The Devil’s Edge bcadf-11

by Stephen Booth

  ‘Oh, yes. If Mr Holland hadn’t rushed out to confront the intruder, the outcome would have been quite different,’ he said. ‘A 999 call would have been far better. Well – on most nights, it would.’

  Cooper stared across the valley, not seeing the trees or the hills, but trying to picture the scene at Fourways that chaotic night. Had someone taken advantage of the noise and disturbance in the village to undertake a risky mission of his own?

  ‘What about the suspect you pursued on the night?’ asked Liz.

  ‘Barry Gamble? He was questioned, of course, but there was nothing to place him at the Hollands’. We found no mask on him, or anything else incriminating. Besides, some of the teenagers at the party identified him positively as the man they’d seen lurking in the bushes at The Cottage. Theoretically, it would be possible for him to have been in both places within a few minutes – they’re close enough together. But why would he hang around after the confrontation with Mr Holland? Why wear a mask at one place and not the other? And there isn’t the remotest suggestion of a motive. No history between him and the Hollands. We never had any hope of a case against him. He got a bit of a scare, though.’

  ‘A dead end, then.’

  ‘It seems so.’

  Yes, that was an understatement. At the moment, it felt like running into a stone wall. Like running face first into the Devil’s Edge itself.

  Cooper found a bottle of water, and passed it to Liz. He looked over his shoulder towards the edges. The closest one was Froggatt Edge, with White Edge forming a higher terrace above it. He could see the outline of White Edge Lodge, standing isolated and sinister like a Gothic castle. Dark clouds were building up in the east, massing over Big Moor.

  ‘So,’ said Liz slowly, ‘I know why we can’t marry in September or November.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Since you weren’t available to explain when you said you would, I asked your sister-in-law.’

  ‘You spoke to Kate?’

  ‘It seemed preferable to trying to get anything out of you, or your brother.’

  ‘It’s because of the anniversaries,’ said Cooper. ‘Our mother died in September, and our father in November.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It might seem a bit unnecessary, but anniversaries like that have always been important in our family.’

  ‘I understand, really. November was out anyway.’ She shuddered. ‘Just imagine. Rain, wind, mud. A nightmare.’

  They were silent for a moment, enjoying the sun. A small group of tourists walked along the track from the road to look at the pole, then walked quietly back again.

  ‘And… the full works?’ said Cooper hesitantly.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Which means we have a lot of planning to do, Ben.’

  Cooper knew that he ought to sound enthusiastic. No doubt it was expected of him. But when he looked inside himself, he was forced to admit that what he wanted was to be married to Liz, not to have an actual wedding. Not a wedding with all the fuss – the morning suits and bridesmaids’ dresses, the confetti and cake, the speeches and the endless group photographs. The full works.

  He felt Liz take his hand in hers.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I know it’s not your kind of thing. My parents are just itching to organise it all. What we do is let them have their day, then we can sneak off somewhere nice and be ourselves. That’s what we both want, isn’t it?’

  Cooper’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

  ‘Sorry, Liz.’

  She sat up. ‘Oh, Ben…’

  He looked at the screen. Letter arrived this a.m. from sheff rd man. U want to see it? ‘

  ‘Work?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Saturday.’

  ‘I know, but… you understand.’

  She sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose I do.’

  Erin Byrne lived in a two-bedroom apartment in Calver Mill, with rooms on three levels connected by an original stone staircase.

  At the top of the stairs, Cooper found a small office space, with a desk and a computer, and a few bookshelves along the wall, all brightly lit by a generous expanse of skylight. This felt like a real eyrie, almost an ivory tower, a sanctuary raised clear of any neighbours, with a distant glimpse across the Derwent Valley towards the hills on the other side. Cooper could imagine working here if he was an artist or writer, or some kind of creative person. It felt a long way from the real world out there on the streets.

  ‘Thanks for coming. I thought we might pop across the road to the Bridge Inn, if you’ve got the time,’ said Byrne.

  ‘I can spare half an hour or so.’

  ‘No urgent incidents to attend?’

  ‘Not today.’

  At the end of August, the leaves of the Virginia creeper on the walls of the Bridge Inn were just starting to turn a deep red. Inside the bar, they stood among a display of antique firefighting equipment and hundreds of foreign bank notes stuck on to the oak beams.

  ‘Outside, I think?’ said Byrne. ‘Less chance of being overheard.’

  ‘We’re not in a spy film, you know.’

  She looked around at the locals in the public bar. ‘I’d feel more comfortable.’

  ‘All right.’

  The riverside garden at the Bridge was big enough to accommodate a couple of hundred people, all under blue and gold Hardy and Hanson parasols. So although it was a Saturday lunchtime, there were plenty of tables free. Byrne chose a spot as far as possible from the pub, overlooking the Derwent and the older of the two bridges. For a few minutes they said nothing, but sat watching the ducks on the river and listening to the sound of the weir as they sipped their drinks.

  Byrne fished into her bag. It was one of the most capacious bags Cooper had ever seen. He guessed it must contain her notebook, digital recorder, camera, phone, and whatever else the modern newspaper journalist needed.

  ‘I brought you a copy of this week’s Eden Valley Times,’ she said. ‘Just out. Hot off the press.’

  ‘Oh, thanks. I suppose…?’

  ‘We led with a story on the Savages, yes.’

  ‘We don’t call them that.’

  ‘Don’t blame me. It’s what everyone is talking about. We just reflect the interests of our readers.’

  ‘Right.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re all the same.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The police. You look down so much on the media. Until you want our help with something. An appeal to the public, an e-fit of a wanted man. Oh, then we’re all supposed to be on the same side. But when we want information from you, the barriers go up. Then you pull that disapproving face and say we’re not helping the situation. You say we’re sensationalising.’

  ‘I don’t have a disapproving face,’ said Cooper. ‘Do I?’

  She took a drink to hide her expression behind the glass. ‘Well, perhaps not as much as some I could mention. I’ve met Superintendent Hazel Branagh.’

  Cooper stifled a smile. ‘Oh, have you?’

  ‘It was at some civic do. She was being all smiling and matey with the dignitaries, but when she found out who I was, she looked as though she’d just sucked on a lemon.’

  ‘We’re not all like that. But some police officers have had a bad experience with the press during the course of their careers. We learn to be cautious. We definitely learn not to say too much.’

  ‘Or not to say anything at all,’ said Byrne.

  ‘Not quite, surely?’

  She put down her glass and positioned it carefully on a coaster, wiping off a mist of condensation.

  ‘My dad was a local newspaper journalist too. Old school. He ended up as a subeditor on the Sheffield Star. He once told me that when he was a trainee reporter, if he had the police stories to cover, he actually went round to the police station every morning and spoke to the desk sergeant. That was when there were such things as desk sergeants, of course. The sergeant would look in the incident book and
tell him what had happened overnight. And because they spoke every morning, they got to know each other. So if the sergeant was busy, he just gave Dad the incident book to read for himself. It’s a question of trust, you see.’

  ‘That was, what? The seventies?’

  ‘I suppose so. Dixon of Dock Green might still have been on the telly.’

  ‘It wouldn’t happen now.’

  ‘Too true. The reporters on police calls now never see a police officer, let alone get to know one. They never go inside a police station, either. All they do is make a phone call and get a recorded message. There’s absolutely no personal contact, and no trust. My dad pulls his hair out when I tell him what it’s like now.’

  ‘My dad would, too,’ said Cooper.

  She opened her mouth as if to ask him about his father. But perhaps she read something in his face, because she kept the question to herself. That required quite a lot of self-control for a journalist.

  ‘Anyway, enough of that,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you don’t want to listen to me moaning. This is what you wanted to see.’

  She handed Cooper a clear plastic wallet containing a single sheet of paper and an envelope. The note itself was crudely written. He might actually have said drawn rather than written. It looked as if it had been scrawled in felt-tip pen by a clumsy child. Just one sentence.

  ‘Sheffeild Rode,’ he said thoughtfully.

  ‘I know it’s crude,’ said Byrne. ‘And illiterate, too.’

  ‘Sheffield isn’t all that difficult a word to spell, surely.’

  ‘It could be written by someone whose first language isn’t English?’

  ‘Maybe. And what’s this symbol?’

  The note was accompanied by a rudimentary sketch – a short horizontal line with an arrow beneath it, pointing to the centre of the line. If it was supposed to represent a road, with a particular house indicated on it, the sketch was worse than useless. But perhaps it wasn’t that at all. It looked more symbolic than representational.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Byrne. ‘No one in the office could identify it.’

  ‘And you didn’t look it up?’

  ‘We’d normally do a Google search, of course. But there’s no way of entering a picture as a search term. No way that I know of, anyway.’

  ‘No, that’s right.’

  ‘So without a clue what to look for, we were a bit stumped. That’s why my editor agreed we should pass it to you. On the understanding that we, you know…’

  ‘Get some information in return?’

  ‘Yes. Or at least a bit of a head-start on the nationals when there’s a breakthrough.’

  Cooper nodded. ‘I understand.’

  ‘So, what are you going to do? Raid all the houses on Sheffield Road?’

  He laughed. ‘I would have difficulty justifying that on the grounds of an anonymous message.’

  ‘Yes, I see the problem.’

  ‘But we can get it forensically examined. Something might emerge.’

  ‘I’ll leave it with you, then.’

  Cooper looked at her as she got ready to leave.

  ‘You’re not covering the show this afternoon?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Riddings Show? That’s today, is it? No, we don’t have time to cover things like that. We pay a village correspondent a few pennies to write down the names of all the winners. Names still sell papers, they say. If necessary, we give them a little digital camera so they can take their own photos, too. Much cheaper than sending a photographer out from Chesterfield. We don’t have our own snappers in Edendale any more.’

  ‘It’s the way everything’s going.’

  ‘Oh, I know. We get policing on the cheap too now.’

  ‘I won’t argue with that.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure there must be lots of things you should be doing. I bet some of the residents around here would be furious if they saw you sitting in the garden of the Bridge Inn having a drink with a journalist. They’d be writing to the chief constable in their scores.’

  Cooper thought that was probably true. But right at this moment, he didn’t care.

  Byrne got up to leave. ‘Will you report our conversation to your boss?’

  Cooper hesitated. He couldn’t mention his contact with the press to Superintendent Branagh. He’d heard her berate other officers for the slightest communication with the media, or for taking their claims seriously. He would risk being tainted by the meeting.

  ‘I ought to.’

  Byrne smiled. ‘There are a lot of things we ought to do, Detective Sergeant Cooper. Sometimes it’s much more fun doing the things we shouldn’t.’

  When she’d gone, Cooper checked his phone for messages, then decided to stay for a few minutes to finish his drink.

  He opened the copy of the Eden Valley Times and flicked through the pages, glancing at the photographs. He wasn’t interested in the lead story about the Savages. It wouldn’t tell him anything he didn’t know, and might well fill his head with misconceptions and half-truths.

  Halfway through the paper, just before the property section, were the pages of community news. What was going on in the villages, in other words. As usual, that seemed to be mostly WI meetings and summer fetes, tractor rallies and fund-raising garden parties. But there they were, underneath next week’s church services – a party of balsam bashers pictured by the side of Calver Weir. With their boots and waterproofs, packed lunches and water bottles, they looked ready for a happy day of non-native-plant destruction.

  He peered more closely. The photograph was in colour, which ought to help identification. But this was the Eden Valley Times, and the colour register had been slightly off alignment when the page was printed. So everyone in the picture seemed to have a faint magenta shadow blurring the left side of their face. It was an odd effect, like looking at a 3D image without the proper glasses on. But Cooper recognised Martin and Sarah Holland, standing just to one side. Barry Gamble was over to the right, lurking close to a couple of Peak District National Park rangers who had posed in the foreground wearing red rubber gloves and clutching tall plants with pink flowers.

  It was the expression on Gamble’s face that grabbed Cooper’s attention. Despite the off-register printing, it was clear that he wasn’t smiling for the camera like everyone else. He wasn’t looking towards the photographer at all. In fact, he had been caught in an unguarded moment as he waited for the click of the shutter.

  In that second, Barry Gamble had turned his head to the right and was staring directly at the Hollands. And the look on his face told a whole different story from the accompanying piece on the benefits of balsam bashing. His expression was a mixture of loathing and triumph. He had the air of a man taking one last, gloating look at his intended victims.

  19

  Riddings Show was held on Froggatt Fields, right on the western edge of Riddings where it met the neighbouring village of Froggatt, another of the duke’s creations, known for its quaint seventeenth-century bridge.

  The show was said to be an offshoot of the village cow club, but there were no cows present now. Small-scale livestock shows had become far too complicated and risky to organise. They were too bound up in red tape and form-filling, too constrained by DEFRA regulations, too exposed to the possibility of another outbreak of disease. Foot and mouth, blue tongue, BSE – they had all contributed to the decline. Many village shows had never recovered from last-minute cancellation, and insurance premiums were beyond the reach of societies with limited sponsorship. Cloven-hoofed animals had become an event organiser’s nightmare.

  So Riddings Show had transformed itself into a more genteel August bank holiday occasion. Cooper expected there would be flowers, vegetables and handicrafts, with the only livestock being the ponies and riders in the gymkhana ring.

  It had begun to rain on and off almost as soon as he’d left the garden of the Bridge Inn, and he needed his windscreen wipers as he joined the flow of traffic into the showground. When he drove through the gate on to Froggat
t Fields, he was greeted by the smell of engine oil, and the chug of vintage farm equipment. There were a few nods to the show’s agricultural origins after all.

  The marquees and stands had been set up in the lower field, separated from the river by a line of trees. At the far end, the gymkhana arena lay in a natural hollow. As Cooper walked down the slope from the parking area, a brass band was playing a medley of James Bond themes. Goldfinger, From Russia with Love. The grass in the parking area had been mowed, but not removed, so the cuttings lay everywhere in deep swathes. They wrapped themselves around the tyres of the car, and covered everyone’s shoes. He found himself wading through heaps of wet grass all the way down to the show ring.

  He stopped for a moment to watch a children’s entertainer in a sparkly blue jacket, who was talking to a dummy Afghan hound. The dog didn’t answer, except by whispering in his ear. What did you call a ventriloquism act where the dummy didn’t speak? He had no idea.

  Cooper turned away. There were already too many people whispering to each other in this case. Why didn’t everyone say out loud what they thought? It would make life so much easier. His life, anyway.

  Carol Villiers was already on the showground. She was dressed off duty, in jeans and a T-shirt, with a jacket tied round her waist. She looked every bit the outdoor girl, the sun bringing out the colour in her face. Out in the sunlight, between showers, Cooper noticed how pale her eyes were. Sandy, as if they had been bleached in a desert climate.

  They walked towards the long canvas marquee, where signs announced that it had just opened to the public after judging.

  ‘I’ve heard you’re engaged, Ben,’ said Villiers. ‘Congratulations.’

  Astonished, Cooper turned and stared at her as if she were a witch. Psychic, at least.

  ‘I haven’t told anyone here about that yet,’ he said.

  ‘Well, someone has.’

  ‘Blast. I didn’t expect it to get round so quickly.’

  ‘It’s one of the perils of having a relationship with a colleague,’ said Villiers. ‘I should know.’

  ‘I suppose so.’