Dead And Buried

‘I think that’s right. Hygiene problems, I would imagine. The boss here takes a lot of trouble over hygiene. Take line cleaning — it’s always a chore, but it has to be done every week without fail. If you get dirty lines, you have yeast build-up. I wonder what Maurice’s cellar temperature was like.’

Cooper looked at him, his mouth falling open slightly. Perhaps it was the effect of the beer on his brain, or the fact that he hadn’t recognised Roddy straight away, but he was starting to feel particularly stupid tonight.

‘His cellar?’ he said.

‘It has to be cool,’ explained Roddy. ‘Always between eleven and thirteen degrees Celsius, and constant. Sometimes people leave the cellar door open, or switch off the cooling at night, if they want to save money.’ He shook his head. ‘There are lots of nasties in a cellar that you don’t want getting to your beer. Bacteria, oxygen, moulds, flies, wild yeast, dirt …’

‘I get the picture,’ said Cooper, though in fact his mind was flailing wildly in an attempt to form an image that just wasn’t coming.

‘I’ve worked in a few pubs,’ said Roddy. ‘And the cellar often becomes a dumping ground. You wouldn’t believe the clutter in some places. The ice-maker, the chest freezer, the post-mix machine … People think they’re out of the way yet still handy. I even saw a motorbike once. It was a lovely bike, but imagine the stink of petrol mixing with the smell of beer. That’s a recipe for disaster all right.’

In the middle of the conversation Cooper became aware of a diesel engine outside, the sound of a large vehicle and the crashing of heavy items being delivered

When they left the Hanging Gate, the reason for the noise became evident. A brewery dray was drawn up in the street, and a wooden hatch set into the pavement was standing open for fresh kegs of beer to be lowered in.

‘We must have drunk a lot if they needed to bring in new supplies at this time of the evening,’ said Murfin.

‘It’s probably a regular delivery time.’

As he watched two draymen wearing leather gauntlets for roping kegs into the cellar, Cooper realised he’d always known at the back of his mind that the brewery dray delivered to the pub once a week. That must be true of all pubs, mustn’t it?

He felt like smacking his forehead with his hand.

‘How could I have forgotten that?’ he said.

He fumbled for his phone as they walked down the street.

‘Who are you calling?’ asked Murfin. ‘Not the fiancée? Are you having to report in?’

‘Just something I have to do now before I forget.’

‘You know your trouble, Ben?’

But Cooper had stopped listening to Murfin as he dialled a number and the phone was answered.

‘Josh? It’s Ben Cooper. Detective Sergeant Cooper, you remember? Good. I’m sorry to bother you, Josh, but I wonder if you’d have a bit of time to spare tomorrow? Are you working? If not, I’d like you to come up to the Light House for a while.’

Lane sounded reluctant, and even a little nervous.

‘Yes, I could call in before I go to work. But … am I allowed? Isn’t it a crime scene? Police — do not cross and all that?’

‘You’ll be fine with me. I can arrange it. Shall we say two o’clock?’

‘Okay then. What do you want me to do?’

‘It’s simple,’ said Cooper. ‘I want you to show me the cellars.’

24

When Ben Cooper woke the next day, it was with the scent of smoke in his nostrils. He knew he must have been dreaming, imagining he was in the middle of a wildfire raging across the moors. He couldn’t remember the nightmare, but he must have experienced it. It wasn’t in his memory, but it lingered in his senses.

Gavin Murfin’s brown Megane still stood outside in Welbeck Street. Cooper vaguely remembered Gavin heading off home in a taxi at the end of the evening. He hoped he’d arrived safely. There’d be hell to pay if he hadn’t. Jean would certainly hold him responsible.

Cooper shook his head to try to clear it. He recalled making the appointment to meet Josh Lane at the Light House. And there was something else he ought to remember, too. But, like the dream, it was evading his grasp just now.

The news was bad this morning. The latest bulletins reported more wildfires. And this time they were on Kinder Scout. Cooper stared out of the window of his flat. The street outside looked the same as it always did. But the town wasn’t affected by the fires, except when people complained about soot on their washing. The damage was happening out there, on the moors.

Cooper decided to skip breakfast, drank a quick coffee and went out of the door. He wasn’t due in the office for an hour or so.

This was Kinder Scout, after all. Kinder was the highest moorland plateau in the Peak District, part of a landscape almost unique to Britain, whose importance had only in recent years been fully appreciated. It was said that the expanses of peat on Kinder soaked up excess carbon from the atmosphere, and would continue to act as a carbon sink even if the climate became warmer and wetter, as the scientists predicted.