Ben Cooper and Diane Fry 11 - The Devil’s Edge Read online

  A small girl with blond pigtails hanging from under her riding hat was seated on a dapple grey pony. The child screamed as her pony panicked and shied away from a judge trying to present her with a blue rosette.

  They finally found the Gambles watching the gymkhana. From behind, the couple were hardly recognisable. Their chairs were pulled close together, and their heads were covered, hers by the hood of a cagoule and his with a tattered deerstalker instead of the cowboy hat. Even so, there was something about their posture that identified them to Cooper’s eye. Perhaps it was the way they had huddled together and cut themselves off from the crowd, turning their backs deliberately to the rest of the show.

  Cooper sat down in a chair next to Mr Gamble, while Villiers stood patiently behind their seats. Gamble barely acknowledged his presence with a twitch of his eyebrows.

  ‘Interested in horses, sir?’

  ‘Our granddaughter is competing.’

  ‘Oh, really? Does she live in Riddings?’

  ‘No, in Bamford. But they come from all over for this show.’

  ‘I saw that you’d entered the photographic competition,’ said Cooper.

  ‘It’s my hobby. I told you.’

  ‘Well, one of them.’

  ‘I didn’t win,’ said Gamble.

  ‘I’m sorry about that. But it was a fascinating photograph. I was wondering where it was taken.’

  ‘Are you interested in photography?’

  ‘No, but I’m interested in Riddings. In everything about the place. And I didn’t recognise the location in your picture.’

  Gamble made a pretence of being engrossed by what was going on in the ring, applauding some child receiving her award. Cooper wasn’t fooled. Not this time. He could practically see Gamble’s brain working, trying to calculate the best answer to the question, maybe hoping Cooper would go away if he didn’t reply for long enough. But Cooper wasn’t going away.

  ‘It’s just some old farm buildings,’ Gamble said finally.

  ‘There are no farms in Riddings, sir. I imagine there haven’t been any for quite a long time.’

  ‘No, but there are still some derelict buildings. You just need to know where to look.’

  ‘And where are these particular buildings?’

  ‘On the outskirts of the village, under the edge.’

  Cooper nodded. ‘Perhaps I’ll ask you to show me some time.’

  Gamble scowled. ‘I don’t like being seen talking to you in public like this. People will think I’m in trouble.’

  On the other side of Gamble, his wife made a small sound, a faint expression of incredulity. Cooper looked at her, saw her raise her eyes upwards in exasperation.

  ‘I’m sure we can all be discreet,’ said Cooper. ‘Especially when we want to obtain information.’

  He left Gamble muttering to himself, and Mrs Gamble hissing into his ear. That was one couple he was happy to unsettle.

  The spell of sun had lulled everyone into a false sense of security. The waterproofs had come off, the umbrellas had been lowered, the ice creams were being handed round. The first big drops of rain hitting the ground caused a wave of movement across the showground as visitors ran for cover.

  A gust of wind along the river blew sprays of water off the awnings of the stands. A few moments later, an even stronger gust dismantled the face-painting tent, tugging its pegs out of the ground and folding the canvas right over on to the popcorn stand. The sight seemed to have alarmed Doctor Woof, who had cut his show short and was packing up his gear as Cooper and Villiers walked towards his spot.

  Now rain drummed on the canvas roof of the marquee, and water cascaded over the entrance flap, where straw had been strewn on the floor to prevent it from getting poached – churned up by thousands of passing feet.

  The band was playing something more soothing now, but not a piece he recognised. He asked Villiers if she knew it.

  ‘It’s “Music of the Night”.’

  ‘“Music of the Night”? That sounds like something from Count Dracula. You know, when Dracula hears the wolves howling outside the castle. He says: “Listen to them. Children of the night. What music they make.”’

  ‘No, it’s Andrew Lloyd Webber.’

  ‘I was close.’

  ‘You don’t know Phantom of the Opera, then? You must be about the only person who’s never been to see it.’

  ‘Musicals aren’t really my thing. Besides, you have to go to London.’

  She smiled. ‘And you could never do that. You’re getting very provincial, Ben.’

  ‘Getting? I always was.’

  ‘I know. And I rather like it.’

  When the rain stopped again, they decided to leave. As they walked back to the parking area, they passed small knots of people leaning on their umbrellas and shooting sticks, or picnicking under the tailgates of their 4x4s. All of them seemed to be too loud and too jovial, pretending that they were enjoying themselves more than they really were. Even a social occasion like this became a falsehood, a sham.

  Cooper reflected that pretty much everybody he’d spoken to in Riddings had been telling lies about something. Lying when in doubt was a natural response, though. It seemed like a way to postpone trouble. Short-term thinking, of course. But everyone was guilty of that. Absolutely everyone.

  Before they got back to the car, Villiers disappeared. Cooper found himself standing near the ice cream van. Frederick’s, a local firm. He remembered his promise to buy Villiers a choc ice. But the van seemed to be advertising more exotic items. He had no idea whether she would appreciate a Festival Original or a Grande Chocolate.

  For the last few minutes the band had kept returning to a few bars of ‘We’ll Meet Again’, the Vera Lynn wartime hit. It was dropped in like a little bit of sentimental cream on the musical cake. The sound of it reminded Cooper of a sign he often passed for a farmhouse tea room, advertising Tea and Nostalgia.

  Villiers caught up with him near the car.

  ‘I won a box of Thornton’s Continental in the raffle,’ she said.

  ‘Oh. So …?’

  ‘So I could either take them home and eat them all. Or I could share them. What do you think?’

  Cooper smiled. ‘Sharing gets my vote.’

  21

  Robin Hood tourists. They used to be restricted to Nottinghamshire. They haunted Sherwood Forest, hoping for a glimpse of the Merry Men among the oak trees. Or they visited Nottingham Castle, signed up for a guided tour of the caves, and were amazed to find that the Sheriff actually existed. Occasionally, a few might stray into Derbyshire to look at Little John’s grave in the churchyard at Hathersage.

  But these people were a different kind. A different kettle of fish altogether. They weren’t interested in bows and arrows, or men in green tights. Their obsession was with a more contemporary phenomenon: the developing twenty-first-century legends known as the Savages.

  Cooper was frustrated by the number of vehicles parked all over Riddings. No wonder local residents got annoyed. There were constant trickles of people walking past Valley View and Fourways, pointing at the police tape, taking photographs on their mobile phones. And it wasn’t because the village was quaint. Not any more.

  He thought of the press photographers gathered outside Moorside House, and wondered if they were still there. If they’d been expecting Tyler Kaye to arrive, they had been right. Luckily, Cooper knew that he himself wasn’t anyone the press would pay attention to. He was far too unimportant, not a face they would recognise.

  E Division headquarters in West Street always seemed so much quieter at the weekend. Downstairs, the custody suite was still busy, of course. Uniformed officers on Saturday duty came and went, prisoners were processed, members of the public came into reception to visit the enquiry desk.

  Upstairs, it was different. The incident room was manned, but Cooper’s presence wasn’t required. He wasn’t even supposed to be in the office today. There was no sign of Hitchens or Branagh either, but that wasn’t unus
ual at the weekend.

  Luke Irvine was the duty DC. He looked up in surprise when Cooper and Villiers came into the CID room.

  ‘Something up?’ he said.

  ‘No, no. Just wanted to check up on a few things.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Irvine uncertainly.

  Watching him, Cooper was reminded of himself as a young DC, not quite knowing what was going on a lot of the time, and being reluctant to ask in case he seemed dim.

  Villiers placed the open box of chocolates on a desk.

  ‘This feels really decadent,’ she said. ‘Gavin will be sorry he missed it.’

  ‘Not when it comes to a clash with the Rams at home,’ said Cooper.

  Villiers shook her head. ‘Football. It’s so sad.’

  Cooper had begun making a list of names, consulting a file occasionally for one that he couldn’t quite remember.

  ‘There’s no need for you to be here, you know, Carol. You can go home.’

  ‘I know.’

  He looked at her and smiled, reflecting what Diane Fry might have said to him in these circumstances. Something caustic and dismissive, no doubt. She certainly wouldn’t have been here supporting him in some quixotic pursuit. A wild goose chase, she would have called it. And probably other things a lot worse.

  Villiers peeked at his list of names. ‘Well, from what we saw at the show this afternoon, there seem to be plenty of feuds and disputes going on in that village.’

  ‘You’re not kidding,’ said Cooper. ‘The Chadwicks and the Barrons, Mr Nowak and the Barrons, Mr Nowak and the Slattery family.’

  ‘Mr Edson and …?’

  ‘Well, his own mother, by the sound of it.’

  ‘Is she his only family?’

  ‘Hold on.’

  Cooper called up the details that had been gathered on Edson during the early stages of the inquiry.

  ‘Here we are. Russell Edson, of Riddings Lodge, Curbar Lane. A former building contractor, but he gave up the business after the big win. He’s divorced, with two grown-up children. He lives at the lodge with his mother Glenys, as we know. His father died some years ago.’

  ‘Divorced, eh? Did that happen before or after the lottery windfall?’

  ‘Good question. It would make a big difference to the wife’s divorce settlement, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Absolutely. So what’s the answer?’

  ‘Before.’

  ‘Unlucky. She’s got to be resentful. Thinking if only she’d hung on a bit longer, all this could be hers.’

  ‘It seems Mr Edson has one of the highest levels of security in Riddings, too. He possibly has the most money, and certainly the largest collection of valuables – the house is packed with them.’

  ‘I wonder if he feels vulnerable. He might expect to be the next target.’

  Cooper nodded. ‘Yes, he might. Well, that’s Edson. But the striking thing is that nobody seems to have had any objections to the Hollands. Not that we’ve heard about.’

  ‘Interesting. So that leaves us without a motive for them being a target on Thursday night.’

  ‘Ye-es,’ said Cooper.

  ‘I mean, we are thinking along the lines of someone in Riddings being responsible for these attacks, rather than the legendary Savages everyone else is out chasing? I have got that right, Ben?’

  Cooper threw up his hands in submission. ‘You’ll say I’m mad, I suppose.’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Everyone else will.’

  He looked over his shoulder, but Irvine was on the phone and paying no attention to them.

  ‘Superintendent Branagh seems to like you anyway,’ said Villiers. ‘Unless you’ve got something on her?’

  Cooper shook his head. ‘I‘ve just learned not to rub people up the wrong way all the time.’

  ‘The way I do, you mean?’

  ‘I didn’t say that, but …’

  ‘I’m getting on really well with Gavin Murfin, at least.’

  ‘Are you?’ said Cooper. ‘I hadn’t noticed. But, well … Gavin is okay.’

  ‘And the youngsters are great.’

  Cooper nodded. ‘It’s a good team.’

  ‘I think I can fit in here, Ben.’

  ‘I’m sure you can. I wasn’t suggesting anything else.’

  ‘I know I’ve come from a different background. Gavin’s been a copper almost all his life, it seems. Luke and Becky are just starting out, so they have most of their experience to come. But me – I’ve seen and done things they never will, and to be honest I wouldn’t ever want them to. That sort of experience leaves a mark on you. It can’t be helped. Counselling only achieves so much. That’s just the way it is. I’m sure you must see a big difference in me from the way I was before I joined up.’

  ‘Not that much.’

  ‘Oh, come on. I’m harder, more callous, less understanding of others. I’m sure that’s the way it must seem.’

  ‘I—’

  She held up a hand. ‘No, you don’t need to say anything. There’s no point in trying to contradict me. I know it’s true. But I’m trying. I really am trying to get back into humanity, to join the everyday world like an ordinary human being again. I just need a bit of time. And perhaps a bit of help now and then?’

  Cooper swallowed, touched by her confidence.

  ‘You’ve got it, Carol. Any time you need it.’

  ‘Thank you, Ben.’

  She paused, scanned the CID room as if something had caught her attention. But there was nothing to see, except Irvine.

  ‘So, Riddings,’ she said. ‘If your theory is correct …’

  ‘It’s not exactly a theory,’ said Cooper hastily. ‘Not a theory.’

  ‘A feeling, then. An instinct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, that’s good. You should trust your instincts.’

  ‘Not everyone says that.’

  She shrugged. ‘But if your feeling is right, the answer lies among the residents of the village themselves. A personal motive for the attack on the Barrons – and perhaps on the Hollands?’

  ‘I don’t know. That could have been different.’

  ‘Really? Well, we need a link, then. A definite connection. Somewhere there must be a name, or a combination of names, that explains everything.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right.’

  Cooper frowned. He ran his eye down the list of names he’d just written down. It included everyone who lived or worked in the neighbourhood of the Barrons and the Hollands in Curbar Lane. Not just residents, but the housekeeper at Riddings Lodge, the cleaners, the man who maintained the drives. But there was still something missing.

  ‘Luke,’ he called. ‘Did we get a list of employees from that gardening firm working Riddings?’

  ‘Yes, it’s here.’

  Cooper scanned the list that Irvine gave him. Adrian Summers of AJS Gardening Services had listed half a dozen names, including two or three that sounded East European.

  ‘Is this all of them?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘I’m wondering where Dave is,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Dave who?’

  Cooper looked at him blankly. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Dave?’ echoed Villiers.

  Cooper shrugged. ‘A gardener, I think.’

  It suddenly dawned on Cooper that he hadn’t told Villiers about the letter he’d been given by Erin Byrne. She knew about the phone calls to the Eden Valley Times, but the letter had been lying on the back seat of his car, forgotten while they were visiting Riddings Show.

  He ran back down to the car park to fetch it, feeling a mounting excitement that there might actually be a connection after all. On the face of it, the message seemed very trivial, even meaningless. But it must have some significance. Yes, it must.

  ‘Well, I know that symbol,’ said Villiers, putting her finger on the horizontal line with the arrow beneath it.

  ‘You do?’

  ‘It’s some kind of surveyor’s mark. The Ordnance Surve
y use it, and people like that. It’s meant to indicate a point where a specific measurement can be taken. I think it’s called a benchmark.’

  ‘A surveyor’s mark? That sounds educated. But the words themselves look as though they’ve been written by somebody illiterate.’

  ‘I know. It’s a puzzle. Sheffeild Rode? Which way is the Sheffield Road?’

  ‘Well, from Riddings, it’s over the edge,’ said Cooper thoughtfully. ‘Over the edge …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That was originally the way to reach towns and cities to the east of the Peak District, for travellers and packhorse trains. Way back, before the turnpike roads were built.’

  ‘They went over Riddings Edge?’

  ‘Yes, over the edge, across the flats and on to Big Moor. Remember the packhorse way we used on Thursday night?’

  ‘Of course. But across that moor? It’s just a wasteland. No roads, no landmarks, no signposts, nothing but heather and bracken. How could that be the road to Sheffield?’

  ‘Believe it or not, there were half a dozen trackways and trade routes up there, all converging on a pre-Roman road. It was a major east-to-west route through the Middle Ages, right up to the end of the nineteenth century. And it’s not true to say there are no signposts.’

  ‘Really?’

  Cooper was staring at the symbol that Villiers had said was a surveyor’s mark, and at the scrawled message Sheffeild Rode.

  ‘And you know what?’ he said. ‘I think I’ve actually seen something like this up there.’

  ‘On Riddings Edge?’

  ‘Not on the edge itself – but behind it, out on Big Moor.’

  Diane Fry had found that interviews often became a game of cat and mouse between interviewer and interviewee, a test to see which of them could make the other lose his temper. When a suspect was provoked to anger, that was when he gave the most away. Unless his solicitor was able to rein him in.

  Mick Brammer had decided to decline the advice of his legal representative. He didn’t know enough to appreciate the tactic of a repeated ‘no comment’. He thought the fault wasn’t his – so why shouldn’t he say so?

  ‘Ade signed me up for the job,’ he said. ‘It was just a one-off, that’s all. Cash in hand, and nothing more said about it. Fair enough, I thought. You can’t turn down a chance to make a few quid these days.’