about. But he’d never come to any logical conclusion, not one that made any sense to him anyway. Not one that he wanted to think about too deeply.
And it was a sign of how his trust in Villiers had begun to ebb away that he’d never felt able to ask her the question. It was too late now, of course.
Villiers looked at her watch. ‘Maybe we should get on.’
‘We’ll beokay for a few minutes.’
‘If you say so.’
Cooper had wanted to get a look at the pub one way or another. It wasn’t right that he’d let Fry find a body when he should have been here himself. This building seemed to stand like a rebuke, a symbol of his failure. He needed to find out what its secret was, if it had one.
Close up, the story of the Light House was even sadder. Weeds sprouted in the tarmac of the car park, along the edges of the walls and even in the guttering. Green stains ran down the stone where the gutters were blocked. Bird droppings streaked every surface. Foxes had left their spraints in the long grass growing rank and untidy where the beer garden had once been. From the looks of it, the only visitors to the pub in recent months had been a string of vandals, who’d scrawled casual graffiti on the boards over the windows.
It was disturbing how quickly a building began to deteriorate when it was left unoccupied. The pub was like a grand old lady down on her luck, left alone and unloved, with her elegant clothes frayed at the edges, her hair unwashed and her fingernails dirty. She looked lost and ashamed, with her eyes closed against the light.
At the rear stood a range of outbuildings that had been used for storage, including two garages. Rubbish had been burned in an open space. A huge pile of old furniture was stacked against the back wall of the pub. Heavy tables with metal bases, wrought-iron chairs, a heap of torn parasols on steel posts.
On the south side, even the conservatory had been boarded over. Since it consisted mostly of glass, the result was a monstrosity of hardboard, like some giant armoured beetle or an above-ground nuclear bunker. In its time it had been a pleasant place to sit, even on a cold day, itsbright and airy space a contrast to the dark interior of the pub.
This was the place where he’d once sat with Diane Fry. But that was in a whole different universe.
He turned and looked up the hill. The smoke was drifting closer again. Cooper screwed his eyes up against the light, unsure of what he was seeing. Shadows. Yes, shadows in the smoke. Dark and insubstantial, moving in and out of the murk, their movements flickering and unnatural. He tried to follow their direction, but quickly lost them. It was as if they had simply slipped out of the world around them and stepped into another dimension.
He strained his eyes to probe the billowing clouds, and thought he saw something once again. But it resolved into the corner of a stone wall, which dropped teasingly into sight for a moment, then vanished again. Perhaps they had been just shadows after all, an effect of the sun still shining down through the smoke. Or maybe it had been a couple of stray sheep, lost and bewildered on the moor.
‘Really,’ said Villiers. ‘We should probably get moving.’
‘Don’t worry.’
Although Fry and Mackenzie weren’t here, the pub was far from deserted. It was a suspected murder scene, and that changed everything. The scenes-of-crime team were at full stretch now, with scene examiners drafted in from other divisions. He couldn’t see Liz, but he knew she was on duty, so she’d be working somewhere. They tried not to see too much of each other on duty, in case there was talk.
The forced door and loose panel had been examined for tool marks and dusted for fingerprints, and the position of the suspect white pickup had been established from evidence of flattened weeds in the car park. It was lucky that the road had been closed for the fire on the moors. It meant that no one had been here between the departure
And it was a sign of how his trust in Villiers had begun to ebb away that he’d never felt able to ask her the question. It was too late now, of course.
Villiers looked at her watch. ‘Maybe we should get on.’
‘We’ll beokay for a few minutes.’
‘If you say so.’
Cooper had wanted to get a look at the pub one way or another. It wasn’t right that he’d let Fry find a body when he should have been here himself. This building seemed to stand like a rebuke, a symbol of his failure. He needed to find out what its secret was, if it had one.
Close up, the story of the Light House was even sadder. Weeds sprouted in the tarmac of the car park, along the edges of the walls and even in the guttering. Green stains ran down the stone where the gutters were blocked. Bird droppings streaked every surface. Foxes had left their spraints in the long grass growing rank and untidy where the beer garden had once been. From the looks of it, the only visitors to the pub in recent months had been a string of vandals, who’d scrawled casual graffiti on the boards over the windows.
It was disturbing how quickly a building began to deteriorate when it was left unoccupied. The pub was like a grand old lady down on her luck, left alone and unloved, with her elegant clothes frayed at the edges, her hair unwashed and her fingernails dirty. She looked lost and ashamed, with her eyes closed against the light.
At the rear stood a range of outbuildings that had been used for storage, including two garages. Rubbish had been burned in an open space. A huge pile of old furniture was stacked against the back wall of the pub. Heavy tables with metal bases, wrought-iron chairs, a heap of torn parasols on steel posts.
On the south side, even the conservatory had been boarded over. Since it consisted mostly of glass, the result was a monstrosity of hardboard, like some giant armoured beetle or an above-ground nuclear bunker. In its time it had been a pleasant place to sit, even on a cold day, itsbright and airy space a contrast to the dark interior of the pub.
This was the place where he’d once sat with Diane Fry. But that was in a whole different universe.
He turned and looked up the hill. The smoke was drifting closer again. Cooper screwed his eyes up against the light, unsure of what he was seeing. Shadows. Yes, shadows in the smoke. Dark and insubstantial, moving in and out of the murk, their movements flickering and unnatural. He tried to follow their direction, but quickly lost them. It was as if they had simply slipped out of the world around them and stepped into another dimension.
He strained his eyes to probe the billowing clouds, and thought he saw something once again. But it resolved into the corner of a stone wall, which dropped teasingly into sight for a moment, then vanished again. Perhaps they had been just shadows after all, an effect of the sun still shining down through the smoke. Or maybe it had been a couple of stray sheep, lost and bewildered on the moor.
‘Really,’ said Villiers. ‘We should probably get moving.’
‘Don’t worry.’
Although Fry and Mackenzie weren’t here, the pub was far from deserted. It was a suspected murder scene, and that changed everything. The scenes-of-crime team were at full stretch now, with scene examiners drafted in from other divisions. He couldn’t see Liz, but he knew she was on duty, so she’d be working somewhere. They tried not to see too much of each other on duty, in case there was talk.
The forced door and loose panel had been examined for tool marks and dusted for fingerprints, and the position of the suspect white pickup had been established from evidence of flattened weeds in the car park. It was lucky that the road had been closed for the fire on the moors. It meant that no one had been here between the departure
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