looked as though she was the leader when she was with Murfin. She was like a diminutive sheepdog nipping at the heels of a lumbering bullock, steering him in the right direction.
But tonight, Fry had her suspicions about Murfin. He’d been plotting something against her all day, she was sure. He wasn’t going to be content any longer with sniping from the sidelines. It was best to know where the stab in the back would come from.
A few minutes later, Fry climbed into her Audi, drove through the barrier and headed down West Street. She was remembering the first time she’d set eyes on Ben Cooper. She had only just arrived in Derbyshire following her transfer from the West Midlands and was already suffering a form of culture shock at the transition from working in the vibrant urban sprawl of Birmingham to the rural wastelands of the Peak District.
Cooper had been on leave during her first two weeks in Edendale. She’d heard plenty about him, though – everybody’s favourite DC, the fount of all local knowledge. And when he finally appeared, walking into a room full of people, arriving late for a briefing at the start of a murder inquiry, she’d known straight away that he was no threat. Untidy, awkward, lacking in confidence, with a tendency to say and do all the wrong things. He was well meaning, but weak. She clearly remembered thinking that about him at the time, an instant assessment. She would have hated him otherwise.
Fry changed down gears at the bottom of the hill and slowed for the junction with Eyre Street. Cooper had changed since then, of course. The man she’d last seen, before the incident at the Light House pub, wasn’t the same person at all. Promotion, responsibility, a fiancée, and a few more years under his belt – they’d all made a difference. He’d been almost unrecognisable as the awkward inconvenience she’d first met. Very different. And now he seemed more of a threat.
It was funny how that could happen to people. It made her wonder whether she’d changed too, in other people’s eyes. Had she become a different person during these last few years, as a result of her time in Derbyshire and all the things that had happened here? She thought not. Oh, there might be a new scar, a few painful memories, and a lot more clutter in her life – not to mention a reunion with her missing sister, which seemed a century ago now.
But she was still the same person, wasn’t she? She felt too much in control of her own nature to let any of those circumstances change her. There was no being swept along by the tide for her. Self-determination, that was what she believed in. She was in charge of her destiny, and it was important to remember it. Others should remember it more too. Yes, of course. Diane Fry was the same person she’d always been.
In Grosvenor Road, the little flat she’d lived in for years was starting to feel too small and too dismal now, the students and migrant workers upstairs too annoying. She didn’t like the idea of sharing the house any more, got irritated every time she heard the front door slam. She’d got into an argument one day with a girl from Slovakia, and now no one spoke to her. They probably thought of her as a bad-tempered old witch. They certainly made her feel old anyway. She did have twelve or fifteen years on any one of them. And somehow, those years had aged her more than they should have done.
She looked in the fridge, and found nothing on the shelves that hadn’t been there yesterday, and probably the day before. Half a two-litre bottle of milk, some limp lettuce, a few ounces of Cheddar. There was a small bottle of something dark at the back. Possibly soy sauce.
‘Damn it,’ she said, slamming the door. ‘And nothing to drink anyway.’
Fry walked into the Wheatsheaf and paused in the doorway, surveying the bar. At a table in the far corner, under an enormous decorative mirror, she saw a huddled group, heads bent close together over a clutter of
But tonight, Fry had her suspicions about Murfin. He’d been plotting something against her all day, she was sure. He wasn’t going to be content any longer with sniping from the sidelines. It was best to know where the stab in the back would come from.
A few minutes later, Fry climbed into her Audi, drove through the barrier and headed down West Street. She was remembering the first time she’d set eyes on Ben Cooper. She had only just arrived in Derbyshire following her transfer from the West Midlands and was already suffering a form of culture shock at the transition from working in the vibrant urban sprawl of Birmingham to the rural wastelands of the Peak District.
Cooper had been on leave during her first two weeks in Edendale. She’d heard plenty about him, though – everybody’s favourite DC, the fount of all local knowledge. And when he finally appeared, walking into a room full of people, arriving late for a briefing at the start of a murder inquiry, she’d known straight away that he was no threat. Untidy, awkward, lacking in confidence, with a tendency to say and do all the wrong things. He was well meaning, but weak. She clearly remembered thinking that about him at the time, an instant assessment. She would have hated him otherwise.
Fry changed down gears at the bottom of the hill and slowed for the junction with Eyre Street. Cooper had changed since then, of course. The man she’d last seen, before the incident at the Light House pub, wasn’t the same person at all. Promotion, responsibility, a fiancée, and a few more years under his belt – they’d all made a difference. He’d been almost unrecognisable as the awkward inconvenience she’d first met. Very different. And now he seemed more of a threat.
It was funny how that could happen to people. It made her wonder whether she’d changed too, in other people’s eyes. Had she become a different person during these last few years, as a result of her time in Derbyshire and all the things that had happened here? She thought not. Oh, there might be a new scar, a few painful memories, and a lot more clutter in her life – not to mention a reunion with her missing sister, which seemed a century ago now.
But she was still the same person, wasn’t she? She felt too much in control of her own nature to let any of those circumstances change her. There was no being swept along by the tide for her. Self-determination, that was what she believed in. She was in charge of her destiny, and it was important to remember it. Others should remember it more too. Yes, of course. Diane Fry was the same person she’d always been.
In Grosvenor Road, the little flat she’d lived in for years was starting to feel too small and too dismal now, the students and migrant workers upstairs too annoying. She didn’t like the idea of sharing the house any more, got irritated every time she heard the front door slam. She’d got into an argument one day with a girl from Slovakia, and now no one spoke to her. They probably thought of her as a bad-tempered old witch. They certainly made her feel old anyway. She did have twelve or fifteen years on any one of them. And somehow, those years had aged her more than they should have done.
She looked in the fridge, and found nothing on the shelves that hadn’t been there yesterday, and probably the day before. Half a two-litre bottle of milk, some limp lettuce, a few ounces of Cheddar. There was a small bottle of something dark at the back. Possibly soy sauce.
‘Damn it,’ she said, slamming the door. ‘And nothing to drink anyway.’
Fry walked into the Wheatsheaf and paused in the doorway, surveying the bar. At a table in the far corner, under an enormous decorative mirror, she saw a huddled group, heads bent close together over a clutter of
Similar Books
