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

by Stephen Booth

And they both watched Richard Nowak sprinting frantically across the showground towards them.

  20

  Diane Fry gazed out through the windscreen at the streets of Sheffield. They were in an area of the city she didn’t know at all. Firth Park. Narrow streets, endless rows of brick terraces. Satellite dishes sprouted in clusters from gable ends, wheelie bins stood on the pavement outside every front door. On the corner, a kebab and burger shop showed the only signs of life.

  ‘What are they playing around at? It’s like waiting for paint to dry.’

  DI Hitchens was tapping the wheel impatiently. Fry could see that he hated not being in control. The operation was in the hands of South Yorkshire Police, and they were taking their time. Fair enough. They wanted to get it right.

  ‘There’s no hurry,’ she said. ‘We’ve got all day.’

  ‘Sod that. I don’t know about you, Diane, but I’d like to get some time off this weekend.’

  Fry nodded. Station gossip had it that the DI’s girlfriend was pregnant, and that she was pressuring him to make plans. That sort of thing was difficult to keep to yourself. It was true that he was less keen these days to spend more time in the office than was strictly necessary. Fry felt she ought to be able to sympathise. A work–life balance, and all that. But you probably needed to get a life first, before you could properly understand.

  ‘They know what they’re doing,’ she said. ‘They’ve done the surveillance, collected all the intel. Let them have their moment. We’ll soon have ours.’

  Down the street was a lock-up shop. This one looked as though it had been locked up for years. Steel shutters were drawn down over the windows and the front door. A delivery entrance in a side street was protected by locked gates, with a No Parking sign faded almost to illegibility. Behind the shop, a derelict building was starting to crumble, cracks splitting the brickwork, weeds growing out of the window ledges and between the slates in the roof.

  Fry looked up. Dirty net curtains hung over the windows on the first floor. A broken drainpipe had left a dark stain down the wall. You wouldn’t imagine that anybody lived there. But surveillance by South Yorkshire officers had confirmed that someone did.

  Hitchens had begun to whistle under his breath. It was a habit that Fry found particularly irritating.

  ‘It’s time, surely.’

  ‘Okay, here they come now.’

  A van came down the street at speed. A marked police vehicle appeared and blocked off the junction at the top. Officers in black jumped out of the van. The strike team didn’t bother with the steel shutters, but went straight for the gates. The padlock was snapped off, and they were into the delivery yard in seconds. Fry heard the battering ram hit the back door, and the shouts of officers as they entered the building, clattering up the stairs to the flat.

  The radio crackled, but Hitchens was already out of the car.

  ‘All right, they’re in. Suspect detained.’

  ‘Let’s hope he’s the right suspect,’ said Fry, as they ran into the yard.

  A door stood open on to a set of bare wooden stairs, the steps splintered and scattered with decades of dust. A stale smell oozed out of the flat.

  Hitchens turned for a moment at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘If one of the Savages had to live anywhere, this would be it.’

  Red in the face and breathing heavily, Richard Nowak ran a few more paces across Riddings showground towards Cooper and Villiers, slowing down suddenly as he got nearer.

  Cooper realised that Nowak hadn’t been running towards them for assistance, as he thought. He hadn’t even recognised them as police officers. He had been running away from the confrontation with Alan Slattery. That seemed out of character, from what Cooper had seen of him.

  ‘Mr Nowak? Not enjoying yourself?’

  He scowled. ‘I must be a masochist, coming here.’

  ‘These occasions can be difficult, if you don’t fit in.’

  ‘It’s not the occasion that’s difficult. It’s the people.’

  Nowak glanced over his shoulder. The sun was out now, and he was sweating. He wiped a hand across his brow, while he struggled to regain his breath. Cooper could see that Nowak’s wife had stayed where she was, and was talking to some other women. Slattery had vanished, though. Maybe he had recognised the police when Nowak didn’t.

  ‘So what’s your problem with Mr Slattery?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘It’s his problem, not mine,’ snapped Nowak. ‘He had the gall to accuse me of making his mother ill.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He says I’ve been putting her under too much pressure.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had issues with Mrs Slattery.’

  ‘Why should I tell you? It’s nothing to do with the police. It’s a matter of courtesy and reasonable behaviour.’

  ‘Even so, sir. It would help if we’re clear.’

  Nowak let out a long sigh. ‘Look, it’s the way her house and garden have been deteriorating, ever since the old doctor died. She hasn’t been carrying out maintenance at all. The fences are falling down, the trees are growing over our side of the boundary, and the weeds are waist high. We’ve been seeing rats in our garden, and I’m sure they’re coming from South Croft. She has a septic tank a few yards from the boundary, and it hasn’t been emptied for years. It’s just not acceptable. It’s bringing down the value of our property. But when I speak to her about it, she just gets upset. And now I’ve got her blasted son on my case.’

  ‘So that was what the argument with Mr Slattery was about just now?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Why should I accept the situation, even if she is a widow?’

  Villiers had been watching Nowak carefully. ‘Are you feeling calmer now, sir?’ she said.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said sullenly. ‘Fine.’

  ‘So where were you running to?’

  ‘To my car, if you must know.’

  ‘I hope you weren’t about to fetch a weapon to continue the quarrel?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I have my camera in the car. I wanted to show him the photographs I’ve taken, to prove what I was saying.’

  ‘Perhaps it would be best to leave it for now, and let everyone calm down.’

  ‘That sounds like good advice, sir,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Oh, for …’

  Nowak walked away a few steps, then turned back.

  ‘I want to be a reasonable man,’ he said. ‘I want to get on with my neighbours. But we came here to this village and they tried to push us around, because they think we’re foreigners. They say to themselves, These people don’t belong here, they won’t know their rights. But I’m not stupid. I know my rights. And I won’t be pushed around. It’s something they have to learn about me.’

  ‘A reasonable man?’ said Villiers, as Nowak headed towards the car park.

  Cooper shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But what’s reasonable?’

  ‘The million-dollar question, Ben. It depends entirely on your point of view, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Entirely. If you’re convinced that you’re in the right, then everything you do is reasonable in your own mind. It might not seem reasonable to somebody on the outside. And certainly not to the person you’re in dispute with.’

  It was the middle of the afternoon now, and the show was in full swing. There were kids clambering all over the tractors, having their photographs taken yanking a steering wheel backwards and forwards. Members of the band were queuing at the tea tent for their refreshment break. Thirsty work, blowing a tuba.

  ‘What’s the name of that man with the sports car?’ said Villiers.

  ‘Mr Edson?’

  ‘Do I see him flirting with Mrs Nowak?’

  ‘Really? Where?’

  ‘About two o’clock. Near the jam stall.’

  Cooper picked them out. Edson was leaning casually on his shooting stick, smiling and talking loudly to Sonya Nowak. She seemed transfixed by what he was saying, but it might just have been politeness.

  �
�Is that flirting?’ said Cooper doubtfully.

  ‘Watch,’ said Villiers. ‘He’ll move a bit closer.’

  Edson seemed to find something he’d said himself hilarious. He waved his shooting stick in an extravagant gesture, then planted it back in the ground again. Sure enough, he was now leaning an inch or two nearer to Mrs Nowak. His smile became broader, an eyebrow waggled. Cooper stared in horrified fascination.

  ‘I would never have thought it.’

  ‘She’s quite an attractive woman. Don’t you think so?’

  ‘I …’

  Cooper knew he shouldn’t answer a question like that from another woman. He could never give the right reply.

  ‘No?’

  ‘If that’s your taste. But him? I can’t see what might attract Mrs Nowak even to give him the time of day.’

  ‘Come on, Ben. Don’t be naive. What’s the greatest aphrodisiac in the world?’

  Cooper sighed. ‘Money.’

  ‘Absolutely. People are so shallow, aren’t they? The residents of Riddings are no different.’

  ‘No different. Only worse.’

  Russell Edson carried a shooting stick and wore a panama hat, no doubt direct from Ecuador. He wore rimless glasses, with his hair swept back, and a white scarf with tasselled ends thrown round his neck. There was a natural curl to his lip that Cooper found faintly disturbing. It wasn’t so noticeable when he was looking at someone and smiling his polite smile. But it gave him a supercilious look the moment he turned away and his face relaxed.

  In company, Edson talked all the time, seeming to have a strong opinion on every subject that came up. It was as if he needed to dominate with the sheer force of his personality. Between opinions, he smiled possessively at every woman within easy radius. Cooper supposed he was what the sociologists called an alpha male, the man with a single-minded urge to take over any group, the kind who always needed to have followers. He wondered if he himself was considered a challenge, whether he was supposed to be cowed by the display of dominance.

  The other people drifted away as Cooper and Villiers approached. That was something you got used to, a reluctance on the part of the public to interact with the police, or even to stand next to them at a village show.

  ‘It’s a bit of a chore,’ said Edson. ‘But we have to be here, you know.’

  ‘You don’t like socialising, sir?’

  ‘Socialising?’ he said. ‘Could you call it that? Everyone wants a piece of you, that’s the trouble.’

  Cooper stared at him, wondering if this man really did think of himself as the local squire, with a tiresome obligation to allow hoi polloi into his presence now and then.

  ‘Your neighbours, you mean?’ said Cooper.

  ‘Neighbours, business associates, former so-called friends. Everyone.’

  Glenys Edson had been listening to her son, eyeing him with a baleful expression.

  ‘Even your children try to suck the life out of you,’ she said. ‘It’s as if they want every last drop of your blood. They’re never satisfied, never give up. What do you say, Russell?’

  Edson looked angry. His face was flushed, his lips pressed tightly together. But he didn’t respond to the comment, kept his mouth closed, apparently reluctant to argue with his mother in front of strangers.

  Cooper and Villiers moved away, but had only gone a few paces when Cooper felt a touch on his arm. When he turned, it was Russell Edson again.

  ‘I’m sorry about my mother,’ he said. ‘She didn’t really mean anything by that last remark, you know.’

  ‘It’s between the two of you, sir. None of my business.’

  To his surprise, Edson gave him a warm, grateful smile. It was if Cooper had just done him a huge favour.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant. If there’s anything else I can do …’

  ‘I’ll let you know.’

  Cooper saw one of the show organisers passing, a woman in a poncho with a rain hat and brown boots, and decided to introduce himself. Best to let them know that he and Villiers were here.

  ‘The show looks busy,’ he said. ‘Good turnout?’

  ‘Not bad,’ she said. ‘But it’s difficult to keep things going. We’re lucky that so many people give their services for nothing. We wouldn’t manage without that. The children’s entertainer, for example.’

  ‘Doctor Woof?’

  She nodded. ‘He’s not charging us a penny. He seems to do it for love. We hadn’t even thought of getting an entertainer until he volunteered his services. It’s wonderful that people want so much to be here at the show.’

  A man in a cotton trilby had stopped nearby, seeming to overhear their conversation.

  ‘Did you say you were police?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Cooper.

  ‘I don’t mean any disrespect, but …’

  Cooper sighed. ‘I know, I know.’

  Whenever the sun came out, he felt warm in his waterproof. People folded their umbrellas and carried them like swords. Entering the produce tent was fraught with danger as he dodged the lethal ferrules.

  A line-up of classic cars was attracting attention. Cooper was surprised to see not only vintage Rollers and Humbers, but a yellow 1975 Hillman Imp. He dimly remembered a neighbouring farmer driving one of those when he was a child. He and Matt used to make fun of him whenever they saw it going past. They called it the sardine can. The Imp had looked totally cheesy then, back in the 1970s. Now it was a classic.

  At the end of the row stood a Mark III Zodiac, with a sign appealing for spare parts. These cars must be a headache to keep running. And an immense drain on money, he was sure. He saw Russell Edson’s name on a red 1967 MG convertible with big headlamps and indicator lights on the wheel arches. There was a man with money to burn, anyway.

  ‘Mr Edson seems to be fascinated by the children’s entertainer,’ said Villiers.

  ‘So he is.’ Cooper frowned at the figure in the panama hat and white scarf. ‘That’s a bit strange. I hope it’s not the children he’s interested in.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem to be,’ said Villiers. ‘I’ve been watching him for a few minutes, and he hasn’t even glanced at any of the kids.’

  ‘Perhaps he missed out on magicians and clowns in his childhood.’

  ‘And oh, look,’ said Villiers. ‘The missing element has made its appearance.’

  She indicated a man in a black sweatshirt and a bright red baseball cap. He wore wraparound shades and a dark goatee beard shaved into an unnaturally geometrical shape. He was accompanied by a young blonde woman.

  Cooper frowned. ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Ben, you’re getting so out of touch.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Luke Irvine would tell you straight away who that is.’

  ‘Oh, wait a minute. Is it …?’

  ‘Mr Terence Kaye, also known as Tyler Kaye or Tyler K.’

  ‘Our missing celebrity. I wonder why he doesn’t want to be known as Terence.’

  ‘Yes, I wonder.’

  ‘He’s been abroad, hasn’t he? Owns other homes somewhere.’

  ‘One in Florida at least, they say. He isn’t seen in Derbyshire much during the winter.’

  Cooper smiled. ‘No, I can imagine.’

  He could, too. A Pennine winter wouldn’t appeal to the likes of Mr Kaye. Not when the wind howled over the edge and rain and snow blew down the hillside on to the houses of Riddings. Your outdoor swimming pool and barbecue patio weren’t much use then. Your tennis court would fall into disuse, and the paddocks would turn into mud. Even in August, those shades Kaye was wearing looked out of place. If he was seen with them on in January or February, he’d be followed around by small children chanting and throwing stones.

  On a word from Kaye, the blonde woman detached herself from him and headed towards Cooper. She was deeply tanned, no doubt from a Florida trip rather than any amount of time spent in Derbyshire. A dyed blonde, he guessed. Cosmetic surgery maybe. He couldn’t really tell. He wouldn’t even be willing to swe
ar to her age.

  He was interested to observe Carol Villiers bridle as the woman walked up to them.

  ‘You’re the police, aren’t you? Detectives, yeah?’

  ‘Yes, Miss …?’

  ‘My name’s Lisa. Tyler asked me to speak to you. He thinks you might want to talk to him. Someone has been up at Moorside House while he was away, looking for him.’

  ‘It’s just routine,’ said Cooper. ‘We’re speaking to everyone in the area.’

  ‘Well, he’s only just flown in from the States. He gets really badly jet-lagged, you know. But he’ll be happy to talk to you tomorrow. He has a bit of time before his new concert tour.’

  ‘Are you Mr Kaye’s girlfriend?’ asked Villiers.

  Cooper was surprised how much subtle meaning Villiers could get into the word ‘girlfriend’. Lisa couldn’t fail to detect it, too. She glanced at Villiers with undisguised hostility.

  ‘Yes. So?’

  ‘Nothing. Just asking. I hope you’re happy together.’

  The girl seemed to sag. For a second, Cooper thought she was going to cry. Instead her face seized up, fixed in a kind of comical expression of dejection. Cosmetic surgery, almost certainly. Botox froze the facial muscles.

  ‘We’ve been together for months,’ she said. ‘But he’s losing interest in me, I can tell.’

  ‘Shame,’ said Villiers. ‘The loss of a meal ticket is always a blow.’

  ‘What can I do to stop him leaving me?’

  Villiers squared her shoulders. ‘Tantrums, crying fits, emotional blackmail? The usual, I suppose.’

  The girl drew back her teeth and snarled. ‘I should have known better than to talk to the pigs.’

  Cooper waited until she’d gone.

  ‘That was a bit cynical,’ he said.

  Villiers shrugged. ‘I told you, Ben. I’ve changed.’

  A few minutes later, they stood on a clover-covered slope watching the gymkhana events, girls on ponies racing each other to collect upturned flower pots from posts.

  A few of the older visitors looked as though they might have been members of the original cow club. Cooper noticed an old man in a tweed jacket and a brown waistcoat with a silver fob chain, untidy white hair stirring in the breeze. Despite his age, he had the keen gaze of a livestock man. Another old farmer in a suit and tie, with brightly polished leather shoes, was dozing off on a wooden chair near the pony classes.