‘Would you like me to give you a lift home, Mrs Wheatcroft?’

‘That would be delightful,’ she said.

Outside the pub, Mrs Wheatcroft greeted Carol Villiers like an old friend, though they’d never met.

‘Hello, dear. Are we travelling together?’

‘Give me your arm,’ said Villiers. ‘And let me take your bag.’

‘No, no.’

Mrs Wheatcroft sounded suddenly distressed. She pulled her plastic bag out of reach, and clutched it to her bosom. Cooper heard the chink of glass. Full bottles, from the sound of it.

She settled in the back seat of his car. Villiers got in, looked at him, raised an eyebrow. Cooper shrugged. He fastened his seat belt, and they pulled out on to the road to head into Edendale.

‘Yes, I remember it very well,’ said Mrs Wheatcroft’s voice drowsily from behind him. ‘Right in the middle, hell wasn’t fiery, you know – the sinners were frozen up to their necks in a lake of ice.’

‘Ice?’ said Villiers.

‘Ice,’ she repeated. ‘And sometimes, they say, a soul falls into the ninth circle before the thread of life has been cut.’

‘Before they’ve died, you mean?’

‘Mmm. And the body left behind on earth is possessed by a demon, so what seems to be a living man is actually already dead, and has reached a stage beyond … repentance.’

On the last word, her voice faded away. Cooper looked in his rear-view mirror, and saw that the old lady was fast asleep.

An hour earlier, Diane Fry had taken a call from Nancy Wharton, the former landlady of the Light House.

Of course Mrs Wharton had really wanted to speak to Detective Sergeant Cooper, but he wasn’t around. In fact no one seemed to know how to get hold of him, so the call had been put through to Fry as the next best thing. How nice to be a more or less acceptable substitute for Ben Cooper.

Fry could have phoned Cooper to pass on the message, she supposed. But why should she? All bets were off since Cooper had gone rogue and carried out those arrests, pulling in Ian Gullick and Vince Naylor for questioning. As far as she was concerned, there was no trust left to be broken.

When she’d parked her Audi in the street on the Devonshire Estate, Nancy Wharton met her at the door of her home, with Eliot and Kirsten standing close behind her, crowding the hallway with hostile expressions on their faces. Fry saw that she wasn’t even going to get inside the house this time. Definitely second best, then.

‘We heard the news just now,’ said Mrs Wharton stiffly, speaking as though she’d rehearsed some lines to deliver.

‘Oh? You’ve heard about the bodies that were found,’ guessed Fry, though it didn’t need much guessing. The media had arrived at Oxlow Moor before she’d got there herself.

‘Yes, they’re saying it’s the Pearsons.’

‘We can’t be a hundred per cent sure at the moment, but …’

Even to Fry herself it no longer sounded convincing. Mrs Wharton treated the stock phrase with the contempt it deserved.

‘Well I’m sure,’ she said.

‘May I come in? And then we can talk about it properly, perhaps.’

Nancy shook her head. Instead she handed Fry an envelope. Then she began to back away into the hallway, as if she’d performed her role and was about to leave the stage.

‘What’s this?’ asked Fry.

‘It’s for you. Or rather, for Detective Sergeant Cooper – but they told me he isn’t available. So …’

‘Yes, but what is it?’

‘That,’ said Mrs Wharton, before she closed the door, ‘is my husband’s confession.’

27

There was a welcome awaiting Cooper when he and Villiers returned to West Street. Diane Fry was pacing the corridor impatiently, and pounced on Cooper as soon as he appeared.

‘We’ve been waiting for you,’ she said. ‘Where have you been? She’ll only talk to you.’

‘Who will?’

‘Nancy Wharton, of course.’

‘Where is she?’

‘In an interview room.’

‘Why?’

‘She gave us her husband’s statement, but obviously we have to question her. We need details, a full account of what happened.’

She was talking too fast, and Cooper wasn’t able to take it in.

‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘You’d better rewind a bit, Diane. You’re losing me.’

Fry stopped, took a deep breath. ‘Of course, you don’t know about it. You’re out of touch.’

‘I wonder whose fault that is?’

‘Okay, let’s take a few minutes.’

Cooper sat down in her tiny office and read through the letter handed over by Mrs Wharton. It was signed by her husband in a slightly shaky hand, and dated Wednesday – the day that Cooper had talked to him in the hospice. He remembered listening to Wharton tell his story about the Light House closing, seeing the windows of the pub going dark one by one.

It was a very brief letter. More of a note, really. It merely stated that Maurice Wharton admitted full responsibility for the deaths of David and Patricia Pearson in December 2009, while they were guests on his licensed premises at the Light House, Oxlow Moor, Derbyshire. Wharton referred to himself as ‘the undersigned’, as if the formal language might give his statement some kind of legal authority.

‘It’s useless without evidence, of course,’ said Fry, tapping her fingers impatiently as she watched Cooper read.

‘Of course.’

‘But there’s one other thing you should know. David Pearson’s financial activities were gone into at the time, during the original inquiry. But not thoroughly enough, it seems.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Mr Mackenzie tasked one of the incident room teams to run a new analysis of Pearson’s business dealings. And guess what popped up? Among the people who suffered serious losses when the embezzlement was discovered and the company went into receivership, we found M. and N. Wharton, owners of the Light House Hotel.’

Cooper shook his head in despair. ‘You’re right, it should have been picked up.’

‘Well, I suppose it was just one of hundreds of cases in the files of Diamond Hybrid Securities. There was nothing actually fraudulent about their dealings with the Light House. The Whartons were just unfortunate victims. Collateral damage.’

‘So you’ve brought Nancy in?’ said Cooper.

‘She didn’t want to come. She seemed to think the letter would be enough – that we’d just accept it and go away, without asking any more questions. She’s in for a surprise, though. We need to know exactly what happened. And we need some proof – witness statements, forensic evidence. Someone will have to interview the children. Eliot is seventeen. He’s old enough to put in the witness box.’

‘It won’t ever come to court,’ said Cooper.

‘What? Why not?’

‘Maurice Wharton is dying. He can’t have more than a few days left to live, weeks at most. I bet Nancy would be at the hospice now, sitting at his bedside, if you hadn’t pulled her in.’

‘Well, yes – that is what she told me,’ admitted Fry.

Cooper nodded. ‘But you took no notice, did you, Diane?’

‘Well what would you have done?’ she snapped. ‘I had to bring her in. It’s all very well this caring and sensitive stuff, but there comes a point where even you have to follow procedure and do your job properly, no matter how many sob stories people tell you.’

With an effort, Cooper tried not to smile too much. He felt unduly pleased with himself for having provoked a response from her. Despite the impression she tried to give, Fry was very much on edge. Something had unsettled her, and he was content to think that it might have been him.

He stood up, still holding on to the evidence bag containing Maurice Wharton’s letter.

‘I’ll go and talk to her then, shall I?’ he said.

‘Obviously, I’ll have to sit in,’ said Fry.

‘Fine. But try not to upset her too much.’