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

by Stephen Booth

  ‘He was attacked from behind,’ said Cooper. ‘From the way he fell, it looks as though he was running, and pitched forward on his face when he was struck.’

  ‘So he was running away from someone.’

  ‘Seems like it. Someone a bit quicker on his feet than he was, too.’

  ‘Do you think someone caught him snooping again, and overreacted?’ asked Murfin.

  Cooper nodded. Gamble had seen something, without doubt. What it was, he hadn’t been telling. At least, he hadn’t told the right people. Talking to the wrong person might have been what got him killed.

  ‘You know what?’ said Murfin. ‘Some people would give anything for their last testament not to be “found wearing a brown anorak and brown trousers”.’

  Cooper remembered that Gamble was a keen amateur photographer, and that Riddings was his chief subject. Somewhere there ought to be photographs. Lots of photographs.

  At Chapel Close, Monica Gamble had already been informed of the death of her husband, and a female officer was sitting with her. Monica didn’t look quite as shocked as many people would in these circumstances. Perhaps living with Barry for all those years had led her to expect an outcome like this.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Gamble,’ said Cooper, ‘but we have to take a look in your husband’s shed again.’

  ‘I don’t know what you expect to find in there. It’s just rubbish.’

  ‘Not to your husband, perhaps. I think Mr Gamble knew a lot of things he wasn’t telling.’

  ‘Of course Barry knew things. He knew things about everybody. It was his interest. All right, his obsession. But he never meant any harm. Never.’

  ‘Why didn’t he just come to us with his information?’ asked Cooper. ‘It would have been so much simpler.’

  ‘After the way he’d been treated?’ said Mrs Gamble. ‘He knew he was under suspicion from the start. It was obvious none of you believed what he was saying.’

  ‘Well, that was because he was lying,’ said Cooper. ‘Mrs Gamble?’

  She nodded slowly. ‘What is it you want particularly?’

  ‘Your husband’s camera. And any CDs, memory sticks or storage devices he might have kept his pictures on.’

  ‘Will it help?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ said Cooper.

  There were so many uses for a laptop these days that Cooper carried one in his car. He opened it up and loaded the memory card from Barry Gamble’s camera.

  The card held about two hundred pictures. The first were shots of the derelict farm building and the two abandoned slurry pits, no longer simply suggestive of picturesque decay, but carrying a greater significance.

  And there, of course, was the guide stoop. It had been photographed from all angles, with each of its faces depicted and the inscriptions clearly legible. Sheffeild Rode, Hathersich Rode. One of the pictures showed the stone in the foreground, with the slurry pits behind it. It was as though the stoop was pointing towards the exact location where Zoe Barron’s phone and wallet would be found. Sheffeild Rode.

  Cooper wondered if the next step in Gamble’s campaign of anonymous communication would have been to send a copy of this photograph. The last stage, just to make the point clear for those who were too dim to put two and two together.

  He didn’t intend to go through all two hundred images on the memory card. He sorted the files into date order and looked for shots that had been taken on Tuesday.

  From that night, he had expected pictures of the Barrons. But the shots he found weren’t of Valley View, or its grounds. They had been taken nearby, yes. But the house they showed was Riddings Lodge.

  Cooper scrabbled around until he found a copy of the Riddings map. It seemed that the only spot where Gamble could have got some of these views of Riddings Lodge was right on the boundary between Edson’s property and the Barrons’. There was only a narrow strip at that point where the two properties bordered each other. To the west was the Hollands’ garden at Fourways. Eastwards, there was only the rough sloping ground at the base of the edge. The rock-strewn heath cut a slice between the manicured lawns and almost looked as though it ought to continue along the boundary line as far as Croft Lane.

  Eagerly Cooper swung round to his screen and called up the aerial view. When he zoomed in, it became obvious. There was more than just a boundary line between Riddings Lodge on one side, and Valley View and Fourways on the other. The satellite image had captured a wider, darker area that connected the base of Riddings Edge with Croft Lane. A sunken lane, surely? But why hadn’t it been visible on the ground?

  Then he remembered the dense rhododendron hedge, yards and yards of it along the bottom of Edson’s garden. He’d stood and admired it from Edson’s lounge. He recalled thinking that many keen gardeners would have tried to get rid of the shrub. Rhododendrons sucked minerals out of the soil and prevented anything else from flourishing near them. But Edson hadn’t cared about that. He had no interest in gardening. He probably never went near the hedge – not near enough, anyway, to see that it hid the remains of a sunken lane under its dense foliage.

  But Barry Gamble had known about it. Gamble had sneaked into the old lane to take photographs of Riddings Lodge. He still had rhododendron twigs sticking to his fleece days later. But why did he want to photograph the house so secretly?

  Cooper turned back to the photographs and scrolled through them. Figures started to appear now. Glenys Edson taking a stroll in the garden. The housekeeper, Mrs Davies, walking round the house. Mrs Davies pictured talking to the odd-job man, whose name Cooper had forgotten. There was Russell Edson himself, standing in the conservatory, apparently doing nothing. Waiting, perhaps.

  And who was that? A younger man, talking to Edson. Now there were several shots, taken by Gamble in quick succession. The two men seemed to be arguing, judging by their arm gestures. Finally there were two frames capturing Edson and the other man coming outside, stepping out of the conservatory and turning towards the garage on the other side of the drive. A moment later and Gamble would have lost them from sight. But those last two frames were good ones. Edson was clearly recognisable in both, his hair swept back, his expression upset or angry – Cooper couldn’t be sure.

  And the other, younger man? With a jolt, Cooper realised now that he’d seen him before. Edson hadn’t been joking when he’d said he’d got a man in. This man might have been called in to do the gardening. But he’d come even further into Edson’s life, judging by the close, affectionate embrace that Barry Gamble had captured in the very last frame.

  It was funny how a photograph could strike so much more directly to the memory. Perhaps there were too many distractions when you met someone on the street, or saw them at a showground. The voice might sound familiar, the mannerisms might ring a bell, but the brain just didn’t have enough focus to put the features together and make that leap of recognition. Yet when you sat down and studied a photo of the same person, suddenly it was all there.

  Cooper jumped at a loud rapping on his window. His heart pounded in shock. He must be in a more nervous state than he’d thought. Normally he would have noticed someone approaching his car. Normally he wouldn’t have reacted as if he’d been shot.

  He looked up to see Carol Villiers’ face pressed against the glass. He unlocked the door, and she jumped eagerly into the passenger seat.

  ‘Just wondering,’ she said. ‘We haven’t spoken to Sarah Holland again. Or to Tyler Kaye at all. Weren’t we going to do that today?’

  ‘It’s not necessary.’

  ‘I see.’

  She produced her notebook, and Cooper watched her expectantly. He recognised an element of teasing in her tone. He probably shouldn’t allow that. But he let it go, because he knew she had something he wanted.

  ‘Did you know there were fifteen complaints to the district council about neighbour nuisance?’ she said. ‘But none from Russell Edson. And none about him either.’

  ‘There must be some other motive,’ said Cooper. ‘Maybe disp
utes that end in court aren’t the problem. There could be one that everyone is keeping quiet about.’

  Villiers beamed. ‘You’re right. How come you’re always right, Ben?’

  ‘I can’t explain it. It just comes naturally.’

  ‘It’s all in the breeding. I see.’

  Cooper closed his laptop. He was learning that he couldn’t hurry Villiers when she had something to say. The more important it was, the longer she seemed to take getting the information out. She liked to savour the tastiest titbits before she released them.

  ‘So there was some kind of dispute between Edson and the Barrons?’

  ‘Absolutely. But not over anything so trivial as the ownership of a bit of land. This was about money. A large amount of money.’

  ‘Ah. Now that’s getting to the real life blood of Riddings.’

  ‘Yes. And to follow your analogy – our Russell was bleeding profusely. It seems Mr Edson has been spending an awful lot of money on legal fees, without the dispute ever coming to court. He hired private detectives and paid for surveillance. He must have collected a mass of information, everything that could be known about the Barrons. He was like a jealous husband digging up dirt on his wife’s lover.’

  ‘What?’ Cooper felt confused now. ‘He didn’t have a wife. Was he interested in Zoe Barron?’

  ‘No, in Jake.’

  ‘Eh?’

  Villiers laughed. ‘Not like that. No, Mr Edson was interested in destroying him.’

  Cooper gazed at the stone houses clustered in the centre of Riddings. The quaint narrow lanes, the old horse trough, the neat grass verges, the Union Jack flying at the crossroads. Beyond the centre lay the large, expensive properties, with their pony paddocks and landscaped gardens. It was a place for the upwardly mobile, in more than one sense. Property prices in the seven-figure bracket, and a long drag up that hill without a car.

  Yet in another sense, this village was still a jungle – dark and wild, crawling with primal instincts.

  ‘This has taken some digging out,’ said Villiers. ‘Gavin has helped me to tap into all the best sources. It’s amazing what you can come up with when you start piecing bits of information together. But it’s all there somewhere, waiting for someone to put two and two together.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Cooper. ‘I can’t bear this.’

  ‘Okay, here goes. Jake Barron had persuaded Edson to put a lot of money into the carpet business. And when the company went bankrupt, Edson realised he’d lost it all.’

  ‘Bankrupt? I thought the Barrons were doing well?’

  ‘No, they just tried to give that impression.’

  ‘Oh, personalised number plates. I see.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Well, it seems they had decided to expand the business just at the wrong time,’ said Villiers. ‘They bought out another firm with stores in Ireland. Paid through the nose for it, too. At the time, they said it was a perfect fit to grow the business. But they didn’t know the recession was about to hit. And it was worse in Ireland than here, as you know. The economy was decimated. The Celtic Tiger rolled over and died.’

  ‘So the Barrons overstretched themselves.’

  ‘By a long way. They had a bit of a cushion to carry them through for a while, but they couldn’t survive forever waiting until the upturn came along. They’d taken out a massive loan from their bank for the purchase, and it was being called in. The bankers couldn’t see any prospect of a return on their money, so they pulled the plug. I’m told the chain of carpet warehouses is only days away from going into receivership.’

  ‘I must say, Jake Barron didn’t seem to be suffering from the effects of a financial crisis,’ said Cooper.

  ‘That must have been what infuriated Edson most, seeing the Barrons still spending money when he was about to lose everything.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine.’

  ‘Jake was a smart businessman, you see,’ said Villiers. ‘He moved all his assets into his wife’s name before the crash came and the crisis became public. The house was entirely hers, for a start. Yes, a smart businessman, Jake. But Russell Edson wasn’t. He was just a jobbing builder who got lucky.’

  ‘And then very unlucky.’

  DI Hitchens was smiling when they met him near the horse trough in the centre of the village. It seemed like the first time he’d done that all week.

  ‘Well, Ben – it looks as though you’ve come up smelling of roses. Unlike some of the officers in the task force.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘They recovered a couple of items from one of the slurry pits. An HTC android mobile phone, and a purse containing a hundred and fifty pounds in cash.’

  ‘Zoe Barron’s property.’

  ‘Yes. But I don’t understand …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, why would they just dump their haul? Including the cash – that doesn’t make sense. Even if they were afraid of getting caught, they would keep the cash, wouldn’t they? Or stash it somewhere at least. Somewhere they could recover it later, I mean – not a slurry pit, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Doesn’t it seem likely that those items were taken to distract our attention from something else?’

  ‘But from what?’

  ‘From the real motive for the attack.’

  ‘The real motive?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Cooper. ‘What about Russell Edson? Any sign of him? If we don’t find him now, we’ll have a problem. There’s a mist coming down, and it’s going to be dark soon.’

  ‘Well, we’ve found his red MG. It’s been left up at the car park by Riddings Edge.’

  27

  Cooper loved the transitional nature of dusk. He liked the way the colours changed, and the world slipped into shadow. It was fascinating how a figure moving in the distance could become smaller and smaller, fainter and fainter, until it was no longer a movement but a trick of the light.

  At the car park below Riddings Edge, the only light seemed to come from within the mist itself. It was as if it had swallowed light from the day and was leaking it slowly back into the valley.

  Apart from Russell Edson’s red MG, there were only a couple of vehicles still in the car park. Late-evening walkers? Photographers hoping to capture a sunset? Or maybe it was something more. From here, Cooper couldn’t see Riddings at all. Instead, he was looking down towards the River Derwent, and beyond it a small hump of land that hid the larger village of Calver.

  A gnawing in his stomach, which he’d thought was anxiety or fear, suddenly resolved itself, as he realised that he hadn’t eaten anything all day. He was starving. He had a vivid image of a pub that stood in the middle of Calver, overlooking the cricket field. A sprawling Georgian inn, said to be haunted. It was a pub, not a fancy restaurant, but it did good food. A lot of their produce was sourced from the area, and local people left bags of plums, pears and rhubarb at the back door, which was one of the reasons home-made desserts were always available.

  It was the sort of place Cooper would choose to go to like a shot. But not Russell Edson. No home-grown rhubarb pie for him.

  He tried Edson’s mobile number again. It was engaged, as it had been for some time.

  Villiers and Hitchens arrived in the car park. A marked police car went past with its lights flashing, though Cooper couldn’t guess where it was heading.

  ‘Russell Edson?’ said Hitchens. ‘This is a firm suspect?’

  ‘Mr Edson is much too respectable to get his own hands dirty, of course,’ said Villiers. ‘So he must have contracted it out. Got a man in to do the job.’

  ‘In a way,’ said Cooper.

  Villiers looked at him curiously, but he kept his face as straight as he could.

  ‘There’s very little daylight left,’ said Hitchens. ‘I think we’re going to have to leave it until morning, Ben. We can’t risk officers up there in the dark. They would all get lost and break their legs. The compensation payments don’t bear thinking about.’
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br />   When Hitchens turned away to respond to a call on his radio, Cooper looked up at the edge and saw a figure. Not an outcrop of rock this time, or a trick of the light – but a human figure gazing down towards Riddings.

  ‘Carol,’ he said, indicating the spot.

  ‘I see him. Is it …?’

  ‘I think so.’

  He tried the number again. And this time it rang.

  ‘Mr Edson? Where are you?’

  ‘Ah, Sergeant Cooper. Where else would I be? I’m on the edge.’

  ‘Stay right where you are.’

  ‘Only if I choose to, Sergeant.’

  Cursing under his breath, Cooper began to climb the path from the car park towards the edge. Villiers fell in behind him.

  By the time they reached the moor, it was totally dark. The lights from Riddings and the other villages in the valley failed to reach this far. Besides, the sky overhead was black with clouds, which blotted out the stars and any moon there might have been. It wasn’t a night for watching meteor showers.

  As the thought went through Cooper’s head, it began to rain. Heavy drops were suddenly beating on his shoulders and soaking his hair. He’d come without a waterproof, but there was no time to go back. Villiers, of course, had been much more sensible.

  ‘If I can get close enough, I’ll try talking to him,’ said Cooper. ‘But I don’t want to alarm him too much. He might be in a dangerous state.’

  ‘You mean you want me to stay out of the way, in case I frighten him,’ said Villiers.

  ‘Not exactly. But I think we can do this without fuss. He just needs approaching the right way.’

  ‘All right. I’ll take the other path and go round.’

  ‘Can you find it?’

  ‘I’m like a cat in the dark.’

  Villiers vanished into the darkness, swishing through the wet bracken. Cooper continued up the path alone, placing his feet carefully out of the streams of water running down from the edge.

  Normally, the night was the perfect time to walk on the moor. Out here in the dark, you could experience the place properly. Your eyes had a chance to adjust to the darkness, free from the glow of city lights. But you needed to use your night hearing too, and your other senses. The moor became a different world then. Its size was measured as much by sound and smell as by sight. You became more aware of the hum of life around you. Not human life, but the sound of the natural world stirring in the safety of darkness.