‘I’ll be sure to let you know when I find out,’ said Fry.

Cooper paused. ‘Do you want me to come in?’

‘No, you’re recuperating.’

‘I don’t suppose there’s any news …?’

‘We’re still working on the Rose Shepherd shooting.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘I know,’ said Fry. ‘No, there isn’t any news of Luanne Mullen. Not yet.’

* * *

Cooper put the phone down thoughtfully. Neighbours had been a bit outside his experience until he moved to Welbeck Street. At Bridge End Farm, the nearest house had been several fields away. Even here in Edendale, there was only his landlady, Mrs Shelley, on one side, and a retired couple on the other, two former teachers who seemed to spend most of their time in Spain.

‘Who was that, Ben?’

‘It was Diane Fry.’

Liz was in his kitchen. Cooper wasn’t sure what she was doing, and it felt wrong somehow for her to be there. A few months of living on his own, and he was already feeling territorial about his space. He just hoped she wasn’t tidying up. He couldn’t do with that.

Cooper put his head around the door and saw that Liz was talking to the cat, who’d taken to her straightaway. So that was all right.

‘They still haven’t found the child,’ he said. ‘You know – Luanne Mullen.’

Liz looked up, her eyes suddenly full of concern at something she’d detected in his voice. Her dark hair was loose today, curled round her ears in the way that he liked.

‘It wasn’t your fault if the child was snatched, Ben.’

‘I didn’t say it was.’

‘No, but you were thinking it.’

Cooper raised his hands. ‘It’s a fair cop.’

Liz gave the cat another stroke, rubbing him behind the ears, creating a deep buzz of pleasure.

‘Just so long as you weren’t planning on going in to work,’ she said. ‘This is a rest day. We don’t get much chance to spend a whole day together.’

‘No, of course,’ said Cooper. ‘I wasn’t thinking that.’

‘Mmm.’

She stood up and came towards him. When she was close, he could feel her warmth. In another moment, he’d be distracted completely from what had really been on his mind.

‘Diane says they’re still working on the Rose Shepherd shooting,’ he said. ‘There’s a suspect in custody, but it isn’t going too well with him, from what I hear.’

Liz looked up at him, instinctively sharing the desire to see a satisfactory conclusion in a tragic case like the death of Miss Shepherd.

‘Did I tell you about the gun, by the way?’

‘The gun?’ said Cooper.

‘The gun you asked about, Ben. The Romanian PSL. I did tell you about the gun, didn’t I?’

A defendant was always advised by his lawyers to smarten himself up when he appeared in court. It made a better impression on a jury, and even on magistrates, who ought to know better. Have a shave, comb your hair, and borrow a suit, even if it didn’t fit.

But Keith Wade had gone a step further – he’d smartened himself up for his interview at the police station. Not many people cared about looking good in an interview room. But at least he’d ditched the woolly Arbroath smoky, and Fry could risk breathing.

‘Mr Wade, thank you for coming in earlier to give us your fingerprints.’

‘For elimination purposes, you said. Is that right?’

‘Well, that was the idea.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘First of all, I want to take you back to Sunday night again, when you first noticed the fire at your neighbour’s house.’

He looked irritated. ‘I think I’ve told you everything. Twice, probably.’

‘How did you get into the house?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Surely you must do. You saw the smoke, went to make the 999 call, then …?’

‘I opened their front door.’

‘You opened the front door of number 32? Do you mean you broke the door down?’

‘No.’

‘Surely it wasn’t unlocked?’

Wade decided not to answer that one. He began to look sulky. In a moment, she could be into ‘no comment’ territory.

‘You’ve got a key, haven’t you?’ said Fry.

‘Like I said, I knew Brian and Lindsay well. I keep an eye on their house when they’re away.’

‘They leave you a key. That’s how you got in.’

‘Yes.’

‘You knew Brian was out that night, didn’t you?’

‘Well, yes. I always see him come and go.’

‘Mr Wade, how did you get on with boys? Jack and Liam?’

‘Oh, them –’

‘They were nice lads, you said.’

‘Little bastards, that’s what they were.’

‘One was seven years old, and the other four, Mr Wade.’

He stared at her sullenly. ‘I know that.’

‘You’re a smoker, aren’t you, sir? It was obvious as soon as I walked through your door.’

‘There’s no law against it, is there?’

‘Actually, yes. But not in the privacy of your own home.’

‘So?’

‘Unfortunately, you took your matches and lighter fluid out of your house. You took them to your next-door neighbour’s, in fact.’

‘Brian’s a good bloke,’ said Wade, leaning forward urgently.

‘He says the same about you, funnily enough. But he couldn’t be more wrong, could he?’

‘He’s my mate. I look out for him.’

‘So why did you go into his house that night, pour lighter fluid in the sitting room and set fire to it? Why did you murder his wife and children?’

‘What?’

‘There’s no point in denying it. We have your fingerprints from the can of lighter fluid that you used and left in a bin down the street.’

Wade shook his head. ‘Brian’s better off without them. Look at me – I’m a lot better off without my wife. It was the best thing that ever happened to me when she went. I ought to have kicked her out a lot sooner. Once they start giving you trouble, the best thing is to get rid of them.’

‘You mean you thought you were doing Brian Mullen a favour?’

‘Well, you could put it like that. He was a brave bloke, but not that brave. I think that’s why Brian went out so often, he couldn’t face it. He needed a helping hand, like.’

‘So you stepped in. Watching out for your neighbour, Mr Wade? That’s just great. Thank God we don’t all have neighbours like you.’

‘I don’t want to talk any more.’

‘You’ve said enough.’

Fry began to get up, then stopped. ‘When you said Brian went out so often, what did you mean?’

‘He’d been staying out really late.’

‘Like Sunday night, you mean?’

‘Yes, Sunday. And Saturday.’

‘Saturday? Brian Mullen was out on Saturday night as well?’

‘Oh yes, all night. Past three o’clock, as I recall.’

‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’

‘You never asked.’

She had a sudden memory of her conversation with Jed Skinner, Brian Mullen’s friend, his alibi. Had Skinner just slipped up when he mentioned Saturday instead of Sunday, the night of the fire? But then, why should he have thought that Saturday was the night Brian needed an alibi for? Did he think he was covering for an affair?

‘That’ll do for now, Mr Wade,’ said Fry. ‘You’ll be charged with the murder of Lindsay Mullen and her two children.’

Wade looked at her with something like distaste. Surely it ought to be the other way round. But there was no accounting for what went on in people’s minds, their rationalizations and self-justifications.

‘You know, I thought Lindsay would welcome a bit of company, with Brian being out,’ he said. ‘A bit of male company, like. But she was a bitch, like all the others. Brian is a lot better off without her.’

 Hitchens kept his chair still for once, instead of making it squeal on its swivel. Perhaps he was finally reading her thoughts, responding to the force of her unspoken will. Fry made a mental note to ask someone to come in and oil the thing when the DI was off duty.

‘The SOCOs found Wade’s digital camera,’ he said. ‘But all the photographs of the fire had been deleted from the memory card.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Fry. ‘He was worried we might find something incriminating.’