Part 11 (2/2)

'We'll see.'

Ben hesitated, listening to the clang of a spanner in the workshop, picturing Matt carrying on working with one hand while holding his phone with the other.

'How's everything on the farm?' he asked. 'Are things picking up?'

'Well, I'm hoping we might make a bit of money from the wool this year,' said Matt. 'At least a fleece will be worth more than the cost of shearing it, for once.'

'That's good.'

There was a brief silence.

'Well,' said Matt, with a laugh. 'You didn't phone me to talk about the wedding arrangements, and I don't think you're really all that interested in the price of wool. So ...?'

'You're right. It's do to with an inquiry that's come up again.'

'Ah, let me think. According to the news, they're reopening the case of that couple from down south who went missing.'

'That's right. The Pearsons. That's what I wanted to ask you about.'

Matt stopped clanging the spanner. 'Me? What would I know about it? I read the papers and listen to the local news like everyone else, but that's it.'

'That Christmas, around the time the Pearsons disappeared. Do you know when I mean?'

'Yes?'

'There was a party of some kind at the Light House, wasn't there?'

'The Eden Valley Young Farmers Club. It was their Christmas p.i.s.s-up. I mean, celebration.'

'What night would that have been, Matt?'

'Monday, I think. I haven't been a member of the YFC for a good few years now, Ben. I'm too old. They don't want you when you're past twenty-six. We were only there that Christmas as guests. I judged the handling cla.s.ses at the show for them earlier in the year.'

'Yes, I remember,' said Ben uncertainly.

In his mind were fragmentary flashbacks to the evening. A lot of sweating, laughing faces. Music, shouting, perhaps a bit of dancing. Christmas lights had been strung over the doors; a decorated tree stood in one of the windows.

'It was always a good do at the Light House,' said Matt. 'It was held just before they closed the pub for Christmas. There wasn't as much pressure to leave when eleven o'clock came round, if you know what I mean. The YFC lads took it as a challenge to drink the place dry.'

'Yes, of course. I'd forgotten the Light House used to close for Christmas until old Thomas Pilkington mentioned it.'

'The Whartons, who ran it, liked to have Christmas on their own, as a family. I can't fault them for that.'

'No.'

Ben was trying to picture the main bar area. Who had been there? He saw three middle-aged men sitting on a bench discussing the quality of the beer, two young couples laughing at a table full of vodka bottles, an elderly woman on her own in the corner with a gla.s.s of Guinness and a plastic carrier bag. Oh, and a noisy group standing at the bar. Not locals, surely.

'I wonder what happened to the Whartons when they had to leave the pub,' said Matt. 'I never heard.'

'I've no idea,' said Ben. 'I'll have to find out.'

'Anyway, you were quite a hit that night in the Light House.'

'Was I? I usually try to keep a low profile. So many people know that I'm a police officer.'

'n.o.body would have taken too much notice of that, once you started singing.'

'You're kidding.' Ben shook his head. 'I don't remember that.'

'It's no wonder you don't remember.' Matt laughed again. 'You never could hold your drink that well, Ben. You were as p.i.s.sed as a newt that night.'

11.

Samantha Merritt would be in shock later. But Diane Fry knew the early stages could provide valuable information from bereaved relatives, details she might otherwise have to wait days for.

To some, her approach might seem cold and insensitive. Exploitative, even. She could practically hear it being said about her now, though behind her back, of course. But the family of a murder victim wanted the killer found, didn't they? And for that to happen, she needed information about the victim a as much of it as possible 'The funny thing is, Aidan called me and left a message,' said Samantha. 'He said he was on the moor near the fire. It can't have been very long before he, you know ...'

'He was on Oxlow Moor? Near the pub where he was found?'

'Yes, up there somewhere. I just thought he'd gone to watch the fires. A lot of people do that, don't they?'

'Yes, I'm afraid so.'

'It's a funny kind of spectator sport. But Aidan was interested in things like that. He wanted to be at any big event he thought was likely to be in the news. I suppose it made him feel he was seeing history take place.'

Fry studied the room as Mrs Merritt spoke. The house was neat and clean, but otherwise unremarkable. The furniture and decor ranged through beige to off-white. Everything she saw seemed bland, much like the victim's widow herself. Samantha was a plain woman, with straight brown hair that seemed to have become instantly damp with her tears and hung raggedly round her face. She nervously tore tissues in half from a box at her elbow on the sofa.

'What did he say to you when he called you?' asked Fry.

'Well, he was rambling, not making any sense at all. Something about the ninth circle of h.e.l.l.'

'The what?'

'The ninth circle of h.e.l.l.'

'He must have been referring to the fires, I suppose.'

'He could have been,' said Samantha doubtfully. 'It feels so strange, the fact that those were his last words to me. And yet I couldn't understand what he was talking about. I wish he'd left me a different message.'

'I'm sorry.'

Fry was silent for a moment, allowing Samantha Merritt the surge of emotion. It mustn't overwhelm her, though. Not at this stage. Fry still needed her to focus.

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