The Murder Road: A Cooper & Fry Mystery

by Stephen Booth

  ‘But why that train? On every other day he took the 7.47 a.m. from Newtown. As you say, he had a season ticket. But this morning he switched to New Mills Central. It wasn’t just a different train, but a different station. Why would he do that, when it must have cost him extra?’

  ‘But that was this morning,’ protested Irvine. ‘Surely it’s incidental. His movements on Monday are what’s important – the day of the murder.’

  ‘But it’s inconsistent,’ said Cooper. ‘It casts doubt on Mr Hibbert’s statement. That is important, Luke. We should be asking the question.’

  ‘Well, perhaps he missed the train from Newtown and knew he was going to be late for work, so he decided to dash back into town to get the alternative service.’

  ‘But he wasn’t, though,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Wasn’t what?’

  ‘Late for work. Since he took the 7.39 from New Mills Central, he would have arrived ahead of his usual time. It was an earlier train, not a later one. He hadn’t missed the 7.47.’

  Irvine waved a hand in despair. ‘I don’t know, then. Apart from the extra cost, the only thing that would be different was the route.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Cooper. ‘A different route.’

  He could see from Irvine’s face that he’d made the point. It was time to move on.

  ‘What else?’ said Cooper.

  Irvine mumbled uncertainly now, as if he was expecting to be proved wrong about everything. Cooper regretted making him feel that way, but it was a good lesson. ‘Mr Hibbert got home early on Monday,’ said Irvine. ‘His company let some of their staff leave to avoid the worst of the rush hour and do some work from home.’

  ‘So he was back in Shawhead before his wife?’

  ‘Yes, and before the lorry got stuck under the bridge.’

  ‘But he told you he was working, I suppose.’

  ‘It was true,’ said Irvine. ‘I checked. He was taking part in a conference call via Skype with some clients in New York.’

  Cooper nodded. That was better.

  ‘The Swindells say they were at home too,’ said Irvine. ‘Mrs S was watching TV. Grant came in when it went dark and fell asleep in an armchair after his dinner. The Lawsons were in their workshop, trying to get a tractor fixed. And I’ve discovered that Michael Schofield is away in Germany. He’s a chemical engineer and he’s been attending a symposium in Frankfurt, so he’s out of the picture completely. But Mrs Donna Schofield is at home.’

  ‘That just leaves the Durkins.’

  Irvine shook his head. ‘Vincent Durkin works part-time at a garage, but he was at home that day. Mucking out the pigs.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘And Tania has to be around to feed and milk the goats. I think they’re sound anyway.’

  ‘Sound?’ said Cooper.

  ‘They’re okay. Clean.’

  ‘Well, thanks for that, Luke.’

  ‘There is one other thing,’ said Sharma.

  Cooper turned to him.

  ‘Yes, Dev?’

  ‘Mrs Swindells told me that she saw one of the Shawhead residents walking back home in the dark that night.’

  ‘The night Malcolm Kelsey was killed?’

  ‘Yes. About nine o’clock, she said. And not along the road either. She thinks he crossed a field by one of the footpaths and climbed over a stile near Higher Fold Farm. She’d been watching TV, but she happened to pull back the curtain and look out of the window. It was dark, of course, but she saw him clearly.’

  ‘Excellent. That’s a promising lead. Which of them was it?’

  ‘Ian Hibbert from Shawhead Cottages. The trouble is . . .’

  ‘What? Don’t spoil it now, Dev.’

  ‘Well, she has no idea where he’d been, or where he was coming back from. Though she did ask him.’

  ‘She asked him?’

  ‘When she saw him climbing the stile, she went to her front door and spoke to him as he passed. She’s a very inquisitive lady.’

  ‘And a brave one,’ said Cooper. ‘Did she actually ask him where he’d been?’

  ‘Yes. But she says he seemed vague and disorientated. He jumped right out of his skin when she spoke to him. She says she couldn’t get any sense out of him. He just muttered that he’d been to visit Anne-Marie.’

  ‘Who on earth is Anne-Marie?’

  ‘I have no idea. Nor does Mrs Swindells.’

  ‘I’m surprised she hasn’t figured out where he went,’ said Cooper. ‘Or is she just not telling?’

  Sharma shrugged. ‘I couldn’t say for certain. But I think she was being as helpful as she could.’

  ‘Mr Hibbert didn’t mention this when we spoke to him, did he?’

  ‘Not a word.’

  ‘That doesn’t look good for him,’ said Cooper. ‘If Mrs Swindells’ account is accurate, it puts him very near to the scene where Malcolm Kelsey’s body was found. He must have come via the footpath that runs just on the other side of the wall. If Ian Hibbert wasn’t involved in the crime himself, he might well have seen something. Yet he hasn’t even admitted to being in the area. If there’s an innocent explanation, he would have come forward with it by now.’

  ‘Shall we confront him with it?’ asked Sharma.

  Cooper considered it. ‘I’d like to have some corroboration. Where could he have been if he came from that direction?’

  ‘It’s only a short walk across those fields to the railway line,’ said Villiers, ‘and then under the railway to the canal. You could reach Bugsworth Basin within a few minutes. And if he was down at the canal basin, he might have been meeting someone there. Some of the boat people might have noticed him.’

  ‘Let’s ask them when we’ve finished here.’

  ‘Boat people?’ said Irvine.

  ‘Waterway users,’ explained Cooper. ‘There are a number of boats moored at Bugsworth Basin and more along the canal towards New Mills.’

  ‘There’s a marina at New Mills,’ said Villiers. ‘It’s just off Albion Road, near the Swizzels factory.’

  ‘So there is. When we’ve finished here in Shawhead, we’ll head down there and split the boat people between us. DS Sharma, you and DC Irvine can take the lower stretch and we’ll meet up at New Mills. Okay?’

  ‘We could do with a photograph of him to show people,’ said Villiers.

  Cooper nodded. ‘That would be very helpful. But how are we going to manage that?’

  Irvine had his smartphone out. ‘He works for a marketing consultancy, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, he’s bound to be on LinkedIn or one of the other networking sites.’ Irvine looked up at Cooper with a smile. ‘This is where Google comes in handy.’

  ‘I’ll be impressed if it works,’ said Cooper.

  But it took Irvine only a few seconds before he found Ian Hibbert’s profile and downloaded a picture.

  ‘There you go. I’m sending you a copy.’

  ‘Pretty good, Luke.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  When the others dispersed, Sharma didn’t move away.

  ‘Was there something else, Dev?’ said Cooper.

  ‘Why do you partner me with Detective Constable Irvine?’ asked Sharma. ‘I should be working with you.’

  ‘No,’ said Cooper. ‘You have the rank of sergeant. You should be capable of taking a supervisory role.’

  Sharma nodded, then turned to go.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Cooper. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Dev – did you apply for a transfer to EMSOU? When you were in D Division, I mean?’

  Sharma was surprised now. ‘Yes, I did. Major Crime. I didn’t get it, though.’

  ‘Do you happen to know DS Diane Fry?’

  ‘I know of her,’ said Sharma cautiously.

  Cooper wondered what Dev Sharma had been told before he came to Edendale and who had briefed him. Someone had been talking to him, but Cooper felt it was probab
ly futile trying to get anything out of him. Not until they knew each better, anyway.

  ‘So back to the subject,’ said Cooper. ‘The Schofields?’

  ‘Mrs Schofield is expecting us.’

  ‘Well, we’d better not keep her waiting, then. At least, not as long as she’s made us wait.’

  22

  Ben Cooper and Dev Sharma walked up Cloughpit Lane into Shawhead. Cooper could see the black wheelie bins still standing hopefully on the side of the road. There had probably been phone calls made to the refuse department at High Peak District Council. Pleading or threatening, depending on the nature of the individual resident.

  He imagined that Shawhead wouldn’t be the favourite call for the refuse collection crew anyway. They must have to reverse all the way up that hill and under the bridge, just to reach five properties. It was amazing the residents hadn’t already been asked to transport their own bins to the bottom of the road for collection. It did happen in some isolated areas.

  As Cooper and Sharma approached, the old lady tottered down the path from Higher Fold Farm. Grant’s mother, Mrs Swindells. She didn’t notice them at first, but stepped out into the road and went up to the nearest wheelie bin. Cooper noticed she was wearing pink slippers. They would be damp by the time she got back in the house. He started to feel concerned for her as she lifted the lid of the bin, peered in and slammed it shut again.

  ‘Is everything all right, Mrs Swindells?’ he called.

  She jumped, startled, and clutched a hand to the front of her cardigan as if afraid for her heart. Cooper had forgotten how unusual it must be for strangers to be walking up the road into Shawhead.

  ‘You gave me a fright,’ she said. ‘Creeping up on me like that.’

  ‘I’m very sorry.’

  She looked at Sharma and smiled.

  ‘Hello, Doris,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

  Cooper blinked. Doris? It sounded disrespectful. Many an old lady he knew would have given Dev Sharma a piece of her mind for having the cheek to use her first name. Some would have used language that made his ears bleed. But Mrs Swindells practically simpered.

  ‘I was just checking to see whether the binmen had been yet,’ she said. ‘But the lazy devils haven’t been near. The bin is still full. If they don’t come tomorrow, I’m going to have to take it back in for another fortnight.’

  Cooper looked down at her slippers, slowly changing colour as the dampness rose up from the surface of the road.

  ‘The bin must be heavy for you when it’s full,’ he said. ‘Your son should do it for you.’

  She laughed. ‘Grant is useless for jobs like that,’ she said. ‘He’s always out in the fields with his sheep, or driving trailers of straw around. That nice young Leo Hibbert comes across and does it for me, but he’s away at his grandma’s for half-term. So there are no other young men available. I have to do it for myself.’

  ‘There’s Mr Lawson’s son,’ said Cooper. ‘Wouldn’t he come down and help you out?’

  ‘Who do you mean?’

  ‘Nick Lawson. Jack and Sarah’s son.’

  Mrs Swindells shook her head and gave him a sly smile.

  ‘They’re not married, you know. She calls herself Wyatt.’

  ‘It’s not uncommon these days.’

  ‘And young Nick isn’t his son either.’

  ‘He isn’t?’

  ‘No, he’s a Wyatt too. Jack Lawson doesn’t have any children of his own, so far as I know.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  Mrs Swindells scuffed her way back towards her front door.

  ‘He’s been in a bad mood recently,’ she said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Him. Grant. This morning I said to him, “What’s upset you? Have you been reading the newspapers again?”’

  She laughed again and shut the door. A moment later Cooper saw the curtain in the front room move. Mrs Swindells was watching to see what they did next.

  Luke Irvine was waiting outside the gate of Top Barn, standing almost at attention as if he’d been posted on guard in case Mrs Schofield tried to escape.

  ‘Luke,’ said Cooper, ‘while we’re talking to Mrs Schofield, would you walk round the corner and do a DVLA check on the registrations of the cars in the yard at Shaw Farm.’

  ‘All of them?’ asked Irvine.

  ‘No. Just the usable ones.’

  Donna Schofield didn’t look anything like her niece, Ashley Brooks. She was in her fifties, a large woman in a loose dress with baggy sleeves and a long scarf wrapped round her neck and draped across her shoulders, though it was hardly necessary indoors, even in February.

  Top Barn was warm – a bit too overheated for Cooper’s comfort. He’d been brought up at Bridge End Farm, where the wind howled round the walls and the heating never quite reached some parts of the house.

  As soon as Mrs Schofield opened the door, he was also aware of the scent. Not just a hint of perfume, but something much stronger. In a way it reminded him of Sally’s Snack Box, the smell of something cooking – though fortunately it was much more aromatic than chip fat and fried onions.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ said Mrs Schofield. ‘I understand you may have been trying to speak to me. I don’t always answer the door, you see. I get so involved when I’m working. I play music to get me in the mood. Sometimes rather loudly.’

  ‘On headphones presumably?’ said Cooper.

  ‘Oh, er . . . yes.’

  He could almost see her thought processes taking place before she answered. Anyone at the front door would have heard loud music and know someone was at home. So the answer to his question had to be yes, whatever the truth.

  Of course, Donna Schofield had been given plenty of time to work out her excuses. She ought to be word perfect by now. But people rarely thought through all the answers. Suspects who made up a date of birth neglected to calculate what star sign they would be. An individual who gave a false address never seemed to know who lived next door.

  ‘We only moved in two months ago,’ said Mrs Schofield, as if that was relevant. ‘The conversion work had been done when we bought it, but we spent a lot of money getting it just right. We’re still not finished actually. There are a few small improvement projects we have in mind.’

  ‘It’s a nice house,’ said Cooper. ‘It must have been expensive.’

  ‘Michael has a very good job. He does have to travel quite a bit, though. He’s in Germany at the moment. Frankfurt.’

  ‘Yes, for a conference, I believe.’

  ‘He’ll be back next week. I can’t imagine how he puts up with those things. They must be deadly dull.’

  ‘And you, Mrs Schofield?’

  ‘Me?’ she said, with an exaggerated gesture of surprise.

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘Oh, I run a little online business. Just a sideline.’

  ‘Scented candles and handmade soaps?’ he said.

  ‘And various other crafts too.’

  ‘And you teach sometimes.’

  ‘You know all about me already,’ she said with an unnervingly flirtatious little smile. ‘Yes, I teach creative arts and crafts at a local adult education centre. I only commit myself to two days a week. I don’t do it for the money or anything. It’s just to give something back, you know.’

  Cooper watched her flounce around the room. It was odd seeing her performance. If he hadn’t been told, he would have guessed that Donna Schofield was the resident involved in the amateur dramatic society. Except that she was a very bad actress. She was overdoing the role terribly.

  ‘What days do you teach at the adult education centre?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘Tuesdays and Thursdays.’

  ‘But this week you’ve stayed at home.’

  ‘It’s half-term,’ she said promptly, with a smug smile.

  ‘So where would you have been on Monday evening?’

  She looked taken aback at the direct question, and its inference.

  ‘I was here, of course. In
the house.’

  ‘But alone, obviously.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Cooper gazed out of the window in the sitting room. Hardly anything had been done in the garden. It was pretty much a wasteland, with a stretch of recently laid concrete and a small conifer in a tub. But if the Schofields had moved in a couple of months ago, they’d hardly been able to do very much. The middle of winter was the wrong time for that sort of job. In this area it was a wonder that it hadn’t been covered in snow.

  ‘What work are you still having done?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s an old farm building on the property. A byre. It wasn’t part of the original conversion, but we decided to turn it into something useful. A garden office, or storage.’

  Cooper turned back quickly into the room. He caught Donna Schofield in a pose. She’d taken up a position in the centre of the carpet and was checking herself in the mirror, making sure her expression was appropriate.

  She flushed briefly when she saw Cooper watching her. Then she tried the flirtatious smile again.

  ‘Is there anything else I can help you with, Inspector?’ she said. ‘I want to be as cooperative as I can. Your officers have already asked me about the lorry driver. I told them, I didn’t know him and I certainly didn’t see him here in Shawhead. It must have been some terrible, terrible accident, I suppose.’

  ‘I may have some bad news for you,’ said Cooper, ‘unless you’ve already heard?’

  That surprised her. He could see possibilities going through her mind, the expression on her face changing from mild concern to horror. Yet even the horrified lift of the eyebrows and widening of the eyes looked exaggerated. Her feelings seemed to be as artificial as her voice. Underneath her pretentions she had traces of that flat, Manchester-style accent Cooper heard elsewhere in New Mills.

  ‘Not Michael?’ she said. ‘It can’t be something that’s happened to my husband? No, you would have said so straight away. You wouldn’t have kept me talking like this. You—’

  Cooper suspected she’d been about to call him some crude name. But she restrained herself in time. It wouldn’t have fitted the image.

  ‘No,’ he said calmly. ‘It’s nothing to do with Mr Schofield. It’s your late niece’s husband.’