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

by Stephen Booth

  ‘I understand,’ said Cooper.

  ‘That’s why so many leave the services and find it impossible to adjust to civilian life. They suddenly find there’s no one to watch their back, no mates to depend on. No buddy at their side.’

  Cooper could think of nothing to say. He could tell from the catch in her voice that she was no longer talking just about her colleagues in her unit, but about a much more personal loss. It was a loss that she might never recover from, no matter how often people told her that time was a healer.

  ‘You might not think so yet, Carol,’ he said, ‘but we can be like that too. A close-knit team. People you can depend on to watch your back.’

  She smiled. ‘Thanks, Ben.’

  In the distance, Cooper saw the antlers and head of a stag outlined against the moor. The animal itself stood motionless, listening. Its ears were erect, its nostrils quivering. What was it listening for? What scent had it detected? Could an animal sense the presence of evil on the moor?

  ‘How long were you actually in the services?’ asked Cooper as they reached the edge. ‘It can’t be more than – what? Nine years?

  ‘Yes. The standard contract.’

  ‘It seems such a lot to have crammed into nine years.’

  ‘Well, that’s the armed services for you. You never know what you’re going to be doing next, or where you’re going to be posted. It’s not like being a copper in sleepy old Derbyshire.’

  She smiled, and Cooper knew he didn’t have to tell her that it wasn’t like that. But he said it anyway.

  ‘It can get quite exciting,’ he said. ‘Some of the time, anyway.’

  ‘From what we hear in the media, all you do is fill in paperwork for an entire shift.’

  ‘So Snowdrops spend their off-duty time reading the Daily Mail, do they?’

  ‘Oh, and I forgot – maybe the odd spell of planting false evidence, too.’

  ‘Well, that’s true.’

  They began to trudge back towards the edge. As he walked through the expanse of reeds and cotton grass, Cooper noticed the way the distant rocky outcrops seemed to change shape. They slid slowly sideways, merged and divided, their outlines shifting from smooth to jagged to a distinctive silhouette.

  It was all the effect of altering angle and perspective. With each step, a transformation took place in the landscape, a gradual reveal like the slow drawing aside of a curtain. At a point halfway across the flats, a split rock he hadn’t noticed before came into view. As it emerged from behind a larger boulder, its two halves slowly parted and turned, like the hands of a clock creeping past noon.

  Of course, his logical mind told him that he was the only moving object in this landscape. It was his steady strides across the flats that were causing the change in perspective. But his senses were sending him a different message. With no nearby landmarks, and in this peculiar light, the effect was deceptive. Despite what he kept telling himself, it really seemed to be the rock that was moving.

  Some people studied these rocks in minute detail, mapping the strata and analysing their structure. Cooper supposed it was important to understand the geology, to explain in cool scientific terms how these eastern edges had come into existence. That was one way of dealing with their presence. But he couldn’t help feeling that a logical approach took away the mystery. Didn’t analysis always destroy romance, and drain the life out of poetry? Why not just stand and gaze, and let the imagination wander? He preferred the edges this way – wild, and full of magic.

  ‘Afghanistan,’ he said. ‘You mentioned it once, but …?’

  Villiers stared out over the valley. ‘Yes, we were both in Afghanistan. We were there for two months, instructing new Afghan police recruits in Kabul. That was fairly uneventful, actually. There are lots of other duties that people never get to hear about back home. Back in 2002, Glen was injured in Cyprus, during demonstrations against a new radio mast at RAF Akrotiri. He got a commendation from the Provost Marshal for that.’

  Cooper waited, knowing there was more, but not sure of the right question to ask, or even if he should be asking.

  Finally Villiers spoke again, more quietly. Cooper had to strain to catch her voice, before her words were swept away in the wind blowing across the Devil’s Edge.

  ‘But then he went back to Afghanistan,’ she said. ‘Two years ago, he was shot and wounded in Helmand Province, when Taliban insurgents opened fire on his patrol one night. He died from his injuries before they could fly him back home.’

  They stood silently together for a few minutes as the light faded and dusk settled on the valley. Riddings was directly below them, and Curbar could be glimpsed in the south.

  Northwards, the village of Froggatt lay below its own gritstone edge. The main part of the village was on the other side of the A625, with a tiny, ancient stone bridge that crossed the river to reach the Grindleford road. That bridge must have stood on another packhorse route, Cooper felt sure. Probably the route that snaked up the slope behind the Chequers Inn and zigzagged to the top of the rock-strewn edge. It was a steep track, worn into ruts over the centuries by the hoofs of the laden horses. It boggled the mind to imagine how they had managed it. Cooper had always thought it was difficult enough going down without losing your footing, let alone carrying a couple of millstones. Those packhorse men must have been tough characters.

  Where were the packhorse trains heading when they went over the edge and crossed the moor? Towards Chesterfield. And, of course, to Sheffield. They carried grindstones for the city’s steel and cutlery manufacturers.

  Tonight, mist hung in the valley bottom, masking the lights of the villages. As with any of these edges, the best light was in the evening, as the sun started to descend in the west and bathe the stones with warm light. Cooper liked to wait to see the afterglow, then walk back to experience the moors in the dark. There was nothing like starlight and moonlight, and there was plenty of it up here on the edge. As long as you tried to ignore the orange glow from Sheffield in the east.

  On the slopes below the edge, the houses of Riddings and its neighbouring villages were taking on their own distinct shapes in the dusk. Tonight they looked like frightened creatures crouching in the hollows of the hillside, an occasional light winking on and off as if a cautious eye was opened to check for danger.

  Cooper pictured the inhabitants huddled inside their homes. For some reason, the image in his mind resembled an illustration he’d seen once in a children’s history book – a primitive tribe of Homo sapiens crouching in their caves around smoking fires, their shadows thrown on to rock walls decorated with drawings of wild animals.

  It must be so difficult, sitting in your home, or lying in your bed at night, knowing you were a potential victim. How did you run your life with the knowledge of lethal danger lurking outside the door? You huddled together in that primeval instinct for safety. It was the same fear that cavemen must have felt, listening to wild beasts crashing through the forest at night, picturing in their minds those unseen terrors in the darkness beyond the cave. A completely primitive dread.

  There was one thing Cooper did know – the Savages didn’t belong in a village like Riddings. They belonged up here, on the moor. They were, after all, wild beasts who walked on two legs.

  ‘Carol,’ he said, ‘have they shown you how to access the PNC and use the intelligence system?’

  She looked at him in surprise, her mind no doubt following a completely different train of thought.

  ‘Yes, I’m fully trained,’ she said. ‘I did all that in Ripley before I came up to E Division.’

  ‘I’ve got some jobs I’d like you to do in the morning, then.’

  ‘In the office?’

  She sounded disappointed. Cooper sympathised, but it couldn’t be helped.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s where most of our work is done,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I know.’

  They were looking down on Riddings from the outcrop, poised in space, conscious of the empty air around them.
It was the God position, everything below them laid out and visible. Cooper saw the headlights of a vehicle travelling along Curbar Lane, the beams sweeping across the trees and catching a reflection from the convex mirrors outside Valley View. He watched for the vehicle to reach the corner at The Green and turn up or down the hill. But the lights vanished before they reached that point. The driver must have stopped or pulled into one of the houses close to the junction. He wondered if that had happened on Tuesday night, too.

  Tuesday. From their account of that night, William and Retty Chadwick had stood around here, watching for shooting stars as the Perseid meteor shower passed overhead. On the surface, it didn’t sound like much of an alibi. But how many other star-gazers were out on the edge that night? If it was a good night for viewing meteors, there were probably many people who’d driven out from Sheffield or Chesterfield to get away from the city lights and take advantage of the darker skies over the Peak District. Had that night been overcast, though? Or was it clear and cloudless, perfect for watching shooting stars?

  So the Chadwicks had been standing here in the dark, looking upwards at the sky. But surely they must have looked down, too? They couldn’t have resisted this God-like sensation of being able to see everything from above, gazing down on their village and watching their neighbours coming and going.

  Down there, the residents of Riddings would not have been able to see anything from behind their walls and hedges. The Chadwicks were the only people who might actually have witnessed what happened. Whether they realised it or not, their position had been unique.

  Cooper wondered who else knew that the Chadwicks had been on the edge that night, watching the Perseids. That knowledge might be critical. Because if his theory was correct, it put the Chadwicks at risk of being the next victims.

  Villiers shivered. ‘Is it me, or is it getting a bit cool now?’

  ‘Yes, the rocks lose their heat very quickly when it goes dark. And there’s always a cold wind up here. It’s a totally different place in the winter.’

  ‘I can imagine. Not the most hospitable landscape in the cold and rain, I guess.’

  For a moment, Cooper took one last look at the rooftops of Riddings, spread out below him. He was reminded of the case of a serial killer who had chosen his victims on the basis of where they lived. When he was caught, he’d told his interviewers that the shape of a house roof told him something about the people living there. Told him whether it was their turn to die, he supposed.

  Cooper was just thinking it was time to go home, when the ear-splitting screech of a burglar alarm shattered the silence.

  13

  Today there had been a cool atmosphere in the conference room at Nottinghamshire Police headquarters. Fry had noticed that the facilitator’s expression was stony as they arrived. They were even made to turn off their mobile phones before the session started. Somebody had been naughty in class. But who?

  During the coffee break, word went round. It turned out that the youth from the IT department had been using Twitter on his iPhone during yesterday’s session, sending out disparaging tweets about the working group at regular intervals. Everyone knew the hierarchy didn’t like communication with the public. Look at all those police officers with anonymous blogs who’d been tracked down and eliminated. Deblogged, anyway. Too much honesty was contrary to official policy. Even civilians couldn’t get away with it.

  Fry looked at the IT guy with new respect. She was starting to feel warmer towards her colleagues.

  It might have been that feeling that made her accept the invitation from Mick or Rick, the Leicestershire inspector who sat next to her in the session. Lunch with him yesterday had been pleasant enough, a relief from the tedium of the conference room. Besides, anything seemed preferable now to the drive back over to Edendale and her empty flat.

  ‘We can’t risk lunch again today,’ he’d said. ‘But how about when we finish the session tonight? When they give us our freedom back.’

  She’d nodded without much thought of the consequences.

  ‘Okay.’

  Fry knew she mustn’t drink and drive, so only one glass of wine would be acceptable. God forbid that she should get breathalysed by her colleagues on her way back to Derbyshire.

  When they got to the pub, it was her turn to buy the drinks.

  ‘There you go, Mick,’ she said.

  ‘Rick,’ he said. ‘My name’s Rick.’

  ‘Oh, right. Rick …?’

  ‘Shepherd. I’m stationed in Leicester.’

  ‘Of course. I remember.’

  He smiled, apparently unaffected by her lapse. Fry wondered if she could say anything she liked to him and he would just keep on smiling. He looked to be that sort of man.

  ‘So, tell me about yourself,’ he said.

  ‘What’s to tell? Right now, I’m based in Derbyshire E Division. Edendale.’

  ‘In the middle of the Peak District.’

  ‘You know it?’ said Fry in surprise. In her head, Edendale was such a backwater that she didn’t expect anyone outside Derbyshire to have heard of it.

  ‘Everyone must have visited the Peak District at some time. Don’t they say that half the population of England lives within an hour’s drive?’

  ‘If they do, I don’t know why they’re all driving in that direction. There must be more interesting places to go.’

  ‘You think so? Don’t you like it?’

  ‘It’s a desert,’ said Fry. ‘No culture, no shops, no proper transport facilities. It takes forever to get to a motorway. And the nearest airport is way down past Nottingham. So you can’t even escape the place easily.’

  ‘I often go walking in the Peaks,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a little hiking group together in my section. We head out towards Kinder Scout or somewhere at the weekends.’

  ‘Walking,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just walking?’

  ‘What else? It’s great to get out of the office, away from work for a while. To feel the wind in your hair. Physical exercise, a few hours in the open air. It helps me to relax.’

  He was starting to sound like Ben Cooper. Besides, he didn’t actually have much hair for the wind to blow through.

  ‘There must be other ways to relax,’ she said.

  He smirked at her, fondling his beer bottle. ‘I’m sure I could think of a few.’

  A burst of laughter from a nearby table gave Fry an excuse to look away. A group of office workers were having a drink on the way home. They might even be civilian staff from across the road at Sherwood Lodge. She didn’t recognise any of them. But then, a civilian was a civilian.

  She looked back at Rick Shepherd. It was Rick, wasn’t it? Not Mick, or Dick. He was smiling at her again, one eyebrow raised. Some unspoken message was being conveyed. Fry knew what the message was. She ought to respond, knew deep down what she should do. She ought to act now, before it went any further.

  And yet a great weariness had come over her. None of this really mattered, did it? Perhaps there might be a moment when she felt something, a brief response that was more than the deadly worthlessness she’d been feeling for the past few weeks. Rick Shepherd wasn’t the greatest thing she’d ever met. But he was there, he was available, and she had his attention.

  He took another drink, laid a hand on the table, toying with a coaster. He frowned, seemed to search for a line of conversation. Perhaps he was as unaccustomed to this as she was. He didn’t wear a wedding ring, but that meant nothing. People slipped them on and off like raincoats these days. And many couples chose to live together for years without bothering to marry. He could have a partner back in Leicester. Would he tell her, if she asked? Did she want to know?

  ‘We’ll be merging soon anyway, I guess,’ he said.

  ‘Will we?’

  ‘Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire, Leicestershire, maybe a couple of others. It’s inevitable, sooner or later.’ He shook his head. ‘I know it would save millions of pounds on headquarters costs a
nd all that. But I’m starting to think it would create too big an organisation.’

  ‘Really?’

  Fry thought of West Midlands Police, the force she’d moved from when she came to Derbyshire. With almost thirteen thousand officers and staff, it was bigger than Notts, Derbyshire and Leicestershire combined.

  ‘Maybe some people don’t know what big is.’

  ‘You know, the East Midlands region is growing faster than elsewhere in the country,’ he said.

  Okay. Now she had her ID. He’d been wearing a different tie today. In fact, he’d taken it off altogether when they came to the pub. But the words were identical, and the tone of voice was the same. The exact tenor of complacency and laziness, a lack of concern about accuracy and rigour. Just the sort of qualities she hated.

  Fry finished her drink and stood up. Her companion hastily drained his beer, picked up his jacket and his phone, suddenly eager to leave. They walked back towards the pub car park together, and stopped when they reached her Peugeot. Rick leaned casually on the roof.

  ‘I’m sure we could work closely together, you and me,’ he said. ‘Don’t you think? A bit of mutual assistance, Diane? I know a nice quiet spot in Sherwood Forest where we could explore our personal merger options. I can promise you I always come up to my performance targets.’

  He was standing a bit too close now. Well inside her personal space. Fry felt herself tense. It was that instinctive reaction she couldn’t control, an automatic response of her muscles triggered by a suppressed memory. She always knew it would happen. But she couldn’t explain the reason for it, not to someone like Rick Shepherd.

  He was close enough now for her to smell the beer on his breath, the deodorant clinging to his shirt. She was frozen, her limbs so stiff that they hurt. A long moment passed, when neither of them spoke or breathed. Just when it seemed that nothing would happen, he made his move. And Fry felt his hand touching the base of her spine.