Some of the task force officers were returning from a trip down the Devil’s Staircase to the River Styx and into Five Arches. The knees and elbows of their overalls were covered in the brown silt that coated the floor and the walls down there. One of the last officers up was covered from head to foot, and the front of his overalls glistened with mud. Even his hands and face were liberally splashed with it.
‘It can be really difficult to keep your footing down there,’ said Page. ‘I wonder if anybody told them it would be easier to walk in the stream bed.’
‘Probably not,’ said Cooper.
The task force officers smelled, too. As they passed, Cooper got a whiff of the ancient sludge that had been sucked out of the nooks and crannies of the cavern system over many thousands of years and left in the passages to add to the fun for cavers.
‘They ought to have come with proper equipment,’ said Page. The hope they’re not planning on trying to go any further than Five Arches.’
‘Would he be likely to get that far in?’
‘There are food dumps in Treasury Chamber and Picnic Dig for cavers who get trapped by flooding,’ said Page. ‘But there’s no way he could reach those unless he has diving equipment. There are sumps in the way.’
‘No matter. He could survive for days without food, provided he can get access to water.’
‘There’s plenty of that. In fact, there might be too much.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Cooper.
‘These thunderstorms we keep getting. They’re depositing a lot of water into the system. If we get another one like Thursday night, the cavern could flood.’
‘In July? I thought the floods happened in winter.’
‘Mostly. But it wouldn’t be the first time the system has
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flooded in summer. People don’t realize that July is one of the wettest months of the year in this area.’
‘Flooding. That’s all we need.’
A cave system like Peak-Speedwell must be the nearest anyone would ever see to Hell. Cooper felt full of admiration for the cavers and cave divers who had been mapping the system - let alone those who had first set out to explore it, with their primitive lamps and equipment. Some of them had free-dived through sumps and flooded chambers, not knowing how far they’d have to swim before they found the next pocket of air, blinded by zero visibility in the cold, silty water. There had been no diving suits and oxygen tanks in those days; the divers had found their way underwater on a single lungful of air. If they failed to reach the surface in time, they died.
‘He hasn’t killed anybody else, has he?’ said Page. ‘Do you think he’s planning to kill again?’
‘Sorry, Alistair, I can’t tell you things like that.’
‘Oh, right.’
Cooper supposed he shouldn’t be surprised at Page’s interest. Probably everybody in Castleton was agog by now. Some people would be looking suspiciously at every tourist who passed. Others would remember Mansell Quinn and the Carol Proctor killing. Memories were long in these parts.
‘I’m sure nobody’s in danger from Quinn unless they had some connection with him in the past,’ said Cooper.
‘Oh,’ said Page. He didn’t look entirely reassured.
‘Of course, we’re advising people not to approach him. They should just call us.’
‘Approach him? As if I would.’
‘Good.’
‘But do you mean he’s got a hit list of some kind? It wasn’t just his ex-wife he came looking for?’
‘A hit list? It’s one theory anyway. As a precaution, we’ve been warning anyone who might be on such a list.’
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‘Like Ray Proctor and Will Thorpe?’
Cooper looked at him, openly surprised now. ‘You really are familiar with the details of the case, Alistair. Did you know Proctor and Thorpe, too?’
‘Oh, I looked the names up. I was interested.’
Cooper watched him polish the glass of his lamp on a corner of his jacket. He was going to ask Page why he was so interested in the case, other than morbid curiosity, when his mobile phone rang - a summons back to the office.
‘Yes, just about finished here,’ he said.
Page was watching him keenly. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve got to go,’ said Cooper. ‘But I’ll speak to you later.’
‘Do you think it’s safe here?’ said Page anxiously.
Cooper was already moving away. He stopped to look back at Alistair Page, and saw how anxious he was. It was strange that a man could venture willingly into those claustrophobic caves in pitch darkness, and yet still be the sort of person who worried unnecessarily about dangers that would never come his way.
‘As you long as you take care,’ said Cooper. ‘And remember - if you do see Mansell Quinn, stay clear of him.’
‘So,’ said Gavin Murfin when Ben Cooper got back to the office in Edendale. ‘I hear we’ve even got a Beast of Bradwell now. What’s the place coming to?’
‘A what?’
‘Beast of Bradwell. One of those mysterious giant cats that roam the countryside during the silly season. Apparently, it’s been savaging sheep. It’s in the bulletins.’
‘I haven’t seen them yet.’
Cooper read the reports. Predictably, a team of firearms officers had been called out to search the area where a sheep had been found with its throat ‘ripped out’, according to the report. The site was close to a path used by walkers and their dogs, so someone considered there might be a threat to the
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public. But as far as Cooper was concerned, sending coppers with guns into the woods was more of a risk to the public than any type of wildlife they were likely to encounter, real or imaginary.
‘It wasn’t in Bradwell,’ he said. ‘It was in Rakedale.’
‘That’s no good,’ said Murfin.
‘Why not?’
‘It doesn’t begin with a “B”. The Beast of Rakedale doesn’t have the same ring. No good for a newspaper headline.’
‘Accuracy was never your strongpoint, was it, Gavin?’
‘I’ve always thought I might make a good journalist. Anyway, it’s near enough, isn’t it?’
Cooper read through the report again. Rakedale was a narrow, meandering limestone valley on the other side of Bradwell Moor from the Castleton area. It joined the Eden Valley further south, passing within a mile of Bridge End Farm. Cooper was very familiar with its wooded sides and limestone cliffs, and the pure stream running through it. He also knew it had many small caves, and some old mine workings.
‘It doesn’t sound as though anyone has taken a proper look at the victim yet,’ he said.
‘Eh? You’re expecting a postmortem? Mrs Van Door would have kittens if we sent her a sheep.’
‘I was thinking of a vet. They ought to get a vet to look at it. Someone will have thought of that, won’t they?’
‘Maybe.’
Till mention it to the officer in charge,’ said Cooper.
‘But what else could rip a sheep’s throat out? A dog, maybe?’
‘A dog wouldn’t do so much damage. They’ll chase sheep, but they lose interest once they stop running.’
‘Has to be a big cat, then,’ said Murfin confidently.
‘Not at all.’
‘What then?’
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‘There’s one other species that would inflict that kind of damage on an animal, and do it just for sport. The human species.’
Cooper watched one of the incident room staff place a new marker on the map. Mansell Quinn’s trail through the Hope Valley had reached Castleton, almost at the head of the valley. Cooper felt sure there would be a second location to add soon. But he had no doubt at all about Quinn’s final destination. Death Underground had some meaning for him and, somehow, he was intending to enter the cavern system. But he wouldn’t do that until he’d finished what he’d come to do. And they still didn’t know what names had been on Quinn’s list.
Raymond Proctor seemed to have aged ten years. Ben Cooper and Diane Fry found him at his desk, staring into space. Though no bottle was visible, a smell of whisky hung in the air. The office looked more untidy than ever. Only the rows of keys remained neat and orderly, as if Proctor thought their orderliness could resist the spread of chaos.
‘I’m really sorry about Will,’ he said. ‘But there wasn’t anything I could have done, was there?’
Fry didn’t seem inclined to ease his conscience.
‘Certainly. If you’d called us when Quinn came here on Wednesday night, we could have had him out of circulation and your friend would still be alive now.’
‘Yeah.’ Proctor looked towards the old filing cabinet. Maybe that was where he kept the whisky.
‘Also, if your crossbow had been properly secured, Quinn wouldn’t now be in possession of a lethal weapon. Would he, sir?’
‘No.’
‘Mr Proctor, do you have any idea who else might be in danger from Quinn? Did he say anything that might give us a clue?’
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‘No, he didn’t.’
‘Because I’m sure you wouldn’t want another death on your conscience, would you?’
‘No.’
‘Please think carefully then, sir. What did he talk about?’
Proctor stared into space. ‘He talked about coming out of prison and things being different.’
‘Yes?’
‘He mentioned somebody else living in his old house.’
‘His old house? The one on Pindale Road?’
‘I suppose that’s where he meant.’
‘What else did he say, Mr Proctor?’
Proctor frowned. ‘He must have been thinking about Rebecca. That house in Pindale Road was their home - his and Rebecca’s. But she couldn’t wait to get away from it after what happened. Can’t say I blame her.’
‘Did you know her well, Mr Proctor?’
The did back then. She left the valley for a while when she married the second time, you know. She wanted to move back, but she had to have a brand-new house, which isn’t easy to get planning permission for. Anyway, they managed it, and Parson’s Croft was the result. Only trouble was, the new husband had a heart attack before the house was finished.’
‘That must have been tough.’
‘Not for Rebecca. She was quids in. Very comfortable.’
‘Comfortably dead.’
‘Well, yeah. She is now.’
‘She’d have been better off spending some of her money getting away from the area. Moving down south, or out of the country altogether.’
‘Probably. But you can’t help wanting to come back to where you belong, can you?’
Fry watched him. He did seem to be trying to help this time. ‘Anything else, sir?’
Proctor shook his head. ‘Nothing I can remember.’
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‘We’d better have a word with your wife, then.’ ‘She won’t remember any more than me,’ said Proctor. ‘She hardly saw him.’
‘He was saying something about children when I came in here,’ said Connie when she was called into the office. ‘That’s all 1 remember. It was such a shock seeing him. But I knew straight away who he was.’
‘Whose children?’ said Fry.
‘Not Jason and Kelly, anyway - he’s never met them, thank God. In fact, he’d never met me until that night.’
‘It must have been his own children he was referring to, then? Simon and Andrea.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. But they don’t even live in the Castleton area any more, do they?’
‘No, that’s true.’ Fry looked disappointed. ‘Oh, well. We’re leaving a patrol car at the entrance for the time being.’
‘My guests won’t like that.’
‘Don’t bother telling me. I don’t care any more.’
‘Well, you were right about the Beast of Bradwell, Ben,’ said Gavin Murfin, when Ben Cooper got back to the office. West Street was a bit quiet, and Cooper thought the senior officers must be in a meeting somewhere.
‘Oh? No beast?’
‘The vet’s report says the sheep’s throat wasn’t ripped by teeth. It was cut with a sharp knife.’
‘There you go, then. Another sicko wandering the area. A few years ago it was horses, remember? Doesn’t sound like a professional poacher - they’re much more organized, and they take entire flocks rather than slaughtering an individual animal in the woods like that.’
‘This was in the daytime, too. Two witnesses came forward who thought they heard something run off when their dog barked. Or someone.’
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Cooper noticed that Murfin was looking too smug.
‘Anything else happened, Gavin?’
‘Good vet they got,’ said Murfin. ‘Almost as good as a pathologist.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He said the sheep had been shot. With a crossbow.’
‘My God. Have they -1
‘Everybody’s out there now,’ said Murfin. ‘Didn’t you notice how quiet it is?’
The search party was working its way along the sides of Rakedale, but the going was slow. The trees on the slopes were too dense, the caves too deep, the holes and crevices in the limestone too numerous to count. Armed officers went ahead of the main group, and their caution slowed the search down even more. But without them, the task force officers would have been too vulnerable, because their attention had to be focused on the ground and on their immediate surroundings. They were looking for traces of recent occupation in the caves, or in the ruins of the old mine buildings that were scattered along the northern side of the dale, almost overgrown with ivy and brambles.
‘It’s much too slow,’ said DI Hitchens. ‘If he’s in here, he’ll see us coming half a mile away.’
There’s no way we can speed the search up,’ said DCI Kessen. ‘The troops are too exposed already. If Quinn should be waiting up on one of those limestone cliffs, he could do a lot of damage.’
That’s if he’s still armed. We don’t know that for certain.’
T’m not taking the chance.’
The dogs seem to be all over the place,’ said Hitchens.
They don’t know what they’re looking for. We have nothing of Quinn’s to give them.’
The helicopter should be here soon, though. Its thermal camera will identify any bodies hiding among these trees.’
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‘In the trees, perhaps. But not in the caves.’
‘And what about the public?’ said Hitchens.
‘They’re a nightmare …’
At the bottom end of the dale, several families were enjoying the sun by the water. Half a dozen Mallard ducks sat in a row on a log submerged in a green pool, watching the children rushing about on the grass.
‘… but there’s no way we can get rid of them altogether.’
The search didn’t reach the end of the dale until early evening. The co-ordinator called a halt where the trees petered out and the limestone sides gave way to a patchwork of fields criss-crossed by stone walls.
‘He’s not here. Not any more, anyway.’
Kessen and Hitchens gathered around him for a hasty conference. Two officers carried over a pile of bin liners filled with evidence bags.
‘I don’t want to see all that,’ said Kessen. ‘What have we got that’s of any significance?’
‘Someone camped out in one of the caves recently. About halfway along the valley on the south side. You can’t see it until you get right up to it. It isn’t big, but it’s dry, and there’s a sort of ledge at the back where you can lie up and be out of the weather, as well as out of sight.’
‘What traces are there?’
‘A couple of the SOCOs are going over it now. I’d say they’ll get no more than some wax and ashes, and a few scuff marks in the dirt on the cave floor.’
‘Nothing we can get a DNA sample from?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘He must have defecated
and urinated somewhere.’
The search co-ordinator shrugged. ‘This man is very careful. There’s no sign of anything in the vicinity of the cave. My guess is he’ll have gone deep into the woods somewhere, a different location each time, and concealed the
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traces in a scrape in the ground. We’d never find anything like that.’
‘Here’s the helicopter at last,’ said Hitchens.
‘Much good it’ll do.’
In the briefing room, Ben Cooper could see that DCI Kessen and DI Hitchcns were frustrated at Mansell Quinn’s ability to move freely around the Hope Valley. The tone of the newspaper and radio reports was reflecting the public’s incredulity. An incredulity echoed by senior officers in Ripley.
‘He’s too unpredictable,’ said Hitchens. ‘One minute he’s living rouyh in some remote bit of woodland, and the next he’s mingling brazenly with the crowds in the middle of Castleton. It makes us look like complete prats.’
‘I’m not happy about these CCTV pictures,’ said Kessen. ‘It looks as though he’s taunting us. He’s constantly one step ahead, and he knows it.’
Cooper studied the photo of Mansell Quinn taken from the camera at the gift shop. To him, Quinn didn’t seem to be laughing at all.
‘And the weather is too good,’ said Hitchens. ‘What we need is rain. The heavier the better.’
The DI was right there. If the weather stayed the same, there would be chaos on Sunday. Traffic would be gridlocked in Castleton, just as it would in Dovedale and at Matlock Bath. On summer weekends and bank holidays, visitors would queue in their cars for hours to get to the honeypots and mingle with crowds of other tourists, until they were so thick on the ground no one could move for ice-cream cones and frisbees.
Castleton would be busy every day now for the rest of the summer. It boasted five of the Peak District’s ten most popular attractions, and the show caves alone brought in thousands of people every weekend. But the tea rooms and gift shops would soon empty if the tourists became aware of a multiple
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