been picked up by a community support officer. In the note, he blamed loneliness and isolation, a feeling of worthlessness, the fact that no one cared about him, that there was no future for him to look forward to. It was the standard sort of suicide note, blaming no one in particular but society and life in general. It was a letter written by someone who saw himself as a victim.
Anson Tate had certainly been a loner, according to his details. He was aged fifty, a former journalist with a major newspaper group who’d gone freelance when his job had been rationalised out of existence, but had struggled to make a living. He had no family locally, having moved to Nottinghamshire from the Northeast of England many years ago. He had never married.
‘Mr Tate was the first one,’ said Villiers. ‘Well, the first of this recent surge.’
‘A survivor,’ said Cooper. ‘He’s the one we should talk to. He might have some useful information.’
‘A failed suicide, though. He won’t be feeling any better about himself, knowing he can’t even do that right.’
‘It says here he was referred to the mental health team. He should have been getting counselling since the incident.’
‘Workingon his feelings of failure?’ said Villiers doubtfully. ‘Well, I suppose it works for some people.’
‘We need to track him down and talk to him.’
‘There’s an address for him in Mansfield. I’ll get someone to check it out and see if he’s still there.’
‘To see if he’s still alive even.’
Villiers collected the files together. ‘So what do you want to do, Ben? How are we going to handle it?’
‘We should visit Roger Farrell’s home first,’ said Cooper. ‘That’s probably all we’ve got time for today.’
‘Nottingham? I’m ready.’
‘And tomorrow I’d very much like to visit some of these locations.’
‘To do what?’
‘To look at the view,’ he said. ‘And to think about death, of course.’
‘You know, my mother always used to say it was caused by the weather,’ said Cooper as he and Villiers sat in his Toyota in the West Street car park.
‘What was?’
‘Suicide. It was an old belief, I think – that the cold and rain, and the long nights of winter, were what led people to get depressed and want to kill themselves.
The weather of our souls reflects the weather of the skies
.’
‘Is that what she said?’
‘It was something like that.’
‘She was quite a wise woman, your mother,’ said Villiers. ‘I think I remember her. Or I remember people talking about her anyway.’
‘Wisewoman? You make her sound like the local witch.’
‘No, not that. But she was full of local lore, wasn’t she? Everyone used to quote her, just as you did now.’
Cooper nodded. ‘You’re right, Carol. I don’t know where she got it all from. My granny probably. She was just the same.’
‘I can imagine.’
They were silent for a moment, watching police officers and civilian staff passing in the car park.
‘It’s not true, though,’ said Cooper. ‘It’s nothing to do with the weather or even the long dark nights. Statistics show that the suicide rate falls in the winter and starts to increase again in the spring. I looked it up.’
‘Really? So the actual peak time …?’
‘Is about now, yes.’
‘I don’t understand why that would be. Look at it – the grass is growing, the flowers are out, the lambs are in the fields. And the air … well, you can feel it in the air, can’t you?’
‘Of course,’ said Cooper. ‘But that’s exactly the problem, don’t you think?’
‘What do you mean?’
He paused, trying to find the right words to explain himself properly. He hadn’t analysed it fully in his own head, but as he was speaking to Villiers he found his thoughts clarifying.
‘It’s seeing and feeling everything around you bursting into new life, while your own existence is still frozen in some desolate, permanent winter. Itemphasises the chasm between you and
Anson Tate had certainly been a loner, according to his details. He was aged fifty, a former journalist with a major newspaper group who’d gone freelance when his job had been rationalised out of existence, but had struggled to make a living. He had no family locally, having moved to Nottinghamshire from the Northeast of England many years ago. He had never married.
‘Mr Tate was the first one,’ said Villiers. ‘Well, the first of this recent surge.’
‘A survivor,’ said Cooper. ‘He’s the one we should talk to. He might have some useful information.’
‘A failed suicide, though. He won’t be feeling any better about himself, knowing he can’t even do that right.’
‘It says here he was referred to the mental health team. He should have been getting counselling since the incident.’
‘Workingon his feelings of failure?’ said Villiers doubtfully. ‘Well, I suppose it works for some people.’
‘We need to track him down and talk to him.’
‘There’s an address for him in Mansfield. I’ll get someone to check it out and see if he’s still there.’
‘To see if he’s still alive even.’
Villiers collected the files together. ‘So what do you want to do, Ben? How are we going to handle it?’
‘We should visit Roger Farrell’s home first,’ said Cooper. ‘That’s probably all we’ve got time for today.’
‘Nottingham? I’m ready.’
‘And tomorrow I’d very much like to visit some of these locations.’
‘To do what?’
‘To look at the view,’ he said. ‘And to think about death, of course.’
‘You know, my mother always used to say it was caused by the weather,’ said Cooper as he and Villiers sat in his Toyota in the West Street car park.
‘What was?’
‘Suicide. It was an old belief, I think – that the cold and rain, and the long nights of winter, were what led people to get depressed and want to kill themselves.
The weather of our souls reflects the weather of the skies
.’
‘Is that what she said?’
‘It was something like that.’
‘She was quite a wise woman, your mother,’ said Villiers. ‘I think I remember her. Or I remember people talking about her anyway.’
‘Wisewoman? You make her sound like the local witch.’
‘No, not that. But she was full of local lore, wasn’t she? Everyone used to quote her, just as you did now.’
Cooper nodded. ‘You’re right, Carol. I don’t know where she got it all from. My granny probably. She was just the same.’
‘I can imagine.’
They were silent for a moment, watching police officers and civilian staff passing in the car park.
‘It’s not true, though,’ said Cooper. ‘It’s nothing to do with the weather or even the long dark nights. Statistics show that the suicide rate falls in the winter and starts to increase again in the spring. I looked it up.’
‘Really? So the actual peak time …?’
‘Is about now, yes.’
‘I don’t understand why that would be. Look at it – the grass is growing, the flowers are out, the lambs are in the fields. And the air … well, you can feel it in the air, can’t you?’
‘Of course,’ said Cooper. ‘But that’s exactly the problem, don’t you think?’
‘What do you mean?’
He paused, trying to find the right words to explain himself properly. He hadn’t analysed it fully in his own head, but as he was speaking to Villiers he found his thoughts clarifying.
‘It’s seeing and feeling everything around you bursting into new life, while your own existence is still frozen in some desolate, permanent winter. Itemphasises the chasm between you and
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