jetty until they were in the middle of the current. When they were midstream, each one lit up suddenly, to a cheer from the children on the bank. So the Empire State Building and the White House appeared all at once in the darkness, drifting above the water, glittering in multi-coloured lights that reflected on the surface.