Don’t get involved. Turn in your statement, and forget about it.’
‘Right, Diane,’ he said. ‘Understood. Have a good trip.’
When Fry had picked up her things and left, Cooper called Murfin over. He was munching on a chocolate bar – what he called his second breakfast.
‘Yes, new boss. What can I do for you? Pick up Michael Lowndes and give him the old rubber hose treatment, or what?’
‘No, Gavin. I want you to get PNC print-outs for all the registered sex offenders in the Ashbourne area.’
Murfin stopped chewing. ‘Are you looking for someone in particular?’
‘Yes,’ said Cooper. ‘And I’ll recognize him when I see him.’
To reach the A515 from Edendale, Cooper had a circuitous drive across Tideswell, Miller’s Dale and Blackwell. One of the pleasantest drives in the Peak District, but he barely noticed it. The A515 was the road south, down out of the White Peak to Ashbourne.
Three-quarters of an hour later, Cooper was sitting down on a rather chintzy sofa in the Nields’ lounge, facing a fireplace with a polished oak surround containing a living-flame gas fire – one of those things that were supposed to provide the impression of an open fire, but without any of the mess. Photographs of the family stood on a display mantel. At one end of the room, double doors stood open into a dining room with another bay window overlooking the rear garden. And, in the distance, he had another view of Thorpe Cloud.
‘Have you lived here long, Mr Nield?’ he asked.
‘About two years.’
‘But you’re local, aren’t you?’
‘Oh, yes. We lived in Wetton before we came here.’
Cooper nodded. Wetton was a small village about ten miles northwest of Ashbourne, close to Dovedale itself.
‘And you’re a supermarket manager, is that right?’
‘Yes, I manage an independent here in Ashbourne, called Lodge’s. Do you know it?’
‘I’ve heard of it, I think,’ said Cooper.
‘Well, that’s something. A lot of people don’t even realize there are independent supermarkets any more. We’re a bit of a dying breed.’
‘It’s good to have independent businesses. Ashbourne is lucky.’
‘Times are changing, I’m afraid. That sort of view sounds like pure nostalgia from a commercial point of view. There are too many supermarkets in Ashbourne now. The opening of Sainsbury’s was the last straw. We can’t all survive in this economic climate.’
‘Do you think you’ll close, then?’
‘Probably,’ said Nield. ‘In the next year or two, perhaps sooner.’
‘And will you be able to get a job at one of the other stores?’
He shook his head. ‘I doubt it. I come from the wrong culture, you see. When the big chains take you on, they want to turn you into a Sainsbury’s person, or a Tesco’s person, or whatever it is. They need to own your soul, to make sure you’re a team player. I’ve had too many years outside their culture, you see. I’m tainted by too much independence.’
Mrs Nield had disappeared into the kitchen as soon as Cooper arrived. Not because she wanted to get out of his way, but because it seemed to give her something to do. Another woman was in there, slightly younger. Her sister.
‘For one thing, I’m a big believer in sourcing local produce, wherever possible,’ said Nield, perching on an armchair. ‘Take bottled water. The Co-op here sells its own Fairbourne Springs, which comes from Wales. Somerfield’s now, they stock water from Huddersfield and Shropshire.’
‘Instead of…?’
‘Well, Buxton spring water. That’s what we sell at Lodge’s. Locally produced, you see. Of course, we used to stock Ashbourne water, but that went the way of all things, when Nestle closed the factory. It’s like everything else. Too much competition.’
Cooper was conscious that he was filling in time, besides letting Robert Nield talk about something other than the death of his daughter. But he was waiting for Mrs Nield to return before he asked his real questions.
‘Where is your own store, sir?’
‘Out on the Derby Road. You know where you turn off to the Airfield Industrial Estate? We’re there. We used to be in the centre of town too, of course. But rents got a bit high for us.’
Mrs Nield brought a tray of cups in. Proper cups and saucers, something he never bothered with at home.
‘Mr and Mrs Nield,’ said Cooper as she poured the tea, ‘I’m sorry to ask you questions at a time like this. I know you’ve made statements for Sergeant Wragg, but could I ask you to go over again what happened in Dovedale yesterday?’
Dawn sat in the chair next to her husband, and grasped his hand for reassurance.
‘We didn’t really see what happened. Not exactly,’ said Dawn. ‘We told the sergeant. It must have happened very quickly.’
‘Yes, I understand that,’ said Cooper.
Nield nodded. ‘I understand why you need to know, DC Cooper. Or could we call you Ben?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘It seems that our dog, Buster, ran into the water to fetch a stick. Emily ran in after the dog.’
‘Who threw the stick?’
‘We’re not sure. One of the children.’
‘And you saw Emily go into the water?’
‘Not really. We were chatting on the bank. I think I was watching out for Alex – he tends to wander off on his own, you know. The next thing I knew, someone shouted, and when I looked round Buster was coming out of the river, shaking himself, spraying water everywhere. And then we realized we couldn’t see Emily.’
He paused, appeared to be doing his best to recall events accurately.
‘Go on, sir.’
‘Well, I suppose it was a minute or two before we realized what had happened. We thought she was just hiding behind a rock or something. Children play like that, don’t they? But…she wasn’t playing.’
Dawn had brought out the tissues again while her husband was speaking. Cooper was beginning to feel uncomfortable, but there was an important point here.
‘If I’ve got this right, Mr Nield, you didn’t actually see Emily go into the water, and you didn’t see her fall or hit her head on a rock?’
‘I suppose that’s true. But that’s what happened, isn’t it? Well, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I’m sure it was,’ said Cooper, because
