Cooper and Fry Crime Fiction Series Books 1-3: Black Dog, Dancing With the Virgins, Blood on the Tongue

‘Of course I have.’

‘Didn’t I say he never tells me anything? How would I know if he knew her? She’s never been here, she’s never been to the cottage. So how would I know?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and meant it. ‘I’ll have to ask him myself, of course.’

‘You think he’ll tell you anything?’

‘It’s in his own interests. It won’t help to be uncooperative with us.’

‘Try telling him that. I wish you luck with it.’

She relaxed into her chair, calming down again as quickly as she had flared. She looked up at him coyly, as if ashamed at her show of temper.

‘I heard he had a bit of a disagreement with my bosses,’ said Cooper, probing gently at something that was intriguing him.

‘And thought he was very clever doing it,’ Gwen said. She sighed and put down her cup half drunk. ‘He always was contrary. A stubborn man. Ever since I’ve known him, he’s been like that. When I was a girl, it was one of the things I liked about him. I thought it was a man’s pride then. Now … Well, like I say, he’s stubborn. A right awkward old bugger, Harry Dickinson. Everybody knows that.’

From the way the old woman spoke, it seemed to Cooper that it was the stubbornness that was still, really, the thing that she liked most about Harry. Now that the physical attraction had gone and the romance had long since settled into a numb familiarity, there was still a quality in her husband that could make her voice soften and her pale eyes shift out of focus, as if she were looking beyond the walls of the cottage to the shadows of a happier past. Their marriage might not be happy, but surely something else had taken the place of happiness – a sort of stability, a necessary balance. The old couple were like two of those ancient rocks propped against each other on Raven’s Side – jagged and weathered, their hard surfaces gouging into each other, but worn to each other’s shape by the years. But if one of those rocks should crumble, there was no future for the other.

‘Of course, he thinks more of those pals of his than he does of me, these days,’ said Gwen. ‘Sam Beeley and Wilford Cutts.’

‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ said Cooper.

‘That’s what Helen says as well. But I’m not sure. Not at all.’

‘He’s known them a long time, hasn’t he?’

‘For ever. From when they were young lads together. Before he met me. When you get married, you think you’ll be the most important thing in the other person’s life. But Harry never let me come between him and his pals.’

For a moment, Gwen’s voice hardened again, her eyes focused on Cooper as if he had reminded her of the present.

‘They worked together, you know, in the mines,’ she said. ‘And they joined up together. They were young men then. Served in the same regiment and came back from the war closer than ever. Then they went back to the mines – but the war had killed the lead mining like it killed all those men. It was the other things that they mined by then, not the lead.’

‘Fluorspar and limestone.’

Lead had been mined in the area since Roman times. Cooper knew that it was still produced in the last remaining local mines, but only as a by-product to the other minerals that were demanded by modern industries. Limestone aggregate dug out of the mines and quarries in the area found its way into everything from aspirin to tile adhesive, from washing powder to concrete. And there were other things too – barytes, zinc blende and calcite; and the unique ornamental fluorspar they called Blue John Stone. The supply of minerals beneath the Peak District seemed endless. But nobody wanted the lead any more.

‘They must have been retired a few years now.’

‘Oh yes. But it hasn’t stopped them spending all their time together. Sam Beeley’s wife only died a couple of years back, but Wilford Cutts now – his Doris has been gone a long time.’

‘Mrs Cutts is dead?’

‘Pneumonia it was, poor soul. Since Mrs Beeley died, they’ve been worse than ever, the three of them. Up at the smallholding all day, and in the Drover all night. It’s obvious that I don’t count at all.’

‘Men like a chance to be with other men, to talk about the things that don’t interest women much.’

Gwen looked sharply at him, and he felt as though she was seeing straight through him.

‘Oh? And do you do much of that yourself, then, lad?’

‘Er …’

She waved a hand, sparing him a reply. ‘Never mind. I can see what sort of lad you are.’

‘Mrs Dickinson, I do think your husband may know something he’s not telling us.’

Gwen laughed suddenly. Her hands danced on the front of her green cardigan, blue veins shimmying beneath the skin like worms exposed to the light.

‘If he didn’t, it’d be the first time in his life!’ she said. ‘I told you – he’s the closest old bugger you ever met. And nobody knows better than me.’

‘Has he really never confided in you, Mrs Dickinson?’

‘Dafthead. That’s what I’m telling you, isn’t it? If you want to know who he tells things to, try them other two. They’re the ones he spends all his time with. No use asking me what he knows, I’m the last one he’d tell.’

Cooper emptied his cup and dusted the crumbs off his fingers.

‘Thank you for the tea, Mrs Dickinson.’

‘You won’t mind the things I say, will you? I’m just a silly old woman sometimes.’

‘You’ve been very helpful.’

‘You’re a nice lad. Will you come back again tomorrow? Come a bit earlier, when Helen’s here. She’s been talking about you, you know.’

Cooper hesitated. The invitation was tempting. There was a part of him that felt there was a chance here to introduce something pleasant into his life for a change. And he knew that chances, if not taken, had a habit of never coming round again. Then he thought of all the responsibilities that weighed on him. He was in the middle of a murder enquiry, for heaven’s sake. Not to mention the crisis at home, and, above all, his mother in need of all the love and support he could give.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t promise that. There’s such a lot to do at the moment.’

‘I suppose so. But she’ll be sorry not to see you.’

‘You think I might find your husband at Thorpe Farm?’

‘Sure to. Him and Jess went out hours ago.’

‘I’ll pop up and see if I can find him, then. And don’t worry – it’s only routine.’

Gwen escorted him to the door of the cottage. Then she put her hand on his sleeve.

‘You can’t make me give evidence against him, can you?’ she asked.

‘Why would we want to do that, Mrs Dickinson?’

She shook her head wearily. ‘Oh, I know. It’s only routine. I know.’

And Ben Cooper didn’t know the answer to his question either.

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