Dead And Buried

But she said it so quietly that Cooper’s ears pricked up. She had hung her head to avoid meeting his eye. She was ashamed, perhaps. That was understandable. But suddenly he realised that she was mostly ashamed of something she wasn’t telling them.

‘It’s easy to spread rumours around here,’ said Nancy. ‘It only takes one person to start talking about it in a pub, and it goes round like wildfire. No one knew that better than us.’

It was true, but Cooper wasn’t letting it distract from the sudden weight of certainty that had formed in his mind.

‘It was you,’ he said, with a growing feeling of shock and anger. ‘It was you who started the moorland fires. You actually hoped the fire would reach the pub. You planned to damage it beyond repair, so that no one would buy it. You wanted to see the death of the Light House.’

‘It seemed the only way left to us. We thought we’d run out of options, but when the wildfires started, it was like a sign. We heard someone on the news saying that the fires were threatening farm buildings and isolated properties. I remember it now. We looked at each other, and we didn’t have to say a word.’

Cooper stared at her, horrified. It was almost beyond comprehension that the Whartons could have tried to destroy the place they’d worked so hard to save. But that was what they’d been brought to, in the end.

Fry glanced at him, but said nothing. He could sense her unspoken message. He was getting off topic. They had to focus Nancy Wharton on the central issue.

‘We need to take you back to that night in December,’ said Fry. ‘Tell us exactly what happened.’

Cooper watched Nancy fold her arms and lean on them, rocking her body against the table as she relived the memories. How had she imagined she could escape this process? Did she really think she could just hand over a letter and it would all be done with? Wishful thinking? Or had she completely lost touch with reality? Living with such a huge secret for so long might warp your perspective, he supposed. The biggest challenge she’d faced was deciding when the moment had come to let that secret go.

‘The Light House was shut,’ she said. ‘We always closed the pub for a few days over Christmas.’

‘We know that. So how did the Pearsons come to be there?’

‘They came banging on the door late that night, and we recognised them from the evening before. So we let them in. We didn’t want to. Well, Maurice particularly — he hated the idea of strangers being there in the pub, when it was a family time. It was worse than that, though. Maurice had been looking at the business accounts. Like I said, we truly thought it was going to be the last Christmas we’d be able to spend at the Light House. The children knew it by then, too.’

‘So if you and Mr Wharton really didn’t want strangers in the pub over Christmas, then why …?’

‘They were both exhausted when they arrived,’ said Nancy. ‘The woman was on her last legs. They must have been wandering around the moor for hours by then. They’d been to the George in Castleton, and tried to walk back. Over the moor in the snow? Stupid. They were stupid to do that.’

It was a tendency that so many people showed when they were interviewed, the attempt to blame everything on the victims. If they hadn’t done this, if they hadn’t behaved like that … The sound of self-justification was so familiar in these interview rooms that Cooper could probably have heard it echoing back to him if he put his ear to the wall.

‘Did they say which way they’d come from Castleton?’ he asked.

Nancy looked surprised. ‘Yes, they said they’d walked up The Stones. They must have come out on the hill at the top there.’

‘Hurd Low.’

‘Yes. Why?’

Why? Cooper had retraced their exact steps himself earlier in the week. He’d pictured very clearly David and Trisha Pearson choosing to take a route back to their cottage via The Stones and Goose Hill, leaving the street lamps of Castleton behind and climbing Hurd Low, hoping to follow the path that linked up with the Limestone Way. He’d imagined the light flurries of sleet turning to snow by the time they left the town. He saw them, within minutes, struggling through a blizzard, their torches useless in zero visibility, their track disappearing under drifting snow. He’d almost been able to feel the cold, to hear that wind moaning and whining like an animal.

Zero visibility? When Cooper had been up on Oxlow Moor this week, the prominent landmark he’d once known had been missing. The Light House had been dark and abandoned, windowless and dead. Though its roof line was still there, its characteristic presence was missing from the skyline.

But when the Pearsons had set off to walk from the George to their cottage at Brecks Farm, the Light House had still been occupied. The Whartons were at home, getting ready to celebrate Christmas with their family. All the windows would have been lit up, the decorations glittering, the Christmas tree sparkling like a beacon in the darkness.