She’d always thought of her older sister Angie as the addictive personality of the family. But at least Angie had cleaned herself up and escaped the heroin. Now she was back in Birmingham, working in a vintage clothes shop, still refusing to talk about some of the things she’d been doing in these past few years.

Fry felt envious of her sister sometimes. She would love to be able to disappear for a while, then come back, start a whole new life and never feel she had to talk about her time in Derbyshire.

It was funny, though, how things worked out. No matter what she did, certain aspects of Derbyshire seemed determined to keep coming back to haunt her. Deep down, Fry knew that she would never be allowed to escape completely.

15

‘Well, it arrived,’ said Gavin Murfin next morning. He had his feet up on his desk, ready to soak up any attention like a basking seal.

Cooper stopped halfway into the CID room, with his leather jacket still hung over one shoulder. He really wasn’t in the mood for Murfin this morning.

‘What arrived, Gavin?’

Murfin held up a box. ‘My OBE. Special delivery by a bad-tempered bloke on a pushbike. He was disguised as our usual postman, but I reckon he must have been a royal equerry at least. I’m sure there was a corgi peeking out of his bag when he rode away.’

‘Oh, it’s your DJ medal. Damn, I haven’t got mine yet.’

That made Murfin beam. ‘Priorities, mate. Someone has to get it first. So Maj chose those of us with the longest and most distinguished service, like.’

‘That could be it, I suppose.’

‘I’ll let you have a look, though.’

‘Cheers.’

Cooper cradled the box carefully. The medal bore an image of Queen Elizabeth II on one side, looking a bit severe, with the inscription Elizabeth II Dei Gratia Regina Fid Def. On the reverse was a diamond symbol with the royal crest. It resembled a ten-pence piece in size, and carried the dates 1952–2012.

They were all due to get their medals to celebrate the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee. They were being presented to the armed forces, emergency services and prison service staff, as well as community support officers who had completed five full years of service in February.

With that thought, Cooper’s eyes were drawn across the room to where Becky Hurst sat. Not everyone in the office would receive the medal. Hurst hadn’t quite completed five years. She’d moved rapidly into CID from a spell as a response officer in C Division, which was a testament to her ability. But she missed out on the qualifying date for the Diamond Jubilee medal by a week or two. He knew that it bugged her, especially when medals were being handed out to PCSOs and even to Specials, the unpaid volunteers who turned out at weekends to help at major events.

‘Nice,’ said Cooper. ‘Take it home with you, Gavin.’

‘But I thought—’

‘No. Take it home.’

Murfin looked at him, and for once he didn’t object or make a sarcastic comment.

‘Okay, boss.’

It was going to be hard to avoid the subject altogether during the next few weeks, as other officers received their medals. Murfin was the first, but all the medals were due to be awarded in the first half of the year. The Diamond Jubilee celebrations themselves would take place at the beginning of June. They had even moved the Spring Bank Holiday from the last Monday in May to coincide with the anniversary.

Cooper took off his jacket and sat down at his desk, feeling that he was always skating on thin ice in some way, whatever he did. Here in the office, when he was at Bridge End Farm, when he was with Liz … Was this what life was going to be like from now on?

‘So tell us, Gavin,’ said Cooper, ‘what did Diane Fry do yesterday?’

‘She talked to the family of the old landlord from the Light House,’ said Murfin, seeming equally ready to change the subject.

‘Mad Maurice Wharton?’

‘Not him, but the wife and daughter. And she made a right mess of it, too, by all accounts.’

‘Oh?’

There could only have been one source for that account, since Becky Hurst had been allocated to work with Fry. Cooper couldn’t resist a small smile of satisfaction at this evidence of how little loyalty Fry had earned for herself. Then he let the smile drop. It was an ungracious thought. He had no real reason to be jealous of Fry, did he? No, of course not.

‘The wife and daughter?’ he said. ‘What about Maurice Wharton himself?’

Murfin shook his head sadly. ‘He’s in a bad way, apparently. Cancer of the pancreas.’

‘Ouch.’

‘Ouch is right.’

‘You know, on the way here I was trying to recall what he looks like,’ said Cooper.

‘Are you kidding?’ said Murfin. ‘Did you never actually see that bloke? Once seen, never forgotten. If you wanted to describe him to someone, you’d have to invent a whole new word for ugly.’

‘I think I do recall him now, though. A big guy, long hair growing over his collar at the back, and a fine set of jowls?’

‘Two fine sets of jowls,’ said Murfin. ‘I always found him a bit scary, in fact. But in a good way, if you know what I mean. Like watching a horror film to give yourself a fright when the monster appears.’

Cooper looked at the files and found a photograph of Wharton. ‘Well I’m not sure he’s that bad.’

‘No, no – that doesn’t do him justice,’ said Murfin. ‘Trust me. You’ve got to see him in the flesh to get the full effect.’

Villiers and Irvine entered the office. Cooper reminded himself that Luke had been spending all his time ploughing through the case files, reading reports, going over old witness statements. He was starting to look a bit jaded already.

‘Are you okay, Luke?’ he asked.

‘Sure.’

Cooper looked around his team. Such as it was, they were all here.

‘So what do we really make of this theory that the Pearsons skipped the country?’

‘We?’ asked Irvine, as if surprised to be asked.

‘Well, give me an overview. What has everyone been saying over these past couple of years?’

‘Oh, pretty much everything you can imagine has been said at some time,’ said Irvine, warming up as he got the chance to share what he’d learned from all those reports. ‘In the early days, there were lots of crackpot rumours springing up, as always. People reported seeing the Pearsons in New Zealand, in Guatemala, in Florida. Someone started a Facebook page called “I’ve seen David Pearson”, with faked pictures using the shots of them issued for the press appeals. Basically, they treated David like some latter-day Lord Lucan, with Trisha as a female sidekick. Stories went round that the Pearsons had bought a villa in the Algarve, an apartment in Moscow, a council house in Inverness. David was even spotted busking on the London Underground. He’d apparently learned to play the guitar, grown a beard and gained three inches in height while he’d been missing.’

Hurst laughed, but Irvine’s face didn’t change. His expression said it was only what he would expect from some people, who were pathetic.

‘Did that go on for long?’ asked Villiers.

Irvine shook his head. ‘It was a one-month wonder. People soon got tired of it and moved on to the next craze. None of it helped us, of course. We didn’t have a hope of sifting through everything, so we just concentrated on a few of the more likely sightings. And I’m using “likely” in a very relative sense, to mean the least bizarre.’

‘There was nothing else? No credit card transactions, no cash withdrawals, no record of the Pearsons passing through customs or buying air tickets?’

‘No, none of those.’

‘Well, either that was a particularly good disappearing act,’ said Villiers. ‘Or they’ve been dead all this time.’

Irvine shrugged. ‘We all know it’s possible to drop off the grid completely, if you have enough money. And the Pearsons had the money. They could have bought forged passports, new identity documents, opened bank accounts in new names. It only needs one contact to fix the whole thing.’