‘Go on.’

‘I remembered you had that big four-wheel drive. You do still have it, don’t you?’

‘The Toyota, yes. It’s getting a bit old now. I was thinking of replacing it.’

‘But it has plenty of space in the back, if I remember.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Cooper.

‘Enough to get my bits and pieces in, I think. If I asked nicely.’

‘Nicely? Diane, are you asking me for a favour? You want me to help you move your stuff to Nottingham?’

‘Only if you’re not doing anything else.’

‘Ah.’

So that was it. She thought he could be taken advantage of because he had nothing better to do with his time any more. Or perhaps she felt sorry for him. Cooper wasn’t sure which was worse.

‘You know perfectly well I’m not likely to be doing much,’ he said. ‘I don’t have a personal life left, of course.’

Cooper knew he was sounding ill-tempered again. Rude and unfriendly, even. He felt certain now that this was actually the reason she’d called him. She’d known he had nothing better to do, that he was just as sad a case as she was herself, ever since that fire at the Light House pub had snatched his entire future away.

No doubt it wasn’t really his load capacity she wanted, but a glimpse of Ben Cooper at his lowest ebb, just as he was moving on.

He almost ended the call then and there, with his rudest comment yet hovering on his lips. But a small voice at the back of his mind made him change his intention. He wasn’t at his lowest ebb, was he? Yes, months ago he’d been in a bad way. That couldn’t be denied. But he’d submitted himself to the counselling sessions, he’d worked all his feelings through and dealt with them. He was okay now. He was fine. He could let Diane Fry see that he was back to his normal self. More than that, he could show her that he was full of energy, raring to go. And he was ready to move on too. She would see that he wasn’t going to miss her at all. His life was totally back on track.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there in a few minutes.’

He could hear the surprise in her voice. She’d thought he wasn’t going to agree.

‘Thanks, Ben,’ she said. ‘I appreciate it.’

And that was probably a first too. Cooper couldn’t remember hearing Fry thank him before. He might actually enjoy this task.

When he ended the call, Cooper realised he was staring into the window of a children’s bookshop in Hollowgate. He didn’t remember it being here before. The shop must have opened some time during the last few months, when he wasn’t really noticing things like this.

As he focused his gaze into the shop, Cooper found himself looking at a display of books with bright, cheerful covers – The Snappy Playset Garage, The Things I Love about Bedtime and The Things I Love about School. Next to them were My Home and My Family. Each title seemed to taunt him from behind the glass, until the accumulated effect was unbearable.

He felt the urge to find a brick and toss it through the bookshop window, as if that would destroy the image. The physical action and the sound of glass smashing might make him feel better for one fleeting moment.

But it was worse than that. Cooper knew the really disturbing images were inside his head, and there was nothing he could ever do to smash them.

11

Diane Fry’s flat was in one of the large detached Victorian villas in Grosvenor Avenue, just off Castleton Road. Although the tree-lined street had once been prosperous, almost all the properties were in multiple occupancy now – one-bedroom flats, smaller bedsits and some houses where the tenants shared communal facilities.

Cooper knew this as a student area, mostly for young people studying at the High Peak College campus. He had no idea why Fry had chosen to live here when she came to Derbyshire. And he had even less understanding of her reasons for staying in Grosvenor Avenue when she could so easily have afforded somewhere better on her detective sergeant’s salary.

But that might have been because he’d never asked her about her reasons. Or he’d never asked her properly. There was a lot about Diane Fry he didn’t understand, but she only shared information about herself on a need-to-know basis. At least that meant he wasn’t the only person who didn’t understand her. Nobody at West Street did. The only person he’d ever met who might have a bit more insight was Diane’s sister, Angie. Cooper reassured himself with that fact.

A couple of the other tenants were just leaving the house as he parked outside the gate. They didn’t look like students, though. They were a bit too old and bundled up in old clothes as if off to a night shift at a job where they didn’t expect to stay clean. When he said hello to them, they answered readily enough, in accents that sounded East European. Of course, Grosvenor Avenue wasn’t just student territory any more. The High Peak College students were competing for cheap accommodation with migrant workers from countries in the European Union.

He remembered something Fry had said to him years ago, when he moved out of Bridge End Farm into his own little flat on Welbeck Street. ‘A cheap rent just means something really grotty that nobody else wants,’ she’d said. But number 8 Welbeck Street was a lot better than this.

Cooper rang the bell set among half a dozen others by the front door and it was opened almost immediately.

‘Hello, Diane.’

‘Hi. Come in.’

She left him to close the door and set off up the stairs. She was dressed in unfaded denim jeans and a sparkling white shirt, like someone who’d decided to dress casually but found she didn’t have any casual clothes. He’d rarely seen her when she wasn’t wearing black suit trousers, aiming for the smart professional look. Yet this look suited her. It somehow managed to soften her edges. Her fair hair had grown a little longer too, and it masked the hard lines of her face, which in the past she’d always seemed keen to emphasise. Whatever had caused the change in her appearance, he was glad of it. Though he knew better than to comment on it. Fry never took compliments well.

‘Aren’t you supposed to say “thank you for coming” or something like that?’ said Cooper, though he was speaking to Fry’s retreating back.

‘Oh, yes. Thanks, Ben.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he muttered as he followed her up the stairs. ‘Always a pleasure.’

Fry’s flat was on the first floor of the house. It consisted of a bedroom, a sitting room, a bathroom with a shower cubicle, and a tiny kitchen area. As soon as he entered, Cooper noticed that it had been redecorated since the last time he was here. He recalled striped wallpaper in a faded shade of brown and a carpet in washed-out blues, pinks and yellows, a pattern that looked as though it had been designed to hide substances spilled on it. The redecoration had done wonders. Fresh paintwork in cleaner, bright colours and a new carpet on the floor. Was Fry responsible for this? Or had the landlords insisted? That seemed much more likely. They would be looking to attract replacement tenants now.

Fry’s own possessions seemed to be scanty, judging by the cardboard boxes around the flat. They would barely fill the back of a small van. Surely there must be some books, music, a few prized objects she’d collected over the years. Okay, perhaps not souvenirs of the Peak District. But, well … something. He suspected these boxes contained clothes, bedding and not much else.

‘Have you moved some stuff already?’ he asked.

‘A bit,’ she said.

‘Do you want these boxes moving?’

‘No, I’m taking those myself. I can get three or four in the boot of my Peugeot each trip. It’s just this table and the bookshelves. Oh, and the TV is mine.’

Cooper nodded. ‘No problem.’

So there were bookshelves, but that didn’t mean there had been books. In fact, he couldn’t imagine what sort of books Diane Fry might read in her leisure time. Blackstone’s Police Manuals Volumes 1–4. That would be about the shape of it.