Dead And Buried

Then Cooper realised what it was. Deep down, Murfin had become desperate to provoke a reaction, to make sure everyone was aware that he still existed. He wanted his name mentioned to the bosses at headquarters, even if it was for all the wrong reasons. Gavin was telling the truth when he said it didn’t matter any more. Nothing mattered, really — except that the world should acknowledge his existence.

‘Looking forward to the retirement party, Gavin?’ he asked.

Murfin’s expression changed.

‘It’ll be full of miserable, moaning old sods,’ he said. ‘I’ve worked with enough of them over the years. They’ll be coming out of the woodwork in droves when they get a sniff of a free sausage roll.’

‘Yes, I bet,’ said Cooper.

He smiled at the irony of the complaint. The other day he’d come across Murfin reminiscing with a few of the other old stagers, remembering the golden age when PC stood for police constable, and not ‘politically correct’. In fact Gavin would be one of the last to benefit from the old pension arrangements. Police officers were paying more into their pensions now, and senior officers were affected the most.

Cooper wondered how he would cope when his own retirement came round. His early days with Derbyshire Constabulary already felt as though they belonged to a different era. A Jurassic period, when dinosaurs ruled the earth. Dinosaurs not unlike Gavin Murfin, in fact.

He remembered a spell when he’d started working lates and found himself on drunk patrol. It was that time of the shift cycle that put him and a few colleagues on foot outside the pubs and clubs of Edendale town centre from ten at night until four in the morning. Each night it was a question of how many groups of young men would walk past and spot the police officers, with one lad grabbing his mate in a headlock and shouting, ‘I’ve got him, I’ve got him.’ How many times would he hear the words ‘My mate is pregnant, can she wee in your hat?’ or: ‘You can smile, you know’? How many times would he hear his sergeant say, ‘Just walk away, mate, and enjoy your night. You don’t want to spend it in the cells.’ Yet they didn’t walk away, of course. There were always the ones who took it as a challenge, rather than good advice. Oh yes, he’d really enjoyed watching people get drunk as he stood in the rain.

He told Gavin this memory of his early career. In a way, it seemed to be the sort of thing they should be talking about in this manly heart-to-heart over a pint of beer.

‘You’re right,’ said Murfin. ‘Being the bloke who has to pick up the drunks every night after they’ve vomited on the pavement and urinated in shop doorways … well, it isn’t as glamorous a job as it sounds.’

Cooper recalled that Murfin had been with Diane Fry at the Light House on Tuesday. Murfin was by far the most experienced of his team. Over the past few years he would have been the one to turn to for a bit of old-school wisdom. Down-to-earth, seat-of-the-pants, good old copper’s instinct. Not politically correct, of course. No, rarely that. But he was often right, all the same.

‘Gavin, can I ask you something?’ he said.

‘Ask away.’

‘What was your first thought when you arrived at the Light House on Monday, after Aidan’s Merritt’s body was found?’

Murfin scratched the back of his head.

‘My first thought? To be honest, it was “Where the heck am I going to get a brew from in a place like this?”’

A little while later, Murfin set off to visit the gents, staggering slightly as he crossed the room. Cooper began to think about how he was going to get Gavin home.

‘Now then, Ben. How’s it going?’

He turned gratefully to the man who slid on to the stool next to him.

‘Oh, fine. Thanks.’

He looked a bit closer, realising that he knew the face but for a moment was unable to place the name.

‘As you can see, I’m on the other side of the bar tonight.’

‘Ah, of course.’

Yes — Roddy, that was it. He had no idea of the surname. A genial, sandy-haired youth, he was a part-time barman right here at the Hanging Gate. Cooper didn’t see him all that often. Perhaps his shifts were mostly during the day. But he knew the face well enough. Funny how difficult it was sometimes to recognise people when you saw them out of their usual context.

When a casual acquaintance wanted to start up a conversation with him, it was usually because they were angling for information. And Roddy was no exception.

‘I was hearing about this business up at the Light House,’ he said. ‘That’s a bit of a shocker.’

‘Did you know the victim, Aidan Merritt?’

‘Not him. But we all know the Whartons.’ He laughed. ‘Well, everyone knows Mad Maurice. It was sad that no one could help him save the pub from closing. A place like the Light House, too. Tragic.’

‘I heard that the quality of his beer had been deteriorating for some time.’