Fall Down Dead

by Stephen Booth

  When she got into her flat, she shrugged off her jacket, kicked off her shoes and relaxed with a deep sigh. It was only later that she realised that the wine was finished. The empty bottle stood like a tragic reminder on the kitchen counter, along with its useless cork. She should have remembered to buy some more when she was at the service station, but her mind had been on other things. She couldn’t be bothered to go out of the flat again now.

  Then she remembered there was half a bottle of gin left in the kitchen cupboard. These days, she tried to keep it for emergencies. But tonight? Tonight definitely felt like an emergency.

  Sophie Pullen and Nick Haslam had stopped off for a drink at the Sportsman Inn outside Hayfield.

  ‘It’s a bad business,’ said Nick over her pint of Thwaites Wainwright and her glass of malt whisky. ‘About Faith, I mean.’

  ‘What do you think we should do?’ said Sophie.

  ‘Do? Why should we do anything?’

  ‘The police . . .’

  He shook his head. ‘Don’t tell them anything. Whatever you think you saw, the chances are you imagined it. It’s much better to say nothing.’

  He peered at her suspiciously, as if reading disagreement in her silence.

  ‘You know that’s for the best, Soph. Don’t get too involved.’

  ‘Aren’t we already involved?’

  He scowled. ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘And I’d like to keep it that way. It’s Darius’s pigeon. His group, his idea. His responsibility for the consequences.’

  Sophie had thought she would never tell anybody about what she’d seen, but the detective inspector she spoke to seemed as though he might listen to her without being too quick to leap to a judgement.

  ‘I think I might . . .’ she said.

  ‘Soph, really?’ he said. ‘Your imagination . . .’

  ‘Why would I have imagined what I saw?’

  ‘Think about it. We were all tired. Cold and exhausted – you said that yourself. We were lost and confused. And the weather – the cloud suddenly coming down the way it did. You could barely see your hand in front of your face. None of us could be sure what we saw in that fog. There might have been anyone out there.’

  ‘Or no one.’

  ‘You can’t be sure of anything, Soph. Why would you take a story like that to the police? Your account would fall apart as soon as they started asking questions. You’d look like an idiot.’

  Sophie said nothing. She thought he’d trotted out far too many excuses. Cold, exhausted, lost, confused. And of course the weather . . .

  But that last one was right. She had seen something out there in the fog.

  Matt Cooper switched off the TV news and threw the remote down on the coffee table. He slumped back in his armchair in the sitting room of Bridge End Farm.

  ‘Idiots,’ he said sourly.

  Ben looked at his brother. Matt was a farmer, so he complained about pretty much everything. There had been several items on the news he might have objected to. Brexit, the Budget, a disappointing football result or even the weather forecast.

  ‘Who are?’ asked Ben.

  ‘All of them,’ said Matt, with a wave of a large hand in the direction of the farmyard. ‘All the fools who go up into the hills without being properly prepared and equipped. Why do they think it’s OK to put other people’s lives at risk rescuing them? Idiots, the lot of them. That’s my opinion.’

  ‘You’re not alone.’

  Matt sighed as he stretched his legs out in the tattered denim jeans he always wore. The armchair creaked under his weight. Ben’s sister-in-law, Kate, and his niece Josie were somewhere in the house, but they often left him and Matt alone for a while when he visited the farm. He suspected it was because they heard enough of Matt’s grumbling and thought it only right that his younger brother should put up with his share.

  Now Matt looked nervous and began to fidget, as if there was something on his mind, something that he needed to say but couldn’t find the words for. Ben waited patiently. He knew it would come out in the end.

  ‘You know it’s our twentieth wedding anniversary coming up?’ said Matt eventually.

  ‘Oh, of course. Twenty years, is it?’

  Ben had forgotten, but he shouldn’t have. The day of Matt’s wedding was still a very clear memory for him. It was the last time all the family had been together, including the father and mother of the groom. Joe Cooper had been there in his new suit, with a recent haircut and a flower in his buttonhole. And there had been Isabel in her bright blue dress and enormous hat, posing with Matt and Kate and the bride’s parents in the grounds of St John the Baptist Church in Tideswell.

  He knew it had been October. He could remember the drifts of leaves swirling down from the trees in the churchyard and mingling with confetti strewn on the path as they stirred in the breeze that forced Isabel Cooper to hold on to her hat for the photographs. But twenty years? That was almost a lifetime ago.

  Of course, Ben had been too young to act as best man, though he was sure Matt would have asked him otherwise. Instead, the role had gone to one of Matt’s friends in the Young Farmers’ Club, resulting in an innuendo-laden best man’s speech at the reception and a stag night that had proved almost fatal for Matt. On the wedding day close-ups, you could still his pallor and the fresh bruise on his temple.

  ‘China, isn’t it?’ said Ben.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A china anniversary. Fifteen years is crystal, twenty-five is silver, and twenty years is china.’

  ‘China? What’s the point of that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t make them up.’

  Matt scowled in bafflement. ‘Anyway. It’s our twentieth. And we’re thinking about going away.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, more than thinking about it.’

  Ben’s eyebrows shot up. Now, that was unusual. Matt was notoriously difficult to prise away from the farm, even for a weekend. He was always terrified that he’d come back and find all the livestock dead, his crops rotting in the field, the barn burned down, his tractor stolen. Kate must have been working really hard on this one.

  ‘Just for a break,’ said Matt, almost defensively.

  ‘You deserve it,’ said Ben. ‘Both of you.’

  ‘Eric Locke and George Whittaker are going to look after what needs doing on the farm. They’re good blokes. And we’re past harvest, so it’s as good a time as any to get away for a bit.’

  Ben knew Matt got on well with his neighbours, and they always helped each other out, though this was a whole different level of trust, allowing them to care for Bridge End in his absence.

  ‘What about the girls?’

  ‘Amy’s term has started this week, so she’s at college.’

  ‘She’ll be in Sheffield, then?’

  ‘Yes, settled into her student accommodation. And we’ve arranged for Josie to go and stay with Aunt Margaret and Uncle John.’

  ‘She won’t like that very much.’

  ‘It will only be for a week,’ said Matt. ‘And Margaret will make sure she gets to school in the mornings.’

  There was obviously more. Ben waited, but it didn’t come.

  ‘So . . . ?’

  ‘Well, I wondered if you might keep an eye on the house,’ said Matt, with an anxious frown. ‘And the dog.’

  ‘Jess?’

  ‘I don’t want to put her in kennels. She’s all right on her own most of the time, and Eric and George and their lads will be knocking about, but I want to make sure she’s fed and exercised properly.’

  ‘I’ll look after her,’ said Ben. ‘And the house will be fine.’

  ‘There’s a bit of a leak in the back porch. If it rains too hard—’

  ‘I’ll keep an eye out.’

  ‘And leave a light or two on. You know what it’s like with thieves coming round trying to nick equipment from the yard.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. You two just enjoy yourselves. When do you go?’

  ‘This S
aturday.’

  ‘So you were more than just thinking about it, then. It’s all booked.’

  ‘Seems so.’

  ‘Where are you going, by the way?’ asked Ben.

  ‘The Algarve.’

  ‘Portugal?’

  ‘I know,’ said Matt. ‘Europe. I’ve had to get a new passport. What’s the odds that air traffic control will be on strike?’

  Matt heaved a deep sigh, as if the prospect of a holiday depressed him enormously.

  ‘So how’s it going with the new woman, anyway?’ he said.

  ‘Chloe? Fine. It’s going really well.’

  Matt peered at him, trying to read his face. Ben had never been able to keep anything from his older brother. They understood each other too well, often without the need for any words.

  But in this case Matt seemed reassured.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘When are you bringing her here to meet us?’

  ‘To Bridge End?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What’s this? Meet the in-laws?’

  ‘Kate would like to get to know her,’ said Matt a little sheepishly. ‘And the girls too.’

  ‘I see.’

  So Matt had been pestered by his wife and daughters to find out about the new woman in his brother’s life. Ben supposed it was inevitable. But would he want to put Chloe Young through that sort of scrutiny?

  ‘I’ll ask her if she’d like to come,’ he said.

  ‘That would be great.’ Matt looked relieved. He’d done his best, as instructed. ‘Kate and the girls will pitch in and cook something special. They’ll look forward to it.’

  ‘Wait. I haven’t said—’

  Matt put a hand on his arm. ‘It’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, Ben. It’ll all be fine this time.’

  As Ben Cooper turned the Toyota in the farmyard and drove away from Bridge End Farm, it was his brother’s last phrase that kept repeating in his head. It’ll all be fine this time.

  Those two words only served to emphasise what had happened last time. Perhaps that was why he was nervous about introducing Chloe to his family. Matt hadn’t meant to do it, but he’d put his finger on the most sensitive point of his brother’s feelings.

  Ben put his foot down as he headed back towards Foolow. And Matt was right, of course. It would be fine this time. Wouldn’t it?

  15

  Tuesday

  Next morning, DS Dev Sharma was waiting to brief Ben Cooper on the Danielle Atherton murder case as soon as he arrived in the office.

  ‘There are still a few loose ends to tie up, Dev,’ said Cooper when he’d reviewed Sharma’s file.

  ‘Of course. We’ve got a result, though.’

  Cooper looked at his DS, saw the satisfaction on his face.

  ‘It still gives you a buzz when you know you’ve got the right person in custody, doesn’t it?’

  Sharma nodded. ‘And there’s no doubt about this one.’

  ‘No doubt at all.’

  As soon as he uttered the words, Cooper experienced a frisson of uncertainty. It always felt wrong to say that at such an early stage in an investigation. In his experience, fate had a habit of throwing a spanner in the works, even in the most watertight of inquiries.

  But Sharma was looking confident, and Cooper didn’t want to dampen his enthusiasm.

  ‘Have you spoken to DS Fry at EMSOU?’ he asked. ‘She’s liaison with the Major Crime Unit, isn’t she?’

  ‘I tried,’ said Sharma. ‘But they told me to report directly to the senior investigating officer, DCI Mackenzie.’

  Sharma’s expression was impassive now. Cooper wondered if his DS knew something he didn’t. He probably still had contacts in Derby, or even at headquarters in Ripley. He could ask, but he didn’t want to push the issue. It would only cause speculation.

  ‘OK, that’s fine,’ he said instead. ‘Carry on, Dev. You’re doing a great job.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Cooper watched him leave, torn between envy at Sharma’s confidence in what appeared to be a simple case he could help the MCU tie up and his own irresistible curiosity about what had happened to Faith Matthew on Kinder Scout. He needed to find out some answers for her. It might be hard, but somebody had to try. Nothing ever seemed to come easily.

  It seemed to Cooper that he might usefully focus on what had happened before that walk on Kinder Scout. Did something occur that resulted in those fatal events? He could take the day before. What did the witness statements have to say about it?

  Members of the New Trespassers Walking Club had met at the Roths’ house outside Hayfield the night before the walk. Trespass Lodge had a guest annexe with two bedrooms. Darius Roth had stopped the self-catering business run by the previous owners and had kept the accommodation free for his friends. If ‘friends’ was the right word.

  He called in Luke Irvine.

  ‘So who stayed at Trespass Lodge the night before the walk?’ said Cooper. ‘Not all of them surely?’

  Irvine consulted his notebook. ‘The two young women shared one of the rooms in the guest annexe. Millie Taylor and Karina Scott. They say Darius didn’t want them having to pay for a hotel.’

  ‘That’s good of him.’

  ‘Jonathan Matthew took the other room. But then there’s the Warburtons.’

  ‘That’s the older couple, the ones with the caravan?’

  ‘That’s right. They brought their caravan from Didsbury and berthed it at the site off Kinder Road. They were within a couple of minutes’ walk of Trespass Lodge.’

  ‘That’s quite a cosy grouping,’ said Cooper. ‘But what about the others? Sophie Pullen and Nick Haslam in particular?’

  ‘They had rooms at a B and B in Hayfield. So did Mr Sharpe.’

  ‘The same B and B?’

  ‘Yes. They use it every year, apparently.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, that only leaves the two brothers, the Goulds. They live nearby, though.’

  ‘Oh, do they?’

  Irvine flipped a page. ‘Chinley.’

  ‘About five miles south.’

  ‘But wait a minute. Nick Haslam – didn’t he say he lives in the area too?’

  ‘Er, yes. A place called Strines. I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘There isn’t much of it to hear about,’ said Cooper. ‘It’s not far from New Mills. I’d say it’s no further from Hayfield than the Goulds’ place in Chinley. And Miss Pullen works in Buxton but lives in Chapel-en-le-Frith.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So why did Miss Pullen and Mr Haslam choose to stay in a B and B no more than five miles from where they live?’

  ‘I couldn’t say.’

  Cooper frowned. ‘What really binds such a disparate group together?’ he said. ‘It clearly isn’t an interest in the Kinder Mass Trespass. I get the feeling there’s a lot more going on with this group.’

  ‘Swingers?’ said Irvine.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, it happens. A bit of partner swapping. They tell me it goes on in my village.’

  ‘In Bamford?’

  ‘You’d be surprised.’

  ‘I can’t imagine it,’ said Cooper. ‘Besides, Mr Sharpe is gay, isn’t he?’

  ‘He could be bisexual.’

  ‘No, no. It doesn’t add up.’

  Irvine shrugged. ‘Well, it might provide a motive. A bit of old-fashioned jealousy.’

  ‘We’ll keep it in mind.’

  Carol Villiers put her head round the door.

  ‘I’ve just spoken to the hospital where Liam Sharpe was admitted. They’re discharging him this morning, so I’ve arranged to go and speak to him at his home in Bramhall.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Oh, and we’ve just taken a call from Elsa Roth,’ said Villiers. ‘She’d like to have a meeting.’

  ‘Who have we got free, Carol?’

  ‘No, she’d like to meet with you, Ben. She says she feels she can talk to you.’

  ‘All right. At t
heir house?’

  ‘No, she wants to see you at the Chestnut Centre. It’s not far from Hayfield.’

  ‘I know it. The otter place.’

  ‘She didn’t say why she chose it. But I imagine she wanted to get away from the house – and from Darius. Don’t you?’

  Cooper had to acknowledge to himself that he wanted to hear what Elsa Roth might have to say when she was on her own, away from her husband. He hadn’t really got a grasp of who she was yet. But then, had he got a clear picture of any of the members of that walking group?

  ‘Let’s have a conference this afternoon when I get back,’ he said. ‘I’d like outlines of every one of these twelve people on my desk and we can go through them all. Use the time between now and then to do a bit of research, find out their background and family connections. Carol, will you co-ordinate that, please?’

  ‘Of course. What do you hope to find, Ben?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Cooper. ‘But perhaps the answers we’re looking for might lie in their history.’

  Gavin Murfin eased himself out of his car, careful to avoid scraping the driver’s door on the brick wall of the mill. He felt protective towards his little green Skoda. It was his most valuable possession, considering that a building society still had the biggest claim on the ownership of his house.

  When he arrived in Manchester, Murfin had driven up Bradford Road and turned in through an arched entrance to reach a cobbled courtyard overlooked by hundreds of windows, with fire-escape ladders snaking up the walls. Brunswick Mill was a massive nineteenth-century survivor from Manchester’s cotton-manufacturing heyday. He felt as though he could almost remember those days – though maybe he’d just heard the old folk talking about them when he was a kid.

  The mill stood seven storeys high, backing onto the Ashton Canal. Murfin craned his neck to look up at its top floors, where windows were boarded up and tree saplings grew out of the guttering.

  He loved a bit of old industrial architecture. Perhaps he had an affinity with it. After all, he was something of an ancient brick monolith himself, designed for a practical purpose that had long since disappeared and now converted into a multi-functional community facility. Dinosaurs never did adapt very well. A meteorite struck, the climate began to change, and that was pretty much that. Extinct before you knew it. Lots of little hairy apes running around instead, ruling the world.