Sir, my instinct is telling me theres something wrong.
Sir, my instinct is telling me theres something wrong.
Hitchens sighed.
Ben, just stop a minute, take a deep breath, and look at the situation impartially. Youll see theres no mileage in pursuing some vague accusation, or even your instinct. Anonymous letters are ten a penny. Ignore it and move on.
If we ignore something now that turns out to be significant later on, it will reflect badly on this department.
Im prepared to take that risk. Call it my instinct, if you like. And Ive been in this job longer than you have, Ben. Hitchens softened. Look, you dont need to find a high-profile case to prove yourself. Theres plenty for you to do to show your worth.
Thats not what Im trying to do, sir.
Are you sure? I know you must see this as your opportunity to shine, with DS Fry out of the way for a while.
No, sir. Really.
Mmm. Well, take it easy. Dont invent some mystery where there isnt one, all right?
All right, sir.
Ben, its not personal, is it? Theres no emotional involvement? I mean, I know you were there at the time. Well, more than there, you took action. You
I tried to save her life, yes.
Yes, of course. But you have to remain objective. Take a step back, consider this incident as if you werent involved. I repeat, theres no mystery. Okay?
I suppose so.
Now start paying some attention to the rest of your case-load. Theres Michael Lowndes, for a start.
Yes, sir. Michael Lowndes.
The Grand was the largest hotel in Edendale, a vast Victorian pile designed for the Duke of Devonshire and now owned by a Spanish company based in Majorca. The lobby was certainly grand, with its marble pillars, its chandeliers, and its wide staircase. From outside, the hotel looked French in architectural style, but inside the decoration was almost Moorish.
Cooper had never stayed here, or eaten in the expensive restaurant. But hed once attended a wedding reception in the Cavendish Suite, and had his photograph taken with the rest of the wedding party on the lawn in front of the cherry trees.
He identified himself at the reception desk, and was taken through to the office, where a duty manager escorted him to the kitchens. They passed along an elegant corridor with gleaming tiles, then through a door marked staff only and entered a completely different world, away from the eyes of the guests.
Here they found Sean Deacon dressed in white overalls, mopping the floors. Not exactly Gordon Ramsey, then.
Deacon was almost exactly as Cooper remembered him. A little older, of course, but it was hardly noticeable. An unremarkable face, the face of a middle-aged man with receding hair and a hint of grey stubble, a man who could pass unnoticed in any street. Hed put some weight on around the waist, moved a little more slowly. But Deacon was the same man hed seen in Dovedale.
Sean Deacon, he said.
Deacon undoubtedly recognized the tone, if not Coopers voice. He had enough experience of the police. He looked up, a sideways glance wary and suspicious. The eyes left Cooper in no doubt.
They were given a small storeroom to talk privately. Cooper let Deacon sit on the only chair, while he stood over him. Deacon didnt object. He looked resigned, as if hed gone through all this before and knew where it would end.
Cooper checked his details his age, his address in Wirksworth. Deacon agreed that he was a registered sex offender.
What is it that you want? he said. Whats happened that you want to implicate me in?
Where were you on Monday morning, Mr Deacon?
Deacon sighed. I expect you already know. You people never ask those sorts of questions unless you already know the answers. It gets very tiresome.
Cooper was taken aback by the way Deacon talked. He sounded well educated, his Derbyshire vowels softened by some other accent. Not only that, but Deacon spoke softly, with a relaxed manner that was more than just resignation. He seemed quite calm. He wasnt what Cooper had expected.
You were in Dovedale on Monday morning. Is that right, sir?
Yes, of course it is. Deacon looked up at him. You were there, too. Your picture was in the paper. They didnt do you justice. What did you say your name was again?
DCI mean, Acting DS Cooper.
Forgotten who you are? Join the club.
Cooper turned and walked a few paces away from him, found he was against the wall, and turned back. Deacon looked at him, smiling gently.
Thought you were meeting a monster, did you?
Cooper found he was no longer looking at the man of his memory. This wasnt the watchful predator of his recollection, the figure crouched on the rock above Dovedale. His mind had played him a trick, conjured something out of his imagination. And Deacon was right hed come here with an expectation.
I did my time, said Deacon. But thats not enough, I know. Not enough for society.
No.
A four-year prison sentence meant that Sean Deacon would be permanently on the Sex Offender Register. That was unless he took advantage of a High Court ruling that indefinite registration was incompatible with the European Convention of Human Rights. The court had declared that it denied offenders a chance to prove they no longer posed a risk of re-offending.
Cooper tried to remember the man hed once interviewed for that attempted abduction, the suspected paedophile slouching from an interview room to a cell in the custody suite at Edendale. That look over his shoulder, the tilt of the head, the distinctive way he moved. This was the same man. And yet he wasnt.
What were you doing in Dovedale? asked Cooper again.
Id been walking. Its my hobby, when Im not at work. I was on the moors west of Tissington. Id parked my car in a lay-by on the A515, and I followed a footpath near Gaglane Barn to look at an old lime kiln in the middle of the fields there. The path comes out above Dovedale, near Reynards Cave.
Cooper nodded. It sounded about right so far.
And then I heard all the noise in the dale, so I climbed up on to the arch to see what was happening, said Deacon. He looked at Cooper again. And that was it.
Youre sure you werent near the children at all?
Yes, Im sure. Do you have any witnesses who say otherwise?
No, we dont, admitted Cooper.
Deacon studied him. Now Cooper felt he was the one being assessed, and perhaps failing to live up to expectations.
I heard about the little girl who drowned, said Deacon. You were the one who tried to save her, werent you? I read it in the paper.
Yes, that was me. But I failed.
Deacon shook his head sadly. Its so often the case, that we either succeed or fail. Society doesnt allow for anything else, does it?
Tm not sure what you mean.
The man stood up slowly. Cooper felt no sense of threat from him at all. In his white overalls, he looked faintly pathetic. Yet he had his own strange air of dignity.
Ill admit there was another reason why I was on top of the arch near Reynards Cave, he said.
What is that?
I like being high up.
So you can see whats going on? Check out whos around?
Deacon shook his head. No, its not that. I like the idea of flying. Dont you?
Deacon shook his head. No, its not that. I like the idea of flying. Dont you?
I dont think about it much.
When Im high up like that, I think about flying. Or perhaps about falling.
Cooper looked at him again. Did Deacon have suicidal tendencies? It wasnt uncommon among sex offenders. Their condition was often incurable, and many could see no other way out of a life of constant suspicion.
Deacon smiled sadly. Life is all about falling and flying, isnt it?
What?
Falling and flying. If youre good at what you do in life, you fly. If youre bad at it, you fall. Its as simple as that, Acting DS Cooper. The same with death, really. Up or down, falling or flying. We can only do one or the other. Theres no in between, is there?
It was a pity that his name had appeared in the paper. Cooper picked up a copy of the Eden Valley Times on his way back to West Street. The story wasnt difficult to find, since it was on the front page, and theyd dug out some old photograph of him from their archives. It made him look about fifteen years old.
Publicity was rarely a positive thing for an individual police officer, unless you happened to be involved in a community project, helping out at a fun day or giving kids fishing lessons. And then it was pretty much compulsory. When it came to major incidents, contact with the media was best left to the bosses and the Media Office.
But the headline Cops brave bid to save drowning tot couldnt do much damage, no matter how over the top it was. The subs on the Eden Valley Times loved short words, preferably no more than three letters. Bid, cop, tot made a perfect combination. They hardly needed a verb.
Of course, Edendale would soon be without a local rag altogether. Everyone knew that the Eden Valley Times was on its last legs. The paper hadnt been locally owned for years. Its present proprietors were a big publishing corporation based in Edinburgh, who had centralized everything they could think of. Theyd moved admin to Peterborough, page production to Chesterfield, and printing to Gateshead. The edition Cooper held in his hands felt flimsy, no more than forty pages, when once it had been more than eighty.
Advertising revenue had fallen through the floor for papers like the Times. People got their news from TV or the internet these days. And once the recession cut the legs from under the Property and Motors sections, that was pretty much the last nail in the coffin. There were a few reporters left in the office on the corner of Fargate, but they rarely ventured out on the streets. Everything had to be done by phone when they were so shorthanded.
Still, theyd managed to spell his name right, and the subs in Chesterfield hadnt messed up the story too much. He supposed he ought to be grateful for small mercies. The trouble with publicity like this was that everyone he met would want to ask him about it, to pat him on the back and say Well done, anyway or Hard luck you tried. It wasnt what he needed. Maybe he should keep his head down for a few days until it had all blown over.
Back in the office, everyone was pestering him for attention. They needed his advice, they wanted his signature, they had messages for him, they had questions. Always more questions.