Part 14 (2/2)

'Yes.'

'I'm Kirsten Wharton, this is my mother.'

'We're sorry to hear about your father.'

Kirsten shook her head. 'He's not actually dead.'

'What? But I thought your mother just ...?'

'Mum gets like that sometimes. I think she's trying to get used to the idea that Dad will be gone soon.'

'I don't understand.'

'He has pancreatic cancer. Terminal. That's what they call it, isn't it? When they're trying to tell you someone is going to die, without actually spelling it out.'

'I'm sorry,' said Fry again.

The teenager shrugged. 'It's no skin off your nose, I suppose.'

They entered a cramped sitting room. The room wasn't just small, it was stuffed with too much furniture. Fry had to squeeze past the arm of a large black leather sofa and a couple of armchairs to reach a cream rug laid in front of the fireplace. The rug covered the whole of the available floor s.p.a.ce, except for a few glimpses of carpet in the gaps between display cabinets, standard lamps and occasional tables lining the walls. The mantelpiece and the shelves of the cabinets were packed with china and bra.s.s ornaments.

She turned and looked at the fireplace, but a large gas fire stood on the hearth in front of it. A real coal fire wouldn't be possible here a its heat would scorch the furniture and roast the feet of anyone sitting so close to it.

Fry would have liked the chance to study the ornaments more closely, and to examine the bookshelves, if there were any. Those details could tell you a lot about the owner, more than any number of personal questions.

But that wasn't possible here. Even if Mrs Wharton wasn't standing looking at her expectantly, she couldn't have reached a single display cabinet without moving the rest of the furniture out of the room first.

She recalled the deserted owner's accommodation at the Light House. There had been far more s.p.a.ce for the Whartons when they were living there. Two adults with two children? They could have spread themselves out as much as they wanted. Some of this furniture might even have been in the bar, or the dining area. But there was no way they could have brought everything with them to this council house in Edendale. Other items might be in storage somewhere, but a lot must have been left behind as fixtures and fittings, all part of the package for a potential buyer at the forthcoming auction.

'About the Light House?' said Mrs Wharton. 'Go on, then.'

'There's been an incident.'

She looked unperturbed. 'Yes, I heard there'd been a break-in.'

'More than a break-in. One of your old regulars got himself killed there.'

Nancy looked up then, her face creased in puzzlement.

'Killed?'

'Haven't you been following the news? Didn't you know someone had been killed?'

'No, I suppose I must have missed it.'

'Mum has more than enough on her mind,' put in Kirsten. 'She doesn't have time for worrying about what's going on in the news.'

Fry turned to her. 'Not even when it's at the Light House? I thought someone would have mentioned it to you.'

'We've lost touch since we moved into town. We never see anyone. Do we, Mum?'

Nancy was still looking at Fry intensely.

'Who was it?'

'Aidan Merritt. Do you remember him?'

'Yes, I remember him. He drank at the pub a lot when it was open. But what was he doing there ...?'

'We don't know. I was hoping you or Mr Wharton might be able to help.'

'You were wrong there, then.'

'But you must recall the Pearsons? David and Trisha?'

'Oh, the tourists who went missing.' Nancy sounded weary to the core now. 'We know nothing about them. We knew nothing then, and we know nothing now. What's the point of going over it?'

'Is your husband well enough for us to speak to?' asked Fry.

'I told you, he's dying.'

In fact she'd said that he was already dead, but Fry let it pa.s.s. She looked at Kirsten instead. She was what? Fifteen or sixteen? But she seemed very mature for her age, the way some teenagers were these days.

'Dad is in the hospice,' said Kirsten. 'St Luke's, here in Edendale. He won't be coming out again now.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Yes, you said. We didn't believe you the first time.'

Nancy stood up. 'There's no way I would let you talk to Maurice, even if he was well enough. I'll phone the hospice right now and tell them not to let you through the door. If you try to hara.s.s him, I'll make your life h.e.l.l. Give the man a bit of peace in his final days.'

It was clearly a waste of time. On her way out, Fry looked at Nancy Wharton again, noting that hint of hardness in her eyes. The result of a lifetime in the pub trade? Perhaps.

But Fry reminded herself that Nancy had gone through particular troubles of her own in the last couple of years. She'd lost the Light House after a fruitless struggle against financial difficulties, and now she had to deal with the husband's terminal illness, which was likely to be another long, futile battle.

Betty Wheatcroft lived in an old cottage right on the outskirts of Edendale. It must have been in a village once, but the town had swallowed it up decades ago. Now the cottage, and a few others like it, was sandwiched between the clubhouse of Edendale Golf Club and a small industrial estate whose units housed an MOT test centre and a signmaker's.

When he got out of the car, Cooper inhaled the air, detecting an all too familiar smell. Even on the edge of Edendale, a hint of acrid smoke was on the wind. He looked at the roof of a car parked outside the nearest house. Black flecks speckled the surface like the first spots of a dark, soot-filled rain.

As soon as he knocked, a woman's face appeared round the edge of the door and scrutinised his ID.

'Detective Sergeant Cooper, Edendale CID,' he said. 'Are you Mrs Wheatcroft?'

<script>