Part 32 (1/2)

'What was through there?' asked Villiers.

'A desk, a few filing cabinets. Loads of old paperwork just mouldering away. I suppose it's been left for the new owners, if anyone buys the pub at the auction.'

'What sort of paperwork?'

'Accounts, I suppose. Orders, deliveries, records of paying guests, VAT returns. Whatever. That would be part of the business history, wouldn't it? If you took the place on, you'd want to get an idea of how many bookings there were for the rooms. The time of year, where they came from and all that.'

'Yes, of course. But we're not thinking of buying the pub, are we? I mean a are we?'

'No. But it seems to me that the information we want might be down here anyway. We need to get scenes of crime here.'

Cooper inhaled deeply. He was trying to detect the presence of other smells in the cellar that shouldn't be there. No stink of petrol, thank goodness. So at least Maurice Wharton hadn't kept a motorbike down here. But his brain was running along another track. He was thinking of the temperature control. That cool twelve degrees Celsius.

'Carol, what is the temperature inside your fridge?'

Villiers looked startled. 'A fridge should be about three degrees Celsius. Anything higher and you have the risk of bacteria. Anything lower and food starts to freeze.'

'I didn't know that,' said Cooper.

'Don't worry. Food probably doesn't stay long enough in your fridge for it to matter.'

Cooper nodded thoughtfully. Twelve degrees was too warm, then. Too high a temperature to preserve anything for very long. There would definitely be a smell by now.

'What are you thinking, Ben?' asked Villiers, watching the expression on his face.

'Oh, nothing important,' he said. 'I was just wondering about the deterioration in the quality of the beer down here.'

'Ben, that wasn't what you were thinking at all,' said Villiers.

He liked the way Carol understood him. She never seemed to read the wrong messages as Diane Fry so often used to do when they worked together.

'No,' said Cooper. 'You're right.'

In fact, the memory that had been eluding him had just come back exactly as he'd hoped, in a moment when he wasn't even trying to remember it. He'd recalled a look from Betty Wheatcroft, the slightly dotty old woman, the former teacher who'd been so disappointed at his lack of knowledge, the way teachers in his childhood always had been.

'No, actually,' he said, 'I wasn't thinking about that at all. I was thinking about the ninth circle of h.e.l.l.'

Diane Fry took Henry Pearson into the little office she'd been given. She felt a bit embarra.s.sed by it, because it was so clearly makes.h.i.+ft. None of the furniture even pretended to match, and the walls showed unfaded patches where the previous occupant had taken down his charts and year planners.

She promised herself she would have a better office one day. And it wouldn't be too long now, either.

But Pearson didn't seem to notice, or care, what sort of room he was in. He sat in the only available chair, declined tea or coffee, but accepted a gla.s.s of water.

He'd brought his briefcase with him, no doubt containing those files Fry had seen him carrying so importantly on the TV news. When he placed it on the desk, her heart sank. She hoped he wasn't about to whip out a file and start trying to win her over to his case. His obsessive earnestness reminded her of UFO nuts, conspiracy theorists and other cranks she'd encountered. Mostly harmless, but not the sort of person you'd want to get cornered by at a party.

Instead, he produced his leather-bound writing pad, opened it and placed a pen next to it before giving her his attention.

'First of all,' she said, 'I realise that some of my questions will have been asked before.'

'Many times, I'm sure,' said Pearson. 'The same questions have been asked over and over until I know them by heart. It was a surprise to me at first, the way the police work. But I'm accustomed to it now. Hardened would perhaps be a better word.'

'I understand.'

His grey hair was smoothed neatly back, and his eyes regarded her sharply. She remembered how, when he'd arrived in Edendale earlier in the week, he'd studied each officer he met, as if hoping to see something in them that he hadn't yet found.

'All that doubt and suspicion,' he said. 'All that cynicism. I've found it quite shocking. Why does no one want to accept the truth? David and Patricia haven't left the country and changed their ident.i.ties. They would never do that. A horrible crime has been committed, and my son and his wife are the victims. I really wish you and your colleagues would regard them that way.'

'You remain convinced of that?'

'I'm as convinced of that as I have been of anything in my life.'

Fry was pretty sure she'd heard him use those exact same words on TV, when facing the cameras.

'Despite the evidence?' she asked.

She was being provocative, of course a angling for a response beyond the practised phrases. But Pearson seemed to know that too. His answer came with a suggestion of weary resignation in his voice.

'Evidence? What evidence?' he said. 'Do you mean all those unconfirmed sightings, fake photos, forged emails, non-existent credit card purchases? Is that what pa.s.ses for evidence these days? I think not.'

'But something we do possess,' said Fry, 'is compelling evidence of your son's illegal financial activities, prior to his disappearance.'

Pearson still regarded her calmly. 'I've never tried to make any secret of that, Detective Sergeant. In fact you might be aware that it was my cooperation with the authorities that led to the information coming to light.'

'Yes, you permitted the original inquiry team access to your son's private papers, and his computer records. It was very helpful of you.'

'I thought it would ultimately be in David's best interests.'

'Absolutely. Though it might be said that the embezzlement would have come to light anyway, in the course of inquiries. Then it might have cast a different light on subsequent events.'

'I'm not sure what you mean,' said Pearson.

'I mean that it's all about interpretation. Creating a consistent story.'

His jaw clenched then, his face set as if for an argument. She could see the amount of determination that was in him, the strength of purpose that had kept him going so long. For more than two years now, Mr Pearson had been campaigning to convince the world that his son and daughter-in-law were innocent victims who'd been caught up in some terrible fate.

Fry's phone rang then, breaking the tension.

'Excuse me,' she said. 'It might be important.'

'Certainly.'

She could feel his intense gaze fixed on her as she took the call. When she grasped the information she was being given, she wished she'd stepped outside the office to answer it. She couldn't help making eye contact with Pearson just once as she listened. Then she had to look away in embarra.s.sment.

Fry ended the call and stared at her desk, knowing there was no way she could conceal her expression. The news had caught her off guard, with no opportunity to prepare for contact with the bereaved relative. This wasn't the way it should be.

But at least she was about to tell Henry Pearson that he'd been right along. That was some kind of consolation, perhaps.