Ben Cooper and Diane Fry 11 - The Devil’s Edge

by Stephen Booth

  Dairy farmers like Matt Cooper were leaving the industry every week. It had become inevitable, ever since supermarkets reduced the price per litre of milk to the same as the cost of producing it. It had become impossible to make a living from milk production. Instead of the UK being self-sufficient, a large percentage of milk supplies were imported from Denmark or the Netherlands. Presumably those were countries where the market still allowed dairy farmers to earn a livelihood.

  Bridge End Farm stood five miles out of Edendale, in a stretch of the Eden Valley where the land was good. The farm was reached down a rough, winding track that was dry and dusty in the summer, full of potholes that had been hastily repaired with compacted earth and the odd half-brick. When winter came, the first heavy rains would turn the track into a river, washing mud into the farmyard as water came rushing down the hillsides in torrents.

  But now, in August, the tyres of Cooper’s Toyota threw up clouds of dust as he bounced the last few yards and rattled over a cattle grid into the yard.

  The yard was still wet, where Matt had hosed away the freshly dropped cow manure left by the herd on their way back to pasture after afternoon milking. Ben had noticed that he wasn’t quite so particular as he used to be about cleaning up. Sometimes he even left the job until morning if he was called away to do something else.

  But tonight there were visitors. Kate would never have let her husband get away with leaving the yard dirty. She knew that Ben was bringing Liz. There were a lot of things that Kate knew, without anyone having to tell her. Ben always went to his sister-in-law if he wanted to know anything. And he was fairly sure that his nieces, Amy and Josie, were growing up just like their mum. Wise beyond their years, those girls. They missed nothing.

  He parked close to the farmhouse, opposite the Dutch barn and the tractor shed where Matt’s latest John Deere stood. An old grey Fergie used to live in the shed, too – Matt’s pride and joy, the object he had lavished more time and attention on than he did Kate. But the Ferguson had gone the way of so many things. It was too much of a luxury. The cost of its restoration just couldn’t be justified in the farm accounts.

  Matt could often be found tinkering with a bit of machinery at this time of the evening, but there was no sign of him outside. Ben felt sure he would have been cajoled into getting cleaned up for the evening and changing his clothes, and would now be waiting uncomfortably in the sitting room, itching to get his boots and cap back on, but too obedient to Kate’s wishes to rebel.

  Of course, he wouldn’t have done it if it was just his brother arriving at the farm for dinner. But Liz was treated almost like visiting royalty. It always made Ben smile, yet feel the tug of grief and sadness at the same time. This was just the way his mother would have welcomed her, if she’d still been alive. But she hadn’t lived to see this moment.

  As always, the big farmhouse kitchen smelled of cooking. Tonight he scented herbs and garlic, and the aroma of meat roasting in the oven of the range.

  Matt was starting to look tired and middle-aged. Ben worried about the amount of stress his brother was coping with.

  ‘Well, I could have done without the extra work today,’ said Matt. ‘I mean, it’s harvest time. I’m out in the fields all hours as it is.’

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘Some bloody ramblers climbed the wall in the bottom field and knocked the coping stones down. They couldn’t be bothered walking down to the stile, I suppose. It’s all of a hundred yards away, after all. Ridiculous. They think open access means they can do whatever damage they like, and poor sods like me will go round after them picking up the pieces. If I’d caught them at it …’

  He trailed off. It was a habit he had got into recently, and came with a sly sideways glance at his younger brother, a look that suggested he was afraid of saying too much. Ben was beginning to hate that look. It seemed to suggest more loudly than any words that his brother didn’t really trust him.

  ‘Didn’t you say that section of wall needed repairing anyway?’ he asked.

  ‘That has nothing to do with it.’

  Ben raised a placatory hand. ‘Okay, okay.’

  At one time, he would have spent a rest day helping to repair the walls at Bridge End. It was one of the jobs he could help Matt with around the place. But since he’d moved out of the farm and into his flat in Edendale, that habit had lapsed, just slipped out of his life without him really noticing.

  Perhaps Matt had noticed, though. He hadn’t said anything about it, of course. They’d never said much to each other, had never really needed that form of communication, not since they were boys growing up at Bridge End together. They had come to understand each other without the necessity of words. A look was enough, a touch, or a shrug of the shoulder. So what had Matt understood from the fact that his brother no longer showed any interest in the farm?

  Matt’s thoughts had been diverted, though. He started off on a long rant about the cost of everything these days. Fuel, feed, fertiliser …

  But Kate wasn’t so easily distracted.

  ‘Ben, it’s good to see you both. But I’ve a feeling there’s some particular reason you’ve called.’

  He and Liz glanced at each other. She gave him a small nod, and squeezed his hand encouragingly.

  ‘We’re getting engaged. We’re going to be married.’

  ‘Well, I thought you were never going to announce it. You’ve taken your time,’ said Kate. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She jumped up, kissed Ben and then Liz.

  ‘Matt …?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Congratulations.’

  ‘Of course, I’d like you to be best man, Matt.’

  Matt’s mouth was hanging open, like a bull calf shot through the head with a captive bolt pistol. That stunned second before the legs gave way. But surely the possibility must have crossed his mind at some time?

  ‘He’ll be delighted,’ said Kate, trying to cover the silence. ‘I told him ages ago that you’d ask him. But I don’t think he believed me.’

  ‘When will it be?’ asked Matt. ‘Not in September?’

  ‘Matt, it couldn’t possibly be so soon.’

  ‘Or November?’

  ‘No, of course not. Look, I know what you’re saying …’

  ‘It’ll be next summer, probably,’ said Liz.

  Ben turned to her. ‘Will it?’

  ‘Well, no one wants a winter wedding. It’s too cold to do the photographs outside. And it always rains.’

  ‘It rains in July and August too,’ said Matt. ‘Chucks it down, just when we’re getting ready for harvest. You can’t rely on the summer.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘And is it …?’ began Matt.

  ‘Yes? What?’

  ‘Not a church wedding,’ said Liz. ‘We’ve decided it will be in a nice hotel somewhere. There are so many places that do civil weddings now, and it means we can have the reception at the same venue, so there’s no running around.’

  Ben nodded. He couldn’t remember deciding that, but it sounded like a good idea.

  ‘I meant, what we will all be wearing?’

  Now Ben laughed. That was typical of his brother. He was mostly worried about having to get out of his cap and overalls and put on a suit and tie.

  ‘Top hat and tails, of course,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to do it properly.’

  ‘Oh, shit.’

  And then Ben noticed that Liz and Kate weren’t laughing, but nodding vigorously.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Liz. ‘The full works.’

  After dinner, Ben excused himself and left the dining room to go to the bathroom. On his way back, he stopped, reluctant to rejoin the noise.

  The passage that ran through the centre of the house had once been a gloomy place. In his childhood, the woodwork had been covered in dark brown varnish, the floorboards painted black on either side of narrow strips of carpet that ran down the passage and up the stairs. That carpet had long since lost any trace of pa
ttern under the dirt trampled into the house by humans and animals alike. But now, this part of the house was almost unrecognisable. Kate’s influence had brought light and colour into the farmhouse, with fitted carpets and woodwork stripped to its original golden pine. Mirrors caught and emphasised the light, creating illusions of movement and life in the passage.

  Almost unrecognisable – but not quite. Ben paused at the bottom of the stairs, seizing the chance of a quiet moment on his own away from the family. Even though the house was so changed, there were certain spots where the memories were too strong to be erased by paint and fabric. Here, at the bottom of the stairs, was one of those places. When he stood here and looked up towards the bedroom doors, he knew he would see his mother. He would hear the swish of her dress and the scuff of her slippers as she moved across the landing. She was always there, even now. There in his imagination, at least.

  One day, he hoped he might stand here at the foot of the stairs and see his mother coming towards him, instead of always moving away.

  He wanted to talk to her, but was too conscious of the crowd in the sitting room to speak out loud. Instead he found himself just giving a little nod towards the landing. She would understand.

  In Riddings, the Chadwicks were watching their daughter Bryony getting ready to go out. They knew there was no point asking her what time she’d be back. She would never tell them, always said she didn’t know, because it depended how good a time she was having that night. She had her own key and she knew how to operate the burglar alarm, so they could go to bed if she came in late. But both of the Chadwicks were aware, without mentioning it to each other, that there would be no sleep for them tonight. They would lie awake worrying about Bryony, and who she might be spending time with. They had a feeling she’d fallen into bad company, and was developing a relationship with quite the wrong sort of person. They had always dreaded the phone call in the middle of the night.

  Russell Edson and his mother sat down to dinner in silence, just the two of them in the huge dining room, surrounded by antiques Russell had collected, random items he’d picked up whenever they took his fancy. A pair of Royal Worcester porcelain vases, a William IV brass barometer, an Aubusson tapestry. They didn’t give him the same satisfaction as the old cars, particularly the MG. People didn’t see his antiques. That was because they didn’t get many visitors any more at Riddings Lodge. He and his mother had held parties at one time, when they first moved to the village. They put on champagne receptions out on the lawn in the summer, elegant suppers here in the dining room in the winter. But he’d gradually lost touch with his old friends in Sheffield, and the neighbours no longer replied to his invitations. Snobs, all of them.

  Martin and Sarah Holland were walking up through the village towards the edge. They, too, were silent, holding hands until the slope became too difficult or they had to use their torches to light the way. At the top, they stopped to get their breath, and looked down at the village. They searched automatically for the lights of their own house on Curbar Lane. Strange that they should feel so much safer out here, on the edge in the dark, than down there in their own home. There was an advantage to being in the dark. No one knew that better than the Hollands. Fourways was right next door to Valley View, and violence had come too close to their lives.

  Across the lane, Vanessa Slattery had made up a bed in one of the spare rooms for her son. He’d insisted on staying overnight, saying that he was concerned about her being in the house at South Croft on her own. And it was true, it did help a bit. But what about tomorrow, and the day after? Alan had his job to go to, and she couldn’t expect too much of his time. She watched him patrolling the garden, putting on all the outside lights and checking every door and window before he locked the house up for the night. She was slightly troubled by the fact that he seemed to be enjoying this so much. She’d always known he had an aggressive streak, and it didn’t take much to bring it out. And he was likely to be far too free in what he said, even to the police, if they asked him questions about the Barrons.

  Richard Nowak had drunk too much, and he intended to drink more yet before the night was over. Not vodka – he hated the stuff – but good single malt Scotch whisky. He had his own miniature bar at Lane End, and he made sure it was always well stocked. Alcohol was the only thing that helped him deal with the stress. And these people certainly made him feel stressed. God knew, he needed to unwind. His father Adam had already gone to bed, and Sonya was on the phone to one of her friends. She’d been on the phone all evening, and most of the day. Talking about him, no doubt. Complaining how awful her life was, hoping that one of her friends would give her the right advice. Of course, there was another day to face tomorrow. And who knew what might happen then?

  Behind number 4 Chapel Close, Barry Gamble was in his shed. He felt he ought to be out and about in the village, but he knew Monica was keeping an eye out from the sitting room. She’d drawn the curtains back so that she could see the door of the shed, and she was sitting with her armchair turned towards the window. She didn’t trust him, that much was obvious. But all he ever intended was to make sure everyone was safe and behaving in a civilised manner. He thought of himself as the guardian of Riddings. The police were useless, after all. If anything was going on that shouldn’t be, he was the one who would know. But he was wasting his time trapped in his shed. All he could do was check through his collection, pausing for a moment at one particular item.

  Another person was up and about in Riddings. If Barry Gamble hadn’t been stuck in his shed, he might well have seen the figure creeping cautiously along the edge of Curbar Lane, ducking behind a tree when the lights of a car went by. He might have seen the person, but he wouldn’t have experienced any feeling of recognition. As far as most of Riddings was concerned, this was a total stranger.

  Diane Fry had stopped at the services on the M1 at Tibshelf. A TV was on in the restaurant, a news bulletin with some story about a murder. She heard a mention of Derbyshire, and found herself glued to the screen.

  As she watched the item, her coffee grew cold on the table. Behind the reporter on the screen she could see blue crime-scene tape. And beyond that, crime-scene examiners whom she recognised, officers she’d worked with often.

  Oh my God. What a time to be sitting on the sidelines.

  8

  Thursday

  The CID room at Edendale was full this morning. As full as it ever was, anyway. Ben Cooper looked around the room, and smiled. The team had a more settled look than it had done for a long time. It was strange to be thinking that, with everything else that was going on at the moment – the cost-cutting and uncertainties, the feeling of walking on a tightrope day by day, not knowing whether your job would still exist next month, or even the division you worked in. But it was true. Somehow, a shadow had been lifted.

  Cooper was particularly pleased with the two youngsters, Luke Irvine and Becky Hurst, who were settled in and doing well. A steady lad, Irvine. He reminded Cooper a bit of himself when he was a few years younger. Fair enough, Irvine wasn’t Derbyshire through and through. He came from a Yorkshire mining family, with Scottish blood a generation or two back. But he would do, as they said round here.

  Dependable as Irvine might be, it was Becky Hurst who was proving to be the best of the new recruits to Edendale CID. She was like a little terrier, keeping at a task until she produced a result, no matter what the assignment. She seemed to have no ego problems, no reluctance about doing the less glamorous jobs. That was a drawback with some of the more ambitious young officers, the ones who thought they were too good for the routine stuff, but not Hurst. Cooper had to check himself sometimes, to make sure he was resisting the temptation to let Becky do all the legwork. She deserved better than that.

  This was what his mother had dreamed of for him, the promotion to sergeant. For her, it had been the culmination of an ambition. Her son had achieved the same rank as his father. Young Ben had finally come up to the standard set by Sergeant Joe Cooper, t
he great local hero. He remembered the moment he’d lied to her as she lay in her hospital bed. He’d told her he’d been promoted, when in fact he had just learnt that he’d lost out to the newcomer, Diane Fry. One of the most difficult moments of his life, the decision to tell his mother what she so much wanted to hear, instead of the truth.

  And now the promotion had finally come, it was too late. Isabel Cooper had died before her hopes could be realised. He couldn’t go home and tell her the news. The lie he had told would have to stay a lie. Too late. They were the saddest two words in the English language.

  More bodies trickled in as the time for the morning briefing approached. There wasn’t a room anywhere in the building that had enough chairs, so officers would be perched on desks, leaning against walls. It looked a bit chaotic, but somehow it added an air of activity and urgency. It was as if they were all too busy to sit down, but had just paused for a moment, eager to get on with their important tasks.

  The E Division headquarters were said to have won an architectural design award once. But that was back in the 1950s, practically beyond living memory. The building in West Street was ageing badly now, with a constant need for maintenance, an inefficient heating system, and water coming through the flat roofs in the winter. No amount of redecoration could take away the institutional feel of the corridors on the upper floors. A lot of money would have to be spent on providing a new headquarters building – money that just wasn’t available now, of course.

  Last year, the loss of A Division in a cost-cutting restructure had really thrown a spanner in the works and focused the minds of the management team. The territory that had once formed a separate Basic Command Unit in the south-east of the county had now been divided up between C and D Divisions. Who knew how long E Division would last, when it had started to look so alphabetically surplus to requirements?

  Detective Superintendent Hazel Branagh was Senior Investigating Officer on the Riddings murder. A major inquiry was anticipated. That was because there were no obvious suspects, and no apparent leads that might produce one in a short time frame. A HOLMES incident room was being activated next door right now, the technicians and HOLMES operators arriving to set up the system. From now on, the pattern of the operation would be governed step by step as laid down in the protocols for the Home Office’s Large Major Enquiry System. A collator would arrive from headquarters, and a specialist DS to task teams of detectives.