‘All right.’
‘And there were lights,’ she said. ‘Lights on the moor. I could see them through the mist, moving around.’
‘How far away were they?’
‘I couldn’t tell. You know what it’s like in those conditions.’
‘Very difficult to judge.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Did they look like torches?’ asked Cooper. ‘Another party of walkers, perhaps?’
She shrugged. ‘I really couldn’t be sure. I didn’t hear any voices. Besides, if that’s what they were, why didn’t they come over to us? Our group was making enough noise, with the argument—’ She stopped suddenly and stared defiantly at Cooper as if he’d deliberately interrupted her.
‘What argument?’ he said.
Sophie shook her head. ‘It was nothing.’
‘I need to know about it.’
She sighed. ‘It was Darius and Nick, as usual. They were often at each other’s throats. But it’s not relevant.’
‘Why don’t you let me decide what’s relevant?’ said Cooper impatiently.
She looked abashed at his tone. ‘Sorry. I suppose we all seem pretty stupid to you. Getting lost on Kinder Scout, going onto the moors without being properly prepared, and then being so hopeless when things went wrong.’
Cooper opened his mouth, but she waved a hand dismissively.
‘Oh, I overheard some of the Mountain Rescue team talking about us,’ she said. ‘I suppose they have to do that sort of thing all the time. Rescue useless people like us.’
‘Perhaps not useless,’ said Cooper. ‘But certainly misguided.’
She sighed. ‘I think it was all part of the thrill originally. A bit of an adventure, getting away from our humdrum lives. We all enjoyed the thrill of the risk. Though we never really believed, deep down, that there was much actual danger. It was more the thought of it. The concept. Do you know what I mean? We even used to laugh about what a reckless and foolhardy bunch we were. We thought we were taking on a challenge, flouting the rules in our own way. Just like the original mass trespassers, I suppose.’
Cooper nodded, though her explanation sounded unconvincing. If it had come from one of the others – Darius Roth, perhaps – it might have made sense. Had she just taken on someone else’s beliefs, accepted the views of a more forceful personality as her own? In Cooper’s mind, the New Trespassers Walking Club was beginning to sound more like a cult, with a leader being followed unquestioningly.
But that wasn’t right. One of them at least had questioned the leader.
‘Tell me about this argument,’ he said. ‘What were Darius and Nick arguing about?’
‘Everything. Whether we were lost, who should do what, which of us should go in what direction . . .’
‘And that was normal?’
‘Yes.’
‘And there was Faith,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Well, I think Faith was going to point out that it doesn’t matter what network your phone is on – you can make an emergency 999 call through any available network.’
‘Was she the only one of the group who knew that?’
‘I can’t say. I must admit I didn’t know it myself. I’ve never had the occasion to dial 999 in my entire life.’
‘What, never?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘You’ve lived a sheltered existence, Miss Pullen.’
Sophie smiled. ‘I think there was always someone else there to make the call before me. People tend to fall into two groups in an emergency, don’t they? There are those who know exactly what to do and get on with it, and others who stand around helplessly waiting for someone else to make a decision. I’m afraid I’m in the second group.’
‘So did Darius make the decisions for the group?’
‘Usually.’
‘Did he, for example, make the decision about who should stay with the casualty and who should go to get help?’
‘No, we all volunteered to go.’ She paused. ‘At least, I did and the Goulds.’
‘But Nick didn’t volunteer?’
‘It just seemed to be understood that he would go. Darius was speaking directly to Nick when he suggested it. There was no argument from him. Not about that, anyway. Darius assumed he would go and he went. He was never given the choice.’
‘But Nick didn’t always jump to do what Darius wanted.’
‘Nick’s different,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t see Darius in the same way as some of the others. Nick is a sceptic, you see. He scoffs at the story of the Kinder Mass Trespass, makes references to Darius’s ancestor being a Communist. I don’t know if you saw the hat he was wearing . . .’
‘I remember one of my officers mentioning it. The Russian Army hat with the red star on it.’
‘That’s right. He got it purely as a joke, as a dig at Darius. It wasn’t very subtle.’
‘So if Mr Haslam doesn’t respect the history of the Mass Trespass the way the rest of you do, why did he join the walking club?’
‘He came because I asked him,’ said Sophie. ‘The first time, anyway. After that, I think he enjoyed it in his own way.’
‘What was your view of Faith Matthew?’ asked Cooper.
‘Faith? I didn’t know her that well. Like the others, she was brought into the group by Darius.’
‘You must have spoken to her sometimes.’
‘A bit.’
Cooper pictured the group. They were very diverse. But Faith Matthew and Sophie Pullen were the two who seemed to have most in common. A similar age and background at least.
‘Didn’t you like her?’ he asked.
‘I wouldn’t go that far.’
That seemed to answer his question. Sophie hadn’t liked Faith, but she didn’t want to say so. Perhaps it was just a reluctance to speak ill of the dead.
‘And what is your relationship with Darius Roth?’ said Cooper.
That got quite a different response: Sophie’s expression became more much animated than when he’d asked about Faith Matthew.
‘I’ve never known anyone like him,’ she said. ‘He seems to have the ability to get people to do whatever he wants. It’s not as if he really tries very hard. There’s not much in the way of smooth talking about him, like you might imagine a used-car salesman, or an estate agent.’
Cooper hadn’t been imagining Darius Roth as a used-car salesman. More as a Charles Manson or a Jim Jones, with this corner of Hayfield the equivalent of Jonestown. But perhaps his imagination was leading him too far astray.
‘Is there anything else you can recall?’ he asked.
She hesitated, and again his interest was piqued.
‘I’m not sure about this,’ she said. ‘But Darius once told us he knew how to commit the perfect murder and get away with it.’
‘Really?’
‘He said he’d been told by a Home Office pathologist he once met that if you can get someone up onto a high place like a cliff, or to the edge of a steep drop, then as long you don’t have any eyewitnesses who see you do it, it’s practically impossible to prove whether a person fell or was pushed.’ She gazed at Cooper. ‘Is that true?’
‘If it was, it wouldn’t be wise for me to tell you,’ said Cooper.
She nodded as if he’d confirmed the theory. ‘I think it’s probably true. No forensic evidence. You might have suspicions, but you can’t prove it.’
‘Who else was there when he told you that, Miss Pullen?’
‘Just Elsa, of course. She’s always there.’
‘Elsa doesn’t say much, does she?’
‘No, but there’s a lot going on under the surface.’
‘What do you mean, Sophie?’
‘Well, all I can say is, she’s not what she seems. She’s acting a role. Perhaps some people haven’t seen it, but I have. Elsa has never bothered hiding it from me. I suppose I’m not important enough in the scheme of things. There’s someone else behind that façade. You need to watch her eye
s and you’ll see it.’
‘Thank you for the observation,’ he said.
‘I don’t suppose it’s of any use.’
He didn’t want her to realise how useful it might be, so he changed the subject.
‘Just to go back a bit,’ he said. ‘That cry you heard while you were on Kinder – you said it seemed a long way off.’
She shook her hand to move the bangles back on her wrist, an oddly elegant gesture.
‘Yes. Is that important?’
‘It might be.’
Cooper was remembering what Carol Villiers had said about high-pitched sounds being muffled by fog. The cry of a fox or bird wouldn’t have carried any distance. It must have been much closer to the group for Sophie Pullen to have heard it.
Carol Villiers had been sent to take a statement from Sophie Pullen’s partner, Nick Haslam. He’d returned to work at an IT company based on a business park off the M60 orbital motorway south of Manchester.
Haslam wore black stubble a bit too long to be fashionable, but not quite a beard. It formed dark ‘V’s on either side of his cheeks, which moved disconcertingly when he smiled. And he seemed forever to be smiling, or on the verge of it. He gave the impression that every answer was a joke.
‘I just have a couple of additional questions,’ said Villiers.
‘All right.’
‘I wondered why the group carried on with the walk when the weather turned bad and visibility became so poor. Wasn’t that a bit of a risk?’
Haslam shrugged. ‘Maybe. But what’s life without a bit of risk? We were all happy to carry on. Well, almost all of us.’
‘Oh?’
‘It was Elsa Roth,’ he said. ‘Elsa wanted to call it off when the fog came down. I remember her saying something about it being dangerous. We didn’t take any notice of her.’
‘Not even her husband?’
‘Particularly not Darius.’
Villiers frowned. ‘And after the accident, when the walking group split up, you went with Darius Roth’s party, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you stay with Miss Pullen?’
‘There was only one man in Darius’s group.’
‘You didn’t think it was more appropriate to stay with your girlfriend?’
‘Not in the circumstances,’ he said. ‘I knew she would be safe. Darius was with Elsa, Millie and Karina. It made sense to me at the time. A division of responsibilities.’
‘It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Mr Roth on his own?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Did he welcome you in his party?’
‘Why wouldn’t he?’
‘From what I’ve heard, you didn’t take Mr Roth’s interests seriously,’ said Villiers.
‘You mean all the stuff about the Mass Trespass?’
‘Yes.’
Haslam laughed. ‘The leaders of the trespass,’ he said. ‘They were all Communists, of course.’
As she looked at Nick Haslam, Villiers remembered the Russian Army hat he was said to have worn on the walk on Sunday.
‘Do you think so?’ she said.
‘Think so? It’s not a question of me “thinking so”. It’s a fact. They were members of the British Workers’ Sports Federation, part of the Young Communist League. By the time of the trespass, it was basically the Communist Party’s sports organisation. Darius Roth doesn’t like hearing that. But it’s not his fault. You can’t change what your ancestors were, can you?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘The working-class struggle for the right to roam versus the rights of the wealthy to have exclusive use of the moorlands for shooting grouse,’ said Haslam.
He smiled again, an attempt to persuade Villiers not to take him too seriously. It was much too late. She’d already decided he wasn’t funny at all.
‘That sounds like a quote,’ she said.
‘Darius’s favourite sentence,’ said Haslam. ‘Working class? Have you met him?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Well, you’ll know what I mean. Darius Roth? If you ask me, there isn’t a bigger fraud in Derbyshire.’
When he finally arrived back in his office at West Street, Ben Cooper picked up the phone to call the EMSOU base near Nottingham.
‘Can I speak to Detective Sergeant Fry, please?’ he said.
‘Hold on.’
There was a long pause, and Cooper began to wonder if he’d called at a bad time. Perhaps there was a major operation under way at EMSOU that he didn’t know about. Then the officer came back on the line.
‘I’m sorry, DS Fry isn’t available.’
‘Do you have any idea when she’ll be free?’
‘No idea.’
‘Well, could you give her a message, then? Ask her to call me back.’
The officer cleared his throat, and there was a muttering in the background. Cooper had a mental picture of him referring to someone else nearby, perhaps with the lift of an eyebrow. What should I say to him?
‘DS Fry won’t be available for the foreseeable future. Maybe someone else can help you. If you hang on, I’ll transfer you.’
‘No, it’s OK,’ said Cooper.
‘Sorry, what was your name again?’
But Cooper had put the phone down.
‘That was strange,’ he said.
‘Diane too busy to speak to you?’ said Carol Villiers, looking up.
‘She’s not there. And she won’t be for the foreseeable future. Or so I’ve just been told.’
‘Perhaps she’s on leave.’
‘I don’t think so. If she was, why wouldn’t they just say that?’
‘Strange.’
‘Exactly what I just said.’
Cooper put it out of his mind. He could manage anyway, unless there were significant developments.
But what real evidence did he have that Faith Matthew had been deliberately killed? The witness statements coming in from Irvine and Murfin’s interviews didn’t offer any substantial proof. Yet there was something in them that Cooper was unsatisfied with. Perhaps more statements from the other members of the walking group would help. And of course he could pin his hopes on the results of the post-mortem examination.
Cooper found Luke Irvine and Gavin Murfin in the CID room.
‘I’ve taken Jonathan Matthew’s statement,’ said Murfin when he saw Cooper. ‘Did you know he plays guitar?’
‘Yes, he told me. In fact, his mother had already mentioned it.’
‘He plays bass with one of those bands you’ve never heard of. We had a good chat about guitars, actually. Guitarist to guitarist, like.’
‘You’re not a guitarist, Gavin,’ said Irvine. ‘You’re just taking lessons.’
Cooper looked up in surprise.
‘You’re learning to play the guitar, Gavin? Do you fancy yourself as a rock star?’
‘I reckon it must be part of my midlife crisis.’
‘Well, at least it doesn’t involve food,’ said Cooper. ‘So how is it going?’
‘To be honest, I’m just learning chords yet,’ said Murfin. ‘And I’m having trouble with F. I call it “the F-ing F chord”.’
‘Let me have a copy of Jonathan’s statement as soon as you can.’
‘It’s already on your desk,’ said Murfin. ‘Oh, and Robert Farnley . . .’
‘Yes?’
Murfin looked smug as he consulted his notes.
‘Mr Farnley is kind of an old 1960s rocker. Back then, he was a member of a band called the Confederates, based in Gorton. They started off as an instrumental group under the name of the Zodiacs, playing covers of Shadows hits, then moved on to Beatles and Gerry and the Pacemakers stuff. Farnley took over as manager and got them a record deal.’
‘I’ve never heard of them.’
‘Well, the band did pretty well in the mid-1960s. Built up quite a following, played at the Belle Vue Top Ten Club, the Catacombs in Oldham and Beat City in Manchester. In their publicity ph
otos, they all wore waistcoats and ties, and they had Beatles haircuts. But they never quite hit the big time and they went their separate ways.’
‘So what happened to Farnley?’
‘He moved to Canada years ago, and now he lives mostly in Port Hope, Ontario. He had a career in media and advertising, including a spell working for the Government of Ontario, then started his own consultancy firm. But he still has a lot of family in Manchester, and he’s a long-standing Man City fan.’ Murfin shrugged. ‘I suppose someone has to be. And that’s why he’s back in Manchester for a while.’
‘You’ve done well, Gavin.’
Murfin smirked. ‘Old skills come in useful now and then.’
‘We found it all online,’ put in Irvine. ‘I’ve shown Gavin how to use the internet.’
Cooper looked at Murfin, who shuffled his feet uneasily.
‘I’ll go and talk to him tomorrow, should I?’ said Murfin.
14
On her way home from Ripley, Diane Fry called again at the service station on Clifton Lane. She didn’t really need anything, but it was always a good idea to keep her car topped up with fuel, just in case.
Besides, tonight she felt an overwhelming need for some routine activity, a bit of real-world contact with ordinary people who had no idea who she was. Paying for her petrol at the kiosk wasn’t much, but the young woman who worked there did at least smile when she gave her pump number. Fry felt as though no one had smiled at her for months. It was her own fault, she supposed. No one could accuse her of being sociable and outgoing. She hardly went out of her way to make friends.
When she checked her phone in the store, she noticed an email message was waiting for her from InPost to alert her to a delivery, with a code to access her locker. The collection terminal was here at the service station, right next to the air pump.
She used the lockers because they were accessible twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Much more convenient for her than having to find a helpful neighbour to take in parcel deliveries if she’d made purchases from Amazon or eBay sellers. She wasn’t even sure that she had any helpful neighbours in Wilford. Not during the day at least.
A security camera pointed down at her from its position over the locker terminal as she scanned the QR code on her email to open the locker and retrieve her item. She drew out a yellow box, tucked it under her arm and returned to her car.
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