‘I mentioned it to Mrs Gamble. She knew straight away that there was no phone in the box, but she didn’t say anything about it. Why?’
Villiers nodded. ‘Because she guessed who it might have been.’
‘Yes.’
‘Her husband, you mean.’
‘More than likely.’
‘What’s the strength on Gamble? Have we got a case?’
‘Not one the CPS will run with.’
Cooper ran his mind over the things he hadn’t done. There were so many, it would make a long list.
‘Did we ever get forensic results from Gamble’s clothes?’ he said.
‘Not that I know of.’
‘The report ought to have arrived by now.’
Villiers pulled out her phone. ‘I’ll call Gavin and get him to check.’
Cooper looked up at Riddings Edge. The hillside up to the edge looked almost impassable. It was too steep, and too scattered with huge lumps of rock, some of them half-worked millstones. A long strip of birch woodland clung to the upper slopes. Birch was a pioneer species – the first tree to colonise bare ground like the lower slopes below Riddings Edge.
He didn’t know how long he’d been staring, but he suddenly realised that Villiers had been speaking to him.
‘Oh. Sorry – what did you say?’
She looked at him strangely. Was that a hint of pity? Or just friendly concern?
‘Gavin has just gone through the forensics report for me. The fragments of gravel stuck in the soles of Mr Gamble’s boots match the gravel on the Barrons’ drive. Some of the vegetation that had attached itself to his jacket was from a blackthorn bush similar to the one growing against the Barrons’ back wall.’
‘Blackthorn? Ouch. The spikes on those things are lethal.’
‘And lots of other stuff. Pine needles, thistle seeds, rhododendron twigs…’
Cooper nodded, absorbed in a thought of his own.
‘I wonder what’s in there,’ he said.
‘In where?’
He looked at her with a smile. ‘Let’s see if we can take a look.’
‘No, it’s Barry’s shed,’ said Mrs Gamble. ‘I never go in there. Every man needs a shed, so they say.’
They were at the back of 4 Chapel Close, standing in the small garden, so different from the acres of grounds surrounding some of the other properties in Riddings. Almost half the space was taken up by the wooden shed, with only enough room left for a patch of grass and a single flower bed.
‘And I suppose he’s out of your way when he’s in there,’ said Cooper.
She smiled. ‘Yes, that’s true. I can’t deny it’s a relief sometimes. We’ve been married quite a long time.’
‘But you don’t have any contact with him when he goes out to the shed,’ said Villiers. ‘You can’t see him from the house, can you?’
‘No. In fact often I don’t really know where he is. I just like to think he’s in his shed.’
Cooper looked at the padlock holding the hasp. ‘Do you know where the key is, at least?’
‘No.’
He looked at her sharply. ‘Are you sure?’
She sagged a little, unable to withstand even the slightest pressure.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘There’s a spare. Barry doesn’t even know it exists.’
When she had fetched the key and the padlock was opened, Cooper stepped into the shed, hesitating as his eyes met the darkness inside.
‘There’s a light switch to your left,’ said Mrs Gamble.
‘Thank you.’
‘So this is his den, is it?’ asked Villiers.
‘I suppose you might call it that.’
On the shelves of the back room were an incredible variety of items. Polished stones, fossils, lumps of weather-worn wood, cones, feathers. And sitting in pride of place, like an evil presence, was a sheep skull. Its bones were bleached white, its jaws and grinning teeth still intact.
Cooper had seen many skulls from dead sheep. They lay around the fields, were often left perched on walls or gate posts. Sheep were suicidal creatures, after all. They died in the most unlikely of places. But their teeth tended to fall out, their jaws became dislocated, they crumbled in time. They were rarely as intact as this one.
‘What is all this stuff?’
‘His collection.’
‘A collection of what? This is just junk.’
‘Souvenirs. Mementos. Little things he’s picked up on his travels.’
‘His travels?’
‘His walks, I mean. Around Riddings, mostly. He calls them his patrols. I know some people think Barry is a bit odd. But it keeps him out of mischief.’
‘Oh, does it?’
One other item caught Cooper’s attention. It was a rough pentagram shaped out of twigs. He’d seen this sort of thing left at stone circles, like the one on Stoke Flat. There were often other tributes left, too – flowers, candles, a few old coins. Of course, it was a hangover from a more superstitious era, but it suited the atmosphere of the place. When travellers crossed these moors before the erection of guide stoops, they were living in a different age – a time of darkness and fear, a world of witches and gargoyles. Any token or charm that might help was worth trying.
Speaking of gargoyles… He turned back to the doorway.
‘Mrs Gamble, where is your husband?’
‘Do you think she knows more than she’s telling?’ asked Villiers, as they drove away from Chapel Close.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Cooper. ‘But so does everyone else around here. That’s always the way of it. No one wants to tell you more than is absolutely necessary.’
‘I suppose it’s human nature. If someone wants to tell you everything, you can bet there’s something wrong with them.’
‘That’s right. The nutter who sits down next to you in the pub. He’s the only person who ever wants to tell you everything about himself.’
They found Barry Gamble right where his wife had suggested. He was taking photographs of the edge from a children’s play area behind the village. To Cooper’s eye, it seemed that he was trying to get just the right juxtaposition of sheer rock face in the background with an empty swing in the foreground. He couldn’t quite think what that was supposed to symbolise.
‘Oh, what now?’ said Gamble when he saw them.
‘Mr Gamble, we had the traces on your clothes analysed, you know.’
‘Well, I supposed that was what you must be doing. I didn’t think you just wanted to try them on for size.’
‘It’s obvious from those traces that you must have been on every property in this part of Riddings. Without the permission or knowledge of the owners, I would imagine.’
‘No one sees me.’
‘Do you really think so? Even after Thursday night, when you were seen by those kids hanging around their party at The Cottage?’
Gamble shuffled in embarrassment. ‘Yes, well that was unfortunate. But usually…’
‘Unfortunate? You could get yourself into a lot of trouble.’
‘Think about your wife,’ added Villiers. ‘What did she have to say to you after Thursday night?’
‘She told me I was too old for this nonsense. This nonsense. I ask you. Besides, I’m not the one showing my age. I said, Take a look in the mirror, Monica. That’s no spring chicken you see.’
Villiers looked up from her notes. ‘And how did she take that comment?’
Gamble grimaced. ‘Oh, she didn’t take it well. She didn’t take any of it very well at all.’
‘I think you must be very familiar with all the lanes and tracks in this area,’ said Cooper.
‘Yes, I am. I can’t deny that.’
‘Even some that no one else is aware of?’
Gamble fidgeted with his hat, worrying at the beads around the brim. Cooper felt an urge to grab it off his head and hurl it across the garden. But that would be silly and childish, not the actions of a responsible police officer. He might get someone else to do it instead.
‘There are a couple of old trackways that have been there for hundreds of years,’ said Gamble. ‘Worn away and sunk into the ground. None of these people round here either know or care about them.’
‘I might want you to show them to me some time soon,’ said Cooper.
‘I can do that. I suppose you’ll be around.’
‘You can bet on that.’
‘So, what do you know of any feuds or disputes between residents in Riddings?’ asked Villiers cheerfully.
Gamble’s eyes gleamed. ‘Oh, well. How long have you got?’
He began to reel off details. Gamble might seem a bit vague about some things, but his brain was like a well-organised filing cabinet when it came to the activities of his neighbours. He knew all about the court case between Nowak and the Barrons, about the confrontation between William Chadwick and Jake Barron over the dog, and about Richard Nowak’s complaints against Mrs Slattery. He had observed every last second of the argument between Nowak and Alan Slattery at the show on Saturday.
Unfortunately, his litany ran out before he’d told Cooper anything he didn’t already know.
When he’d finished, Gamble smiled at them with satisfaction.
‘I’m glad to help,’ he said.
‘What about the Hollands?’ asked Cooper.
He shrugged. ‘They keep themselves to themselves, pretty much.’
‘You missed out on Thursday night, then,’ said Villiers.
‘What?’
‘When the Hollands had an intruder at Fourways.’
‘You know where I was that night.’
‘Yes, we do.’
Cooper studied him thoughtfully, reflecting that if it hadn’t been for the teenagers and their pursuit of him on Thursday, Gamble might actually have been on hand to witness the incident at Fourways. It certainly wasn’t like him to have missed something. What a pity he hadn’t been there to tell the story.
‘And Mr Edson?’
Gamble sniffed, and tugged at the brim of his hat.
‘Him? No chance. Can’t get near the bugger.’
‘So that’s it,’ said Cooper when they left Gamble to his own devices and the attentions of his wife.
‘Not quite,’ said Villiers. ‘There’s your message.’
‘What?’
‘ Sheffeild Rode. And the surveyor’s mark. You had an idea that you’d seen it somewhere.’
‘Of course.’
Cooper looked up at the Devils’ Edge, shading his eyes against the brightness of the sky. Had he just seen something drop over the edge? He couldn’t be sure what it was. A climber? A bird? He had no idea.
He scanned the face of the rock, trying to pick out a movement. But there was nothing. Whatever he’d seen was gone now, either vanished into a crack in the stone or lying motionless and too well camouflaged.
With a shrug, he went back to the car. The Devil’s Edge was full of illusions. He mustn’t let his imagination lead him astray. There was far too much tendency for that to happen already.
‘You’ve got your boots, then?’ said Villiers.
‘Always.’
Her phone buzzed. ‘Hold on a second.’
Cooper watched her face closely as she took the call, seeing her expression change. The animation faded, and was replaced by concern and despondency.
‘It’s Gavin. There’s been a call from the hospital,’ she said.
‘The hospital? That means bad news,’ said Cooper.
‘Yes.’
He closed his eyes in pain, as all the emotions of the past twenty-four hours rushed back into his mind. The man who’d been shot by Matt last night must have died from his injuries. It was the worst possible news. It meant that Matt might face a charge of manslaughter, at the very least. Or the case could become a murder inquiry. It raised the stakes to a whole different level.
‘Yes, it’s Jake Barron,’ said Villiers. ‘They’ve turned his life-support machine off. He never regained consciousness.’
24
It was amazing how different the landscape on the edge was from the White Peak country below it. Down there were green fields carved by limestone walls, wooded valleys with clear streams, a distinct sense of a place formed by human activity. None of that was present on the moors. Almost all signs of human occupation had been wiped out. Big Moor had reverted to a wild place.
Cooper unfolded his Ordnance Survey map of the White Peak. Previous generations of inhabitants had certainly used their imaginations. All along these edges, rock formations had been given evocative names. Many of them spoke of the dark imaginings of people who had been obliged to find their way across these moors in fog and snow, and maybe at night too. A traveller crossing Big Moor on the way from Sheffield would have to identify a specific rock from a distance if he was going to navigate his way safely through the bogs. It would have been an essential skill for the preservation of life and limb, not to mention the ability to arrive at the right spot for a steep descent into the valley.
How would you pass on instructions for a crossing like that? Only by describing the shape of a rock in terms someone else would recognise. The Eagle Stone, the Toad’s Mouth, the Three Men. A traveller would have watched for the moment when a shape became recognisable, like a sailor scanning the coast for the glimpse of a lighthouse. He would be waiting for a giant black toad to open its mouth, for a monstrous bird to spread its wings on the horizon.
No wonder, in those superstitious times, that stories of monsters and demons had thrived. A packhorse lost in a bog could have been swallowed by a serpent. A man falling to his death from the edge would have been led astray from the path by an evil spirit. It wasn’t so difficult to believe when you could see those monstrous shapes in the desolate landscape. Things that were moving, changing. Practically breathing.
‘There are still traces of the old packhorse routes somewhere on these moors,’ said Cooper. ‘Tracks and hollow ways. It’s funny to think how localised people were back in those days. They knew nothing about the geography of neighbouring valleys. And that was because of the moorlands that separated them. They were pretty inhospitable places.’
‘I know villages around here where you’re still considered a foreigner if you’re from the next valley,’ said Villiers.
Cooper smiled. ‘A foreigner? Practically an alien.’
He was tending to forget that Carol Villiers was local too. He’d become used to having to explain these things to outsiders who knew nothing about the area. But Carol understood.
‘All that travellers had to guide them at one time were the natural rock formations.’
‘The Salt Cellar. That was always my favourite.’
He nodded. ‘That’s further north, on Derwent Edge.’
It was true that some of the rocks on the eastern edges had less sinister, more domestic names. The Wheel Stones, the Cakes of Bread, the Salt Cellar. A few of the meanings were too far lost in time to be explained. Take the Glory Stones, or the Reform Stone. What glory did they refer to? What long-forgotten reforms? You could write a book about these stones, and unravel an entire layer of Derbyshire history just from their names. For all he knew, someone might have written that book already.
In the Middle Ages, the only exceptions a traveller might stumble over were the crosses set up by monastic landowners. These weren’t just an aid to travel; they marked the boundaries of property and reminded everyone of the power of the Catholic Church. Monasteries had felt it important to mark out their territory, even out here on the moors. An ancient cross base and the stump of a shaft were all that remained of the Lady Cross on Big Moor.
But guide stoops had been erected following the dissolution of the monasteries and the Civil War, to help all the extra trade generated by an improving economy. Derbyshire was slow to follow orders from central government – which was pretty much in character, he supposed. And in the end its guide stoops had been erected in a hurry, early in the eighteenth century.
Cooper knew he’d seen some o
f these stoops. He’d passed them when he was out walking, had stopped to look at them out of curiosity, and had their history explained to him. They were inscribed with the names of the nearest market towns in each direction, to help guide those travellers venturing into the wilds of Derbyshire.
He looked at the symbol on the message again, and the scrawled inscription, Sheffeild Rode. A guide stoop, then. But which one?
The path from the car park above Riddings passed the first guide stoop within a few yards. It was positioned just above the road, over the first stile – a tall, rectangular block of stone, well embedded in the ground. Carved from the local gritstone, it stood about five and a half feet high, and was a foot wide on each of its four faces.
‘This is a guide stoop?’ said Villiers, running her hand over the rough surface.
‘One of them.’
This stone was in too exposed a location, though, and had suffered badly from the weather over the last three hundred years. There must have been lettering cut into each of the faces, but the stone surfaces were totally eroded and the inscriptions illegible. All Cooper could make out was a ‘V’ sign on one face.
He pointed at the OS map.
‘We need to follow this track to the next one,’ he said.
Sheep sheltered under a hawthorn tree, the ground beneath it worn bare by their hooves. In places, the bracken came up to Cooper’s shoulders. But the masses of heather were coming into flower, turning the more distant hills into a purple haze.
They crossed a muddy stream on a bridge made of planks covered in wire mesh. A steep climb past the old walled enclosures brought them to a modern signpost at the top, pointing the way to White Edge and Birchen Edge.
Looking back, Cooper could see thirty or forty beehives sheltered in the lee of a wall in one of the enclosures. When he stood still, he became aware of the buzzing all around him. Thousands of honey bees were humming through the heather.
In the middle of the moor, there were no extraneous sounds, only the closest thing you could ever get to silence. The stillness made him more aware of the life stirring under his feet as he walked. Birds and rabbits scuttled away from his approach. The sweet scent of the heather blossom rose into the air with every step.
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