Dead And Buried

‘I thought we’d go for something to eat,’ he said, when Murfin was in the hallway of his flat, making little kissing noises at the cat. ‘Unless Jean is expecting you back?’

Murfin straightened up with an almost audible creak.

‘No, I was hoping you’d say that. Jean’s out at one of her meetings, so I’m left to my own devices, like.’

‘The Gate is the nearest place. Is that okay?’

‘Suits me. All this business with the Light House has made me hanker after a bit of pub grub. I don’t mind what it is, as long as it comes with chips.’

‘Let’s go, then,’ said Cooper.

‘But are you sure you’re off the leash?’ asked Murfin with a sly glance. ‘You’re the one whose time is spoken for these days. Has Liz not got you booked for something tonight?’

‘Don’t,’ said Cooper.

‘You’ll have to get used to it, young man. That’s what marriage is all about, getting used to the ball and chain.’

‘We love each other,’ said Cooper. ‘And we want to live together and do all those things together that other people do. That’s why we’re getting married.’

Murfin laughed. ‘Of course it is.’

‘This is it, Gavin. Being with Liz is my future, what I want for the rest of my life. And I’m very happy about it.’

‘’Nuff said.’

Cooper led the way out of his flat. Fortunately, his own local was still open. The Hanging Gate was just a couple of streets away across the river. This pub still had the scenic Peak District views on the walls, as well as the same old CDs of sixties and seventies pop classics playing in the background. But it also still had Bank’s Bitter and Mansfield Pedigree on draught.

The Gate was pretty much a town-centre pub, based on its location. But because it sat outside the main shopping area, it was left off the pub-crawl circuits — and it was certainly beyond the orbit of the Saturday-night clubbers, thank God.

Some of the bars a few hundred yards away in Clappergate and the high street were totally different in style and atmosphere. They were officially known as high-volume vertical drinking establishments. Hardly any chairs or tables were provided for customers, because it was accepted that everyone stood up, crammed shoulder to shoulder, clutching their drinks or resting their glasses on narrow shelves at chest height, sweating in the heat generated by the mass of bodies and shouting to each other over the music. Only young people enjoyed drinking in those conditions. The fact that he preferred a genuine local like the Gate sometimes made Cooper wonder whether he was getting middle-aged before his time.

But then he’d be married soon. Pubbing and clubbing would become a distant memory. The future for him held an endless vista of trips to IKEA, Saturdays spent putting up shelves, Sundays washing the car.

And children. Cooper took another swallow of his beer. He liked children. He was very fond of his two nieces, Amy and Josie. But having your own was surely quite a different matter. You couldn’t just leave them for someone else to look after when you decided you’d had enough of them. Becoming a parent took a bit of thinking about. And a lot of planning. He supposed he should really start thinking about it now.

‘Hey up, don’t rush so much,’ said Murfin as they entered the pub. ‘You’re going to get to the bar before me.’

‘It’s my round anyway.’

They found a table and ordered their food. Steak and kidney pie was on the menu at the Hanging Gate, and Murfin hadn’t taken long over his choice.

‘Just think, it’ll be one long pub lunch for me in a few weeks’ time,’ said Murfin, relaxing with a sigh over his pint. ‘I bet all you youngsters are getting jealous.’

‘Gavin, what are you going to do with yourself when you’ve retired?’ asked Cooper.

‘I’m hoping someone will take pity on me. All I need is food, shelter and the basic Sky Sports package.’

He hoped Gavin really did have something lined up to occupy his time in retirement. Too many men went off the rails, gave up trying or died of a heart attack within the first couple of years of finding themselves adrift, without the anchor of a job. It was especially true where they’d done pretty much the same job all their lives.

It wasn’t as if Murfin had a sideline or hobby. All he knew was police work, his experience was in his familiarity with the local villains, his conversation was about incidents from his past as a uniformed bobby or as a green young recruit to CID. And it would all be totally worthless once he walked out of that door for the last time.

His behaviour was becoming more and more odd lately, though. It was almost as if he wanted to get himself disciplined. That didn’t make sense.

‘Well, it’s nice to have Diane Fry back with us for a while,’ said Murfin cheerfully. ‘It gives us another chance at sorting out the Wicked Witch of the West.’

‘Just ignore her, Gavin. That’s the best policy.’

Murfin smiled. ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’