of thepickup and the arrival of Fry’s Audi, which she’d left in the entrance.
Inside the pub, lights had been set up and a series of stepping plates and yellow evidence markers surrounded the position of the body, as well as the route the victim and his assailants had taken from the door. Two SOCOs in scene suits were still combing the adjacent floor and walls for traces, tracking the direction of blood spatter and photographing shoe marks in the dust.
‘DS Cooper, isn’t it? You’re on my crime scene.’
Cooper backed away from the door and found DCI Mackenzie behind him, with Fry at his elbow. Mackenzie’s voice was mild, but there was a cool undertone to his words, and a penetrating gaze in the eyes below the quizzically raised eyebrows.
‘I thought DC Villiers ought just to see the location,’ Cooper said.
He gestured towards Carol Villiers, who was waiting at a safe distance. Trust Carol – she had more sense than he did at a crime scene.
Mackenzie nodded. ‘Okay. Well while you’re here, Cooper, you might see if you can deal with the natives for us.’
‘Who’
Cooper looked towards the road, and saw a silver Volvo estate that had been stopped at the outer cordon. An elderly man in a suit was standing talking to a uniformed officer just outside the tape.
‘Fine,’ said Cooper. ‘I know who that is.’
Thomas Pilkington was the old man of the auctioneers Pilkington and Son. He’d been around the Eden Valley for years – a member of the Rotary Club, a former town councillor, a drinking companion of the golf club captain andthe editor of the
Eden Valley Times.
The son of the firm was Jeremy Pilkington, quite a different proposition, more often to be seen in a red MG on his way to the sailing club at Carsington. Cooper felt sure Jeremy must now be the driving force behind the company.
Old Thomas had been the auctioneer at the cattle market in Edendale for decades. His voice was familiar to generations of farmers and livestock dealers. In fact it had been hard to escape for anyone passing within two hundred yards of the sale ring near the town’s railway station. Cooper remembered the sound as an integral feature of shopping trips to Edendale on cattle market days. Thomas Pilkington’s voice still played as part of the soundtrack to his childhood memories, along with the pop music he’d grown up listening to during all those long, hot summers.
But Edendale cattle market had closed years ago, losing the battle against movement restrictions and competition from the new agricultural business centre fifteen miles away at Bakewell, part of a twelve-million-pound regeneration project. With the loss of the mainstay of their business, Pilkington and Son must have been close to the edge. No doubt it had been Jeremy who pushed for the move towards property auctions. That was still a thriving sector. Booming these days, in fact. But it was ironic that the firm should find itself auctioning off other businesses that could no longer compete.
Pilkington must be well into his seventies now. He was a red-faced man with an expanding belly almost bursting the buttons of his suit jacket. His complexion was just right to allow him to blend in with the farmers and livestock dealers who’d been his customers for all those years. He could have passed for a butcher or gamekeeper. But as a property agent, he was projecting the wrong image.
Cooper escorted him from the cordon via the safe route that had been marked out, and Fry cut across to interceptthem, as if she didn’t trust Cooper within fifty yards of the crime scene.
‘My son is dealing with this property actually,’ Pilkington said, confirming Cooper’s suspicion. ‘I don’t know all that much about it. But he’s out of the country at the moment and it seems I’m responsible for it, so I’m the one who was called out by your people.’
‘Can’t you tell us anything, Mr Pilkington?’
‘Well, this is a free house and can be sold with all
Inside the pub, lights had been set up and a series of stepping plates and yellow evidence markers surrounded the position of the body, as well as the route the victim and his assailants had taken from the door. Two SOCOs in scene suits were still combing the adjacent floor and walls for traces, tracking the direction of blood spatter and photographing shoe marks in the dust.
‘DS Cooper, isn’t it? You’re on my crime scene.’
Cooper backed away from the door and found DCI Mackenzie behind him, with Fry at his elbow. Mackenzie’s voice was mild, but there was a cool undertone to his words, and a penetrating gaze in the eyes below the quizzically raised eyebrows.
‘I thought DC Villiers ought just to see the location,’ Cooper said.
He gestured towards Carol Villiers, who was waiting at a safe distance. Trust Carol – she had more sense than he did at a crime scene.
Mackenzie nodded. ‘Okay. Well while you’re here, Cooper, you might see if you can deal with the natives for us.’
‘Who’
Cooper looked towards the road, and saw a silver Volvo estate that had been stopped at the outer cordon. An elderly man in a suit was standing talking to a uniformed officer just outside the tape.
‘Fine,’ said Cooper. ‘I know who that is.’
Thomas Pilkington was the old man of the auctioneers Pilkington and Son. He’d been around the Eden Valley for years – a member of the Rotary Club, a former town councillor, a drinking companion of the golf club captain andthe editor of the
Eden Valley Times.
The son of the firm was Jeremy Pilkington, quite a different proposition, more often to be seen in a red MG on his way to the sailing club at Carsington. Cooper felt sure Jeremy must now be the driving force behind the company.
Old Thomas had been the auctioneer at the cattle market in Edendale for decades. His voice was familiar to generations of farmers and livestock dealers. In fact it had been hard to escape for anyone passing within two hundred yards of the sale ring near the town’s railway station. Cooper remembered the sound as an integral feature of shopping trips to Edendale on cattle market days. Thomas Pilkington’s voice still played as part of the soundtrack to his childhood memories, along with the pop music he’d grown up listening to during all those long, hot summers.
But Edendale cattle market had closed years ago, losing the battle against movement restrictions and competition from the new agricultural business centre fifteen miles away at Bakewell, part of a twelve-million-pound regeneration project. With the loss of the mainstay of their business, Pilkington and Son must have been close to the edge. No doubt it had been Jeremy who pushed for the move towards property auctions. That was still a thriving sector. Booming these days, in fact. But it was ironic that the firm should find itself auctioning off other businesses that could no longer compete.
Pilkington must be well into his seventies now. He was a red-faced man with an expanding belly almost bursting the buttons of his suit jacket. His complexion was just right to allow him to blend in with the farmers and livestock dealers who’d been his customers for all those years. He could have passed for a butcher or gamekeeper. But as a property agent, he was projecting the wrong image.
Cooper escorted him from the cordon via the safe route that had been marked out, and Fry cut across to interceptthem, as if she didn’t trust Cooper within fifty yards of the crime scene.
‘My son is dealing with this property actually,’ Pilkington said, confirming Cooper’s suspicion. ‘I don’t know all that much about it. But he’s out of the country at the moment and it seems I’m responsible for it, so I’m the one who was called out by your people.’
‘Can’t you tell us anything, Mr Pilkington?’
‘Well, this is a free house and can be sold with all
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