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

‘What’s all this stuff?’

‘Hey, calm down. We don’t want any prima donna tantrums just because you’re not with the big boys on the murder enquiries any more.’

‘Yeah, right. Car crime. They want something doing about car crime, yeah? So what’s new?’

‘This is,’ said Rennie, waving the report. ‘Here, take a look.’

The report landed on Cooper’s desk. It bore the heading of the National Criminal Intelligence Service. ‘What’s this?’

‘New ideas on detecting car crime. It’s good stuff. The super is very impressed. It was the new lass’s idea.’

‘Not Diane Fry?’

‘That’s her. Not bad for a lass, I reckon.’

‘And where is she? Is she already out working on this?’

‘Not her,’ said Rennie. ‘She’s still on the Vernon enquiry.’

Fry phoned Vernon Finance, but was put through to a particularly unhelpful and protective secretary who told her that Andrew Milner was out of the office all afternoon. She eventually persuaded the secretary to give her his mobile number, and ate a tuna sandwich while she dialled. When he answered, Milner was clearly on the road somewhere. There was heavy traffic noise in the background, and he was shouting, as people did when they were using the hands-free adaptor in a car.

‘Who did you say you were? Hold on, I’m just turning on to the A57.’

When she got it through to him who she was, he went very quiet for a moment. Perhaps it was just the signal being broken up by the high ridges of Stanage Edge and the Hallam Moors.

‘Give me a second, and I’ll pull into a layby,’ he said.

Fry talked to Andrew Milner for several minutes, trying to catch the tone of the man’s replies against the thundering slipstream of passing lorries and the intermittent fading of his cellphone signal. She thought he sounded nervous and defensive, but he stuck to a firm line on the suggestion of any relationship with his employer’s wife. It was ridiculous, it was nonsense. Charlotte Vernon obviously wasn’t well.

Eventually, Fry let him go when he pleaded that he was late for an important meeting. She felt sure that he was hiding something, but couldn’t pin down what it was. She needed some more information before she could know the right questions to ask. Time to talk to Andrew Milner’s wife.

The Milners lived in a brick pre-war semi on one of the hills overlooking the centre of Edendale. The front door was set into an arched porch, with a round opaque window made up of shaped pieces of coloured glass.

All the cars parked in the street had pink stickers taped to their windscreens, and notices on the lampposts warned that parking was by resident’s permit only. But Fry found room for her Peugeot on a small drive in front of a car port. By the corner of the house she noticed an old brick chimney pot that had been planted with red geraniums.

Margaret Milner took her into a lounge dominated by leaded bay windows draped in net and a wheel-shaped chandelier supporting electric candles. A display cabinet contained limited-edition figurines, miniature cottages and commemorative plates.

‘Andrew’s at work, of course,’ said Margaret. ‘He’s been very busy since what happened to Laura Vernon. But Graham says he’ll be back at the office next Monday. Apparently Charlotte is feeling better now. But people don’t really come to terms with these things properly until after the funeral, I find.’

‘Have you been in touch with the Vernons yourself?’

Margaret hesitated. ‘I’ve tried to ring Charlotte, but nobody ever answers the phone. You just get the answering machine.’

‘I’ve just come from the Mount myself,’ said Fry.

‘Oh?’ Margaret didn’t seem to know what else to say. She was wearing a long skirt and strappy shoes with flat soles, and she had a light sweater tied round her shoulders. She looked hot and uncomfortable, but then so did everybody in this weather.

‘I’ve been talking to Mrs Vernon.’

‘Is she – how is she taking it all?’

‘Not quite in the way you might expect.’

‘Oh?’ said Margaret again.

Fry walked across to the bay windows and peered through the net at the front garden. Close up, she could see that the geraniums were wilting and turning brown, and their petals had formed a dark-red pool around the base of the chimney pot.

‘What sort of relationship would you say your husband has with the Vernons?’ she asked.

‘He works for Graham. It’s a good job and Andrew works hard.’ Margaret sat down, straightening her skirt, perching uneasily on the edge of an armchair. She looked at Fry anxiously, worried by the fact that she insisted on remaining standing by the window, despite the hint. ‘He was out of work for a while, you know. It made him appreciate having a secure job.’

‘Just a relationship between employer and employee, then? Or something more?’

‘Well, I don’t really know what you mean,’ said Margaret. ‘They work very closely together. You have to have a fairly close personal relationship, I suppose.’

‘A personal relationship? Friends, then? Do you socialize with the Vernons? Have you visited their house?’

‘Yes, we have. Once or twice. Graham is very hospitable.’

Fry watched her closely, noting the shift in the gaze, the involuntary movements of the hands that fidgeted constantly, as if seeking something to pat back into place, something that could be put right with a quick shake and a smoothing of the palms.

‘And Charlotte Vernon?’ said Fry. ‘Is she equally hospitable?’

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ asked Margaret with a note of desperation.

‘No, thank you.’

‘I’ll make one, I think.’

‘If you like.’

Fry followed her into the kitchen, making Margaret Milner even more nervous as she slouched against the oak-effect units and got in the way of the fridge door being opened. Margaret stared at her over the top of the door with a plastic bottle of skimmed milk in her hand.

‘What exactly is it that you want?’

‘A bit of help, that’s all,’ said Fry. ‘I’m trying to fill in a few details.’

Cold air from the open fridge was filling the space between them, chilling Fry’s skin and condensing on the steel surfaces. Margaret seemed reluctant to reach for the handle to close it, afraid to reach too near to Fry in case she touched her and was contaminated by something that could not be killed by Jeyes Fluid and bleach.

‘I don’t know what details I can give you. I really don’t.’

Margaret actually walked away, leaving the fridge ajar, to switch on the kettle. When Fry slammed the door, Margaret jerked as if she had been shot, slopping water on to the work surface.

‘Would you know where to find Mr Milner just now, if you needed to?’

Margaret glanced automatically at the clock. ‘His office would be able to tell you where he is. He has to drive around a lot. Meetings with clients, you know. He’s so busy. He may not be home until late again tonight.’

Home late and she never knew where he was? Fry wondered whether Andrew Milner really was as busy as he told his wife. She wouldn’t accept that anything was impossible.