One Last Breath

‘I should think he damn well would.’

‘But I don’t think we’re looking at the children as potential victims. He’s still their father, after all.’

Kessen shrugged. ‘Unfortunately, fathers have been known to kill their children. Do we have any evidence as to how Quinn viewed his two?’

He watched Hitchens shake his head. ‘No.’

‘Get somebody on to the prison authorities. They have personal officers for prisoners on each wing these days. They also have counsellors, and all that business. Someone will have talked to Quinn about his family. Or tried to, at least. Let’s see what we can get out of them. Any insight into how his mind might be working would be useful.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Where do Quinn’s family live?’

‘The daughter is working in London. But the son, Simon – he has a job in Development Control with the district council. He recently bought a house right here in Edendale.’

‘He was lucky,’ said Gavin Murfin. ‘There isn’t much property for first-time buyers around here.’

‘No, you’re right. I wonder how he managed the mortgage.’ Hitchens sighed. ‘There’s an awful lot of stuff to work on, sir.’

‘Information is what we need,’ said Kessen. ‘If we can establish what sort of people we’re dealing with and what terms they’re on with Quinn, we might be able to work out his intentions.’

‘I suppose so. But we can’t begin to take measures to protect all these people, can we?’

‘We can warn them that they might be at risk. Who else do we have?’

‘There are two friends of Mansell Quinn. Or former friends, at least. The three of them were very close at the time of the murder. Both were called to give evidence at the trial, and both declined to give him an alibi. That was pretty much the clincher.’

‘Who needs enemies, eh?’

‘Number one, we have Raymond Proctor, aged fifty, married. He runs a caravan park near Hope.’

‘Family?’

‘Married, as I said. Two teenage children. Hang on, no – one grown-up son. The teenagers are step-children, from his wife’s previous marriage. Poor bugger.’

Kessen regarded him coolly. ‘Proctor, you say?’

‘Yes, this is the guy whose first wife was killed by Quinn – he’d been having an affair with her. So we can’t expect much love lost there, I suppose.’

‘Friend number two?’

‘Number two is William Edward Thorpe, aged forty-five, single. Thorpe was a soldier, spent quite a lot of his time serving overseas. He was with the local regiment, the Worcestershire and Sherwood Foresters, but he was discharged last year.’

‘Current whereabouts?’

‘Unknown.’

‘His regiment should have records.’

‘We’ve tried them,’ said Hitchens. ‘On discharge, Thorpe went to Derby for a while. He was staying with one of his old army buddies who’d finished his stint a few months earlier. But the friend says Thorpe walked out after a few days, and he doesn’t know where he went after that. The computer throws up a drunk-and-disorderly charge for a William Edward Thorpe in Ashbourne a couple of months ago, but his address was given as “no fixed abode”.’

‘We need to find him. Quinn has a motive for looking him up.’

‘So much work,’ said Hitchens.

DCI Kessen waved away the comment.

‘Sudbury’s an open prison, right?’ said Murfin.

‘Yes.’

‘Didn’t we have one who escaped from there recently?’

‘If you can call it escaping. He was on an unsupervised work party on the prison farm, and never went back to his cell at the end of the day.’

‘I don’t know why they bother doing it. I mean, those open prisons are a cushy number. And he’ll only get sent back to somewhere worse when he’s caught.’

‘If he’s caught.’

‘Come on, sir. When did we not catch someone who’d walked out of Sudbury? These blokes always go straight home. The poor sods don’t know what else to do.’

Cooper put his hand up. ‘Gavin has a point, sir. Mansell Quinn didn’t escape, but his thinking could be the same. He might just have been going home.’

‘Damn right. He turned up at his wife’s house and killed her.’

Cooper shook his head. ‘That wasn’t his home. He never lived there.’

‘No, you’re right. His previous address was in Castleton. But somebody else lives there now. Complete strangers, I assume. Check on it, would you, Murfin.’

‘Quinn’s mother lives in Hathersage,’ said Cooper. ‘That will be the place he thinks of as home.’

‘We’ve talked to her, haven’t we? DS Fry?’

‘Yes, sir. But I don’t think she was being entirely open with us.’

‘Put a bit of pressure on, then. Get some officers into the area to talk to all the neighbours. See if we can get a sighting of Quinn. OK, Paul?’

Hitchens had no choice but to nod.

‘Somebody look into public transport,’ said Kessen. ‘Is there a railway station near Sudbury?’

‘We’ll check, sir.’

‘He might have hired a car,’ said someone. ‘Or stolen one.’

‘We should look into it,’ said Hitchens. ‘Right.’

‘If Quinn does have a car,’ pointed out Kessen, ‘it’s going to make it much less difficult for us. A known vehicle will be easier to locate than an individual who may or may not be on foot, and who has the whole of the Peak District to wander around in.’

‘We hope for the easy option, then,’ said Hitchens.

‘Obviously. So we want sightings of vehicles in Aston, near the victim’s home.’

‘And appeals, sir?’

‘The press office are already on to that. They’re fixing up a press conference later this afternoon. We aim to get Quinn’s photograph on the local TV news tonight. We need as many members of the public looking out for him as possible.’

‘I got chatting with some of Mrs Lowe’s neighbours at Aston this morning,’ said Murfin. ‘They said they were just passing, but of course they’d come for a nosy around to see what was going on.’

‘The next-door neighbours?’

‘No, further up the village. They didn’t see anything last night, but they volunteered Mansell Quinn’s name themselves. They’d heard he was due out.’

‘Where did they hear that from?’

‘They seemed to think it was something everybody knew.’

‘The Carol Proctor killing is a case everyone in that area will remember,’ said Hitchens. ‘At least, everyone who was living around there in 1990. But we have to reach the others as well – the newcomers, and all those thousands of visitors, too.’

‘If necessary, we’ll spend some money on distributing posters. Anything else, Paul?’

‘I think that’s it for now, sir.’

But Cooper raised a hand. ‘Sir, if Quinn is looking for revenge for some perceived injustice at his trial, I wonder if he might also go after the professionals involved. For example, the judge, the lawyers –’

‘– or the police officers,’ said Kessen. ‘Yes. Specifically, the officers who worked on the Carol Proctor case and put the evidence together that got him sent down.’

The DCI looked at Hitchens. ‘You’d better add looking up the investigating officers to your list of tasks, Paul,’ he said.

Hitchens looked more uncomfortable than ever. ‘No, sir.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t need anyone to look them up.’

Kessen smiled at him. ‘Perhaps you’d better tell us why, DI Hitchens. I think some of us here don’t know.’

‘Well, one of those officers,’ said Hitchens, ‘was me.’

Rebecca Lowe might have lived alone, but she had an active enough life. Analysing her diary, address books and other material that had been taken from her house, the incident room staff had already begun to piece together her movements, her regular activities and closest contacts. Later, her phone records would be gone through, her letters and bank statements read in the hope of tracing connections that might point to a motive, a suspect, or a possible witness.

Along with the forensic examination and the postmortem, it was all part of the routine that had to be observed to demonstrate that things were being done properly. But everyone knew that a separate operation was going on at the same time – the effort to find the man already identified as the prime suspect: Mansell Quinn.

Ben Cooper found himself with an interview to do almost immediately. At least once a week, Rebecca Lowe had attended a gym located on an industrial estate in Edendale. Her sister Dawn said that she’d been talking about joining a new fitness centre at Hathersage instead, because it was nearer. But changing your gym was a bit like converting from one religion to another. You risked being told that everything you’d done so far in your life was wrong. Perhaps Rebecca had been a bit set in her ways, after all. She’d stayed at the Edendale gym.

‘One of our more mature ladies,’ said the trainer at Valley Fitness. ‘But she was in better shape than most. In fact, she could outlast a lot of the younger women on the bikes. Also, she wasn’t afraid to try new things. She’d put her name down for a trial Pilates class.’

‘Did she ever talk about her ex-husband?’

‘Wait a minute – he died, didn’t he?’

‘Sorry, I mean the husband before that.’

‘An earlier ex? No, I didn’t know she had one. She’d lived a bit then, had she, Rebecca? Seen off two husbands, but still kept herself in condition? Well, good for her.’

‘When did you last see her?’

‘Monday morning. She always comes in for a session on Monday morning. Never misses.’

That checked with the photocopy Cooper had of a page from Rebecca Lowe’s week-to-view diary.

‘And she was definitely there yesterday morning?’

‘Yes, ten o’clock to eleven. She made a joke about working off the excesses of the weekend. She liked a bottle of wine now and then, I think.’

Cooper looked at the entries for the previous two days. Lunch with her sister on Saturday. A dinner party with some friends on Sunday night.

‘And did Mrs Lowe seem her normal self?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Did she seem worried about anything? Did she mention anything that was bothering her?’

‘I didn’t talk to her that much, but she seemed perfectly happy. Just as usual. Wait a minute, though …’

‘Yes?’

The phone was silent for a moment. Cooper could hear a series of strange noises in the background, and imagined the running and stretching and pedalling that must be going on while they spoke. The thought of it made him feel tired.

‘There was a man who was due out of prison about now,’ said the trainer. ‘Is that right? Somebody that Rebecca knew very well.’

‘Yes, that’s right. Did Mrs Lowe tell you that?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Oh.’

‘Somebody else must have mentioned it. An old murder case, wasn’t it? Or maybe it’s just a bit of gossip. I might be able to remember his name, if you give me a minute.’

‘Never mind. I expect it was Quinn.’

‘That’s it! So is it right? Is he out?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

As Cooper put the phone down, he was handed a photograph. It was a recent shot of Rebecca Lowe, the one they’d be issuing with the press releases. She was dressed for the outdoors, in a green body warmer and jeans, and she had a dog at her heels – a small thing with a plumed tail and a screwed-up face. Rebecca had rather a narrow face, with lines around her eyes but enviable cheekbones. Her hair was blonde, though surely it must be dyed at forty-nine.

The trainer at the fitness club was right – Rebecca Lowe looked in good condition. But seen off two husbands? It looked as though one of them had come back again.

For a while, Cooper found himself waiting for someone to tell him what to do next. A major murder enquiry was a rigid bureaucracy, with clearly defined responsibilities and not much chance for anyone to work outside the system. As a divisional detective, he’d be allocated to the Outside Enquiry Team. Somebody had to do the physical part of the investigation, even if the SIO opted for HOLMES.

Of course, Cooper regretted that he’d have to let Amy and Josie down and skip the visit to the caverns. But they would understand – they always did.

Finally, he saw Diane Fry walking between the desks in the CID room.

‘You’re supposed to be on a rest day, aren’t you, Ben?’ she said.

‘Yes, but –’

‘You might as well take what’s left of it off.’

‘Don’t you need me?’ said Cooper, hearing his own voice rising a pitch in surprise. And sensing, perhaps, that sinking feeling of disappointment.

‘Not today. It looks like a self-solver. We just need to get some leads on where Mansell Quinn is and catch up with him.’

‘Are you sure, Diane?’

‘That’s what they’re saying further up.’

‘Well, I don’t mind, because I’ve got things planned. It just doesn’t feel right, that’s all.’

Fry shrugged. ‘We just do what we’re told, don’t we?’

It felt strange to Cooper to be leaving the office and going home when a major enquiry might be about to start. But, if he stayed, he’d become eligible for overtime. Somebody was making tough budget decisions in an office upstairs, gambling on an early conclusion.

Before Cooper could escape from the building, DI Hitchens put his head round the door and caught his eye.

‘DC Cooper.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Have you got a few minutes? Just before you go.’

Hitchens inclined his head to his office, and Cooper followed him in.

‘Shut the door.’

Hitchens looked serious – more serious than Cooper could remember seeing him for a long time, not since the DI had failed his interview for a chief inspector’s job. He also seemed a little uncomfortable, hesitating at his desk as if about to sit down, but then remaining where he was at the window. Apart from the football ground, there was nothing for him to look at outside, only the roofs of houses in the streets that ran downhill towards the centre of Edendale.

Cooper waited until the DI pulled his thoughts together.

‘I thought I’d tell you this privately first, Ben,’ he said, ‘rather than during a team briefing.’

Now it was Cooper who was starting to feel uneasy. He could sense bad news coming. Was he going to be reprimanded for something? Had he committed a serious enough offence to face a disciplinary enquiry – or worse? Cooper swallowed. He knew that he had. But time had passed, and he’d become convinced that he was safe. There was only one person who might have shopped him.

He studied the DI’s face to try to gauge how serious it was. Hitchens hadn’t even bothered to use the positive-negative-positive technique that was taught to managers. He ought to have praised Cooper for something first before he tackled the difficult subject, so as not to destroy his morale. Maybe that meant it was something else. A transfer, perhaps. Cooper had a few years of his tenure in CID to go yet, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t dispense with his services sooner.

‘It’s the Mansell Quinn case,’ said Hitchens, taking Cooper by surprise. ‘I mean, the murder of Carol Proctor.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘It’s funny that you should be the one to raise the point about the professionals involved in the case being at risk. I’m thinking about the police officers particularly.’

‘You were one of the officers involved, sir.’

‘Yes, I was, Cooper.’

‘But how does that affect me? Is there something you want me to do?’

Hitchens smiled.

‘You think I might be asking you to protect me? That’s very good of you, Ben. But I’ll take my chances.’

Then the DI sat down at last and folded his hands on the desk, intertwining his long fingers nervously.

‘This is a bit difficult, Cooper,’ he said. ‘But, first of all, you’ve got to remember that the Carol Proctor killing was nearly fourteen years ago. I was a divisional DC then, much like yourself. A bit younger, in fact, but every bit as keen. Anyway, it was my first murder case, so I remember it well. I made notes of everything. Of course, things were done a bit differently in those days.’

Cooper nodded. He had run out of things to say.

‘All the senior officers on the case have long since retired,’ said Hitchens. ‘The SIO died three years ago. Heart attack.’

‘I’m sorry. Was he a good detective, sir?’

Cooper knew that the first Senior Investigating Officer you worked for on a major enquiry could make a lasting impression, like an influential school teacher. He still thought fondly of DCI Tailby, who he’d worked for a couple of times.

‘A good detective? Not particularly,’ said Hitchens. ‘He was an old school dick – some of them were still around in the early nineties. He had his own ideas about how things were done. Well, he wasn’t the only one, of course.’

‘No, sir.’

‘My old DS is still around, but he’s a training officer at Bramshill now,’ Hitchens continued. ‘That only leaves me from the main enquiry team that put Mansell Quinn away. However, the actual arrest wasn’t made by CID but by uniforms. The suspect was still at the scene when the first officers arrived and so the FOAs arrested him. They found the knife, too. Obviously, Quinn hadn’t given any thought to concocting a story before the patrol turned up.’

Cooper shook his head. ‘I still don’t understand, sir.’

Hitchens sighed. ‘I know how much the death of your father meant to you, Ben. I think it still bothers you a lot, am I right?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The words hardly came out, because Cooper’s mouth felt numb. His mind had latched on to the acronym FOA – first officers to arrive. A uniformed patrol responding to a 999 call. He had a sinking certainty that he knew what the

DI was going to say next. ‘So in the Mansell Quinn case … ?’

Hitchens nodded. ‘Yes. After Carol Proctor was murdered,’ he said, ‘the arresting officer was Sergeant Joe Cooper.’

11

Another enquiry team had been assigned the action on Mansell Quinn’s friend, William Thorpe. And good luck to them. According to the initial intelligence, he was living on the streets, as so many ex-soldiers did.

To Diane Fry, ‘living on the street’ meant one of the big cities – Sheffield or Manchester, maybe even Derby. Edendale didn’t have many homeless people. Those who hung around the town were too much of a nuisance to the tourists to be tolerated for long. If Thorpe had been surviving locally, he’d have been picked up by a patrol, but there was no record of it. The only leads were his drunk-and-disorderly charge in Ashbourne, thirty miles to the south, and the existence of an ex-wife, long since divorced. So that action was likely to tie up two unlucky DCs for a good while.

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