Scared to Live. Stephen Booth

as the dead. There was no point in asking questions of a comatose body.

      ‘Naturally, he was in a very distressed condition when he was admitted,’ said the ward sister. ‘Apart from his physical injuries.’

      ‘But otherwise he’ll be well enough to be interviewed later?’ asked Fry.

      ‘You’ll have to get permission from the doctor.’

      Fry didn’t like hospital doctors much. They seemed inseparable from a smell of disinfectant and a tendency to interfere. White coats and professional obstinacy; both unwelcome obstacles when she was intent on finding the truth.

      ‘Were you on duty when Mr Mullen’s parents-in-law came in this morning, Sister?’

      ‘Mr and Mrs Lowther? Yes, I spoke to them myself. It was helpful they came, because we’ll be able to reassure Mr Mullen his daughter is safe, at least. She was with them last night, apparently. Oh, but you’ll know that – someone called earlier.’

      ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Fry. ‘So when will Mr Mullen come out of sedation?’

      ‘Some time this afternoon.’

      ‘I need to know as soon as he’s awake and fit to answer questions, Sister.’

      ‘I’ll inform the officer over there, shall I? I presume he’s going to carry on hanging around here making a nuisance of himself?’

      ‘I’m afraid so.’

      ‘Well, I hope we have less trouble with the patient when he wakes up. He almost injured one of my nurses when we had to sedate him earlier.’

      Fry had been about to leave the ward, but she stopped halfway through the swing doors. ‘What do you mean, you had to sedate him?’

      ‘He was completely wild, shouting that he couldn’t stay here, he had to get out. You know, we see some troubled cases in this hospital, but Mr Mullen was in a dreadful state.’

      ‘He must have wanted to go back to his house. He knew his family were trapped in the fire.’

      ‘Probably you’re right …’ The sister hesitated, sounding doubtful. ‘I suppose it’s not my place to say this, but that wasn’t the way it seemed. If you’d asked me at the time, I would have said he was frightened.’

      ‘Frightened?’ Fry glanced back at Brian Mullen, lying motionless in his bed. ‘Well, whatever it was, I expect he’ll have forgotten it when he wakes up, won’t he?’

      ‘Not necessarily. It’s his brain and body that are sedated. Deep-rooted fears are in the subconscious. And the subconscious never sleeps.’

      * * *

      After a wasted trip across town and back, Fry was feeling even more irritable. When she pulled up near the Mullens’ house, she found just one miserable-looking uniformed officer standing outside the gate. He had his hands folded behind his back, and he was bouncing slightly on his toes, as if auditioning for a part in The Pirates of Penzance. At any moment, he might burst into ‘A policeman’s lot is not a happy one …’

      ‘Where’s the fire officer?’ she asked, when Murfin emerged from the house.

      ‘He’s nipped off to get a bit of something for a late breakfast, lucky bugger. He said to tell you he wouldn’t be long.’

      ‘SOCOs here yet?’

      ‘There’s someone on the way, I’m told.’

      Fry looked around at her available resources. One Gilbert and Sullivan extra, and Gavin Murfin. There was nothing like trying to do things on your own, was there?

      Coming up behind the same tractor one more time, Bernie Wilding had to slow down on the road between Foxlow and Bonsall. But the tractor driver pulled over into a lay-by to let him pass, and the postman saw that it was Neville Cross, who owned Yew Tree Farm. His land ran right up to the garden of Rose Shepherd’s property.

      Bernie slowed to a halt alongside the tractor and tapped his horn to get the farmer’s attention.

      ‘Morning,’ said Cross.

      ‘Just thought I’d mention – I couldn’t get any answer at Bain House earlier on. You know, Miss Shepherd’s place? I wondered if you’ve seen her about at all?’

      ‘Can’t say I have. We don’t see her in the village much.’

      ‘No, I know. I thought it was a bit funny, though. Her post was still in the box from yesterday, too.’

      The farmer nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘I’ll keep an eye out.’

      ‘Thanks a lot.’

      Bernie waved and drove off, watching the tractor pull into the road again as soon as he’d passed. He’d probably get behind it again when he reached Bonsall. Sometimes he thought these farmers drove around the lanes all day just for the sake of it. They loved being a bloody nuisance with their tractors, and their trailers full of slurry. Now and then, Bernie wished he could put a bomb under one of them.

       4

      Lindsay Mullen’s parents lived on the hillside above Darley Dale, a couple of miles north of Matlock. Following the directions she’d been given, Fry watched out for the Shalimar Restaurant, then turned left into Northwood Lane and climbed the hill. The Lowthers’ address was near the top, a large bungalow with its rear windows looking down on the A6 from Bakewell.

      She and Murfin had to walk a long way up a garden path to reach the front door. This was a garden that seemed to be mostly gravel and stone flags, apart from the obligatory water feature, and dozens of terracotta pots that didn’t contain very much.

      ‘I like this sort of garden. No plants.’

      And Gavin was right. There was a birdbath, a sundial, a statue of an angel in ornamental stone. And so much furniture, too – a patio set on the terrace under a green parasol, a wooden bench in the shade of an arbour, and a garden barbecue on timber decking at a lower level. In the last few yards, they found themselves walking on cast-iron stepping stones in the shape of flattened tortoises, between solar lights like Edwardian gas lamps. Near the door stood a cast-iron chiminea with a mesh door, its surface just starting to rust.

      A few minutes later, they were sitting with Henry Lowther in a conservatory, on either side of an oak coffee table that matched the flooring.

      ‘Sorry to bring you in here,’ he said, ‘but Luanne is asleep, and we don’t want to disturb her. It’s going to be stressful enough for the child in the next few weeks, poor thing.’

      ‘Luanne is your youngest grandchild, sir?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘How did she come to be here with you last night?’

      ‘We’ve been looking after her for a few days. Luanne hasn’t been sleeping through the night, you see. Poor Lindsay wasn’t getting much rest, so we offered to give her a break for a bit.’

      ‘I see. And are you coping all right yourselves? Talk to your family liaison officer if you need any help, won’t you?’

      ‘No, we’re fine,’ said Lowther. ‘Luanne needs us, and it’s best to have something to concentrate on. You know what I mean …’

      Lindsay Mullen’s parents seemed to be quiet people – no sign of hysterics, or outbursts of anger. But Fry hardly caught a glimpse of Mrs Lowther before she disappeared, clearly on the verge of tears, her eyes already red from previous bouts of weeping.

      ‘My wife isn’t up to talking about it yet,’ said her husband. ‘I hope you understand.’

      ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry to have to bother you with questions, sir.’

      ‘It’s something