‘What do you mean?’
‘I hate to say it. It… it sounds so disloyal. But with the state of mind he’s been in recently, I think Matt actually could have done it.’
Even now, hours later, Ben still recoiled at the shock of that tentative confession from his sister-in-law. He was very fond of Kate. In fact, he’d always liked her, ever since the time he first met her, his older brother’s new girlfriend, brought home to meet the parents. She had always seemed so balanced, so supportive. He’d often envied his brother, felt Matt had found exactly the right partner. He’d wondered many times if he would ever find someone like Kate.
But for her to tell him that… It showed what a degree of trust she had in him. He had a suspicion that she would never dare say it to anyone else. She probably shouldn’t have said it to him, in the circumstances. And wasn’t it ironic that she seemed to trust him more than his own brother did?
He wondered how Matt was coping right now. Not well, that was certain. He could barely imagine his brother in a police cell. It was a picture that just didn’t make any sense, an impossible optical illusion, like one of those paintings by Escher, where stairs ran upside down. It did not compute. Of all people, Matt was made to be outdoors, not to be locked up away from the daylight.
There were some choices you made that you could never go back on. A split-second decision that changed your life. That moment for Matt had come when his finger tensed on the trigger of the shotgun. Once the hammer had begun its acceleration towards the firing pin, there had been no going back.
Some time early in the morning, Superintendent Branagh had made an appearance at the farm, looking grim-faced.
‘You can’t be involved, Ben,’ she said. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
Cooper couldn’t remember her ever calling him Ben before.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said.
‘We’re bringing in a DCI from Derby to head the inquiry. It will all be handled properly.’
‘He’ll need local liaison.’
Branagh shook her head. ‘Not you, anyway.’
A bit later, when he saw Diane Fry walk into his field of vision, Cooper blinked and looked at her wearily. Perhaps he ought to be surprised to see her here at the farm. But nothing made any impact on him any more, after the night he’d just gone through.
‘Ben,’ she said.
‘What are you doing, Diane? Aren’t you off back to the working group?’
She hesitated. Cooper had hardly ever seen Fry hesitant about giving a reply. She was always ready with a sharp comeback, or a quick put-down. Why should she hesitate? What was it that she was reluctant to tell him?
‘I’ve been given another assignment,’ she said.
‘Oh?’
Cooper was staring at her, trying to get her to meet his eye. But she looked deliberately away from him.
‘You can guess what it is,’ she said finally.
His eyes seemed to have trouble focusing on her now. She seemed even more unreal than any of the other individuals coming and going in the farmyard. For a moment he wondered if he might actually be hallucinating and had imagined her.
But then he nodded.
‘Local liaison,’ he said, ‘for the DCI from Derby.’
‘Right first time.’
Fry had been told to meet the team from Derby at the entrance to Bridge End Farm. She had visited this farm just once before. Not that she remembered a great deal about it. One farm was pretty much like another, wasn’t it? Mud, more mud, and all those pervasive animal smells that seemed to cling to your clothes for weeks.
When she’d come here previously, Ben Cooper had actually been living at the farm. His mother had been alive then, too. With Matt Cooper’s two daughters, that had meant three generations of the Cooper family making their home together. For Fry, it had seemed strange to see people doing that willingly. In her experience, it was something a family did only when it was forced on them by necessity.
But the Coopers had always been a type of person beyond her experience. Who knew what went on in a close-knit family group like that, with their own peculiar ways of doing things? Especially out here in these remote farmsteads, where no outsider could have any idea what was going on, and shotguns were so readily available. Perhaps it shouldn’t be too surprising that a man like Matt Cooper had ended up shooting somebody. Maybe the real surprise was that it didn’t happen more often.
A couple of cars pulled into the gateway of the farm. The team were arriving from Derby. She’d been told to expect a DCI Mackenzie, and it looked as though he’d brought a couple of bag carriers for moral support.
As he walked into the yard, the DCI skidded on a wet cowpat and twisted his body awkwardly, grimacing in pain as he tried to keep his footing. He was wearing the wrong kind of footwear for this job. Fry had remembered to pack her boots in the car before she left.
Fry introduced herself, and Mackenzie shook hands. He was a big man, over six feet tall and wide across the shoulders. A bit top-heavy, perhaps, carrying too much weight above the belt to be fast on his feet. He gave her a shrewd stare, weighing her up in that way an experienced officer did, even with a colleague.
‘You’ve familiarised yourself with the reports, DS Fry,’ he said.
‘Of course. I’ve read everything. The entire file, such as it is at this stage.’
‘So what’s your initial assessment?’ he said. ‘What would have been the scenario?’
‘Well, first of all, there’s a context of aggravated burglaries in this area, as I’m sure you know. A whole series of them, including serious assaults and one homeowner left dead.’
‘Yes. So it’s likely we have a member of the public who is on edge. He’s been made anxious by reports of incidents in the area.’
‘Exactly.’
‘The suspect is…?’
‘Matthew Cooper, aged forty. A farmer.’
‘Family in the house?’
‘A wife and two young daughters. So he would be protective.’
‘Naturally.’
Fry waited for the next question.
‘And the circumstances at the time of the incident…?’
‘It was dark, of course,’ she said.
Mackenzie turned round slowly, did a full three hundred and sixty degrees as if searching for something on the horizon.
‘And no street lights out here,’ he said.
‘Obviously.’
Fry looked at the city DCI, irritated to find herself having to explain the obvious facts about the countryside. No, there are no street lights. Yes, if you’ve noticed, there are fields, and cows and sheep. It’s a farm. What a surprise.
Mackenzie tilted his head slightly to one side to look at her.
‘We have to get this one right,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you know that, DS Fry. Our task is to balance the requirements of justice and the rights of the individual. It’s going to be a fine line we’re walking together.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Fry, regretting how stiff she sounded.
He nodded. ‘All right, then.’
‘The National Farmers’ Union say that people living in isolated rural properties face particular problems when it comes to crime.’
Mackenzie smiled. ‘You might want to try telling that to people on my patch in the city.’
‘It’s true, though. All those CCTV cameras have been having an effect on crime prevention and prosecution rates in the towns and cities. Thieves are looking at rural areas for softer targets. Well-planned and opportunist thefts are increasing.’
‘I’ve seen the statistics.’
Fry gestured at the farmhouse. ‘If you live in a place like this, in the countryside, you have to be aware that you’re a potential target. Especially if there are portable things like power tools and generators lying around in outbuildings.’
Within the past few months, E Division had taken part in Operation Solstice, aimed at tackling the theft of high-end four-wheel-drive vehicles from farm premises. A total
of twenty Land Rover Defenders alone had been reported stolen in the High Peak and the Derbyshire dales in the first six months of the year. A professional gang had been stealing the vehicles to order, with willing foreign purchasers just waiting for delivery.
Some of this stuff was big business. Organised crime. Not just the kind of petty theft that officers from D Division might imagine.
‘These farmers, they have some kind of Neighbourhood Watch scheme, don’t they?’ said Mackenzie.
‘Farm Watch.’
‘That’s it. Still, this isn’t about crime prevention, not any more. We’re dealing with a point of law here. Did you happen to read that up while you were looking through the reports?’
Fry bristled at the insinuation that she wasn’t familiar with the law.
‘The Criminal Law Act 1967 provides that a person may use such force as is reasonable in the circumstances in the prevention of crime,’ she said.
‘Almost word perfect. But it’s up to the courts to decide what can be considered reasonable force. Not us. Right?’
She didn’t reply, and Mackenzie looked at her sharply.
‘Right?’
‘Of course, sir.’
Fry knew that the Court of Appeal had set precedents that governed the modern law on belief: A person may use such force as is reasonable in the circumstances as he believes them to be. To gain an acquittal, the defendant must have believed, rightly or wrongly, that an attack was imminent. A man about to be attacked didn’t have to wait for his assailant to strike the first blow or fire the first shot. Circumstances might justify a preemptive strike. Even if you sought out the confrontation that provoked the aggression. The crucial factor was that you were defending yourself.
But in this case, the victim had been shot in the back. An open-and-shut case? Or was it more complicated than that?
‘And then we have the IP,’ said Mackenzie.
‘The injured party is Graham Smith, from Chesterfield. Previous convictions for burglary and theft.’
‘We got a call from the hospital a few minutes ago. I’m told Mr Smith has just come out of theatre from five hours of surgery to have pellets removed.’
‘He hasn’t been interviewed yet,’ said Fry.
‘No, but FOAs spoke to his son, who was with him at the time.’
‘Craig Smith, aged seventeen. He has a slight leg wound, but is otherwise uninjured.’
Mackenzie nodded. ‘Craig claims that he and his father were hunting rabbits on the farm.’
‘They didn’t have guns with them, did they?’
‘No.’
‘Or dogs?’
‘No.’
‘They weren’t hunting rabbits, then.’
‘You sound very sure of that, DS Fry.’
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’
Mackenzie smiled. ‘Let’s see what the evidence tells us, shall we?’
Although there was a suspect in custody and not much doubt about his involvement, the standard forensic procedures were being put into place. Shotgun pellets were being collected, tweezered out of wooden fence posts where necessary. Unburned powder was being sought, so that chemical analysis could indicate the manufacturer of the ammunition and possibly match the box of shells found in the gun cabinet in the farmhouse.
Scenes-of-crime had already observed from an initial examination that there were no discarded cartridge cases, nor any sign of a wad, the plastic insert that sat on top of the powder charge and contained the lead pellets. The wad was fired from the gun and cushioned the pellets as they went up the barrel, keeping them in a tight, uniform mass until they left the muzzle. As the shot pattern expanded, the wad peeled back and fell to the ground.
‘Our ballistics expert says the wad usually falls within a radius of fifteen to twenty-five feet of the muzzle,’ said Mackenzie, surveying the farmyard. ‘So the discovery of a wad would have given a general indication of the position of the shooter. If a shooter isn’t familiar with shotgun shells, they might pick up a discarded shell casing but not realise they should also look for the wad.’
He looked at Fry for a response.
‘Yes?’
‘It seems this shooter has left neither.’
Fry didn’t bother to point out that some of the ballistics information was unnecessary. It wasn’t the first incident she’d dealt with involving the use of a shotgun. She knew that spent plastic casings were printed with the name of the manufacturer, along with details of pellet size and load, powder charge and gauge. Also, when a firing pin hit the metal primer to detonate a charge, the impression it left was unique. It could be used to identify the specific weapon, like matching a fingerprint.
All of this scouring for evidence at the scene might seem unnecessary in the circumstances. But nothing would be missed in this case. Every t would be crossed, every forensic detail covered.
Fry looked round. At least Ben Cooper had gone. Someone had finally managed to persuade him to leave. That was a relief. Cooper had the irritating habit of seeing a good side in everyone. It was a weakness when you were part of the criminal justice system. In this situation, it was a positive liability.
Ben Cooper had showered, shaved and changed at his flat in Edendale. He fed the cat, took two paracetamols, and drank three cups of coffee. It didn’t make him feel much better.
When he climbed into his car, he looked slowly around Welbeck Street for a few minutes before turning the ignition key. He still felt dazed, and strangely detached from reality. The feeling was a bit like waking up with a hangover. His head ached and his thoughts were fuzzy. He couldn’t quite be sure whether what he’d been doing last night was real, or part of some awful nightmare.
His car radio was tuned to Peak FM. When he switched it on, he was just in time to hear the local news bulletin.
A man is under arrest after two people suffered shotgun wounds at isolated farm premises near Edendale.
The incident happened at just after midnight today. A forty-two-year-old man and a seventeen-year-old youth received injuries and both were taken to hospital. The youth was discharged after treatment to a leg wound, but the man is detained with injuries to his back and shoulder.
A local man is in custody and will be questioned by the police during the day. Inquiries are ongoing to determine the circumstances around the incident, and anyone who has any information that would help the police…
Cooper switched off the radio. He didn’t want to hear any more. Please, no interviews with the victims’ family, the nosy neighbours, or the spurious pundits who were always dragged out to discuss a subject they knew nothing about.
He turned things over and over in his head. What should he do? Who could he turn to? He knew he needed to talk to someone about Matt, and tell them things they might not know, before the situation went too far. Before there was no going back.
Obviously, Diane Fry was the last person he wanted to speak to, especially about a situation like this. He shouldn’t actually speak to any officer involved in the inquiry. He ought to go through his own DI, and hope that information would filter through.
Meanwhile, there was still the family to consider. Kate was still at her sister’s with the girls. So at least he wouldn’t have to face that prospect yet – the accusing stares and the even more unnerving silences. Because he was completely sure that Amy and Josie would blame him for what had happened to Matt. After all, it was the police who had taken their father away. And Uncle Ben was the police. Simple.
The trouble was, he could sympathise with that view. At times like these, it was helpful to choose simple logic when deciding who to blame. Everyone would be taking sides, one way or another. All convinced they were right, and refusing to accept any contrary argument – even if they knew nothing about the case. A simple black or white. If only everything in life was so clear-cut.
A couple of neighbours had agreed to look after the livestock at Bridge End for the time being. There were plenty of farmers who owed Matt a favour. And there was no d
oubt which side of the argument they fell on. Any one of them would have done the same, they said. Simple.
Cooper pictured Bridge End Farm full of strangers, picking over the lives of his family. He imagined Diane Fry, who knew more about him and his family than was really good in the circumstances. He tried to remember what he might have told her over the past few years, whether he’d been too honest.
Yes, Diane Fry was the last person he wanted to speak to.
Cooper picked up his phone and dialled.
‘Diane? It’s me. Yes, I know. But don’t hang up, please.’
Fry was standing by the back door of the farmhouse when Cooper rang. Even without his name coming up on her screen, she would have recognised his mobile number straight away. They had called each so often when they worked together.
She hesitated with her finger over the reject call button. He shouldn’t be phoning her, not now. He shouldn’t be trying to influence the inquiry. Proper procedures had to be followed, a complete forensic examination of the scene and interviews with witnesses. She mustn’t let Cooper try to put preconceptions in her mind.
Fry looked up to see where the DCI was. She felt sure he was somewhere in the house, perhaps upstairs checking the view from the bedroom window where Kate Cooper had been. One of his DCs was in the yard, watching the forensic team at work.
She pressed a button. ‘Ben, you shouldn’t be calling. Give me one good reason why I should talk to you.’
‘You won’t understand the evidence,’ he said.
‘Won’t understand? Who do you think you’re talking to?’ Fry saw the DC glance towards her. With an effort, she lowered her voice. ‘Ben, this is wrong.’
Cooper heard the warning tone, but wasn’t deterred. He tried to get the words out as quickly as possible while he had the chance.
‘Did they find any cartridge cases or wads at the scene?’ he said.
‘Not so far.’
‘Foxes were Matt’s main worry. They’re getting overconfident these days since the hunting ban, so he often gets close to them. He would have gone for cartridges with a big load, and big pellets. Something like Express Super Game firing number one shot. It makes for a humane kill.’
The Devil’s Edge bcadf-11 Page 27
