Blood on the Tongue (Ben Cooper & Diane Fry)

by Stephen Booth

  So it wasn’t Jake outside. It wasn’t her husband moving about now on the decking, slowly opening the back door. But still she clung on to the belief, the wild hope, that there was nothing to worry about. I’m perfectly safe. Everything’s fine.

  “Jake?” she called.

  And she called again, louder. Much louder, and louder still, until it became a scream.

  “Jake? Jake? Jake!”

  Six miles from Riddings, Detective Sergeant Ben Cooper turned the corner of Edendale High Street into Hollowgate and stopped to let a bus pull into the terminus. The town hall lay just ahead of him, closed at this time of night but illuminated by spotlights which picked out the the pattern in its stonework which had earned its nickname of the Wavy House. Across the road, the Starlight Cafe was doing good business as usual, with a steady stream of customers. Taxis were lining up for their busiest time of the day. It was almost ten o’clock on an ordinary August evening.

  The pubs were even busier than the Starlight, of course. Cooper could hear the music pounding from the Wheatsheaf and the Red Lion, the two pubs on either side of the market square. A crowd of youngsters screamed and laughed by the war memorial, watched by a uniformed PC and a community support officer in bright yellow high-vis jackets, the pair of them standing in the entrance to an alley near the Raj Mahal.

  Even in Edendale, there were often fights at closing time, and drug dealers operating wherever they could find a suitable spot. On Friday and Saturday nights, there would be a personnel carrier with a prisoner cage in the back, and multiple foot patrols of officers on the late shift. A change came over the town then, a place that had looked so quaint during the day, with its cobbled alleys and tall stone buildings, revealed its Jekyll and Hyde nature.

  “Hey, mate, shouldn’t you be out arresting some criminals?”

  “Ooh, duck, show us your baton.”

  Looking round at the shouts, Cooper saw that the bus was a Hulley’s number 19 from the Devonshire Estate. Oh, great. He took a sharp step back from the kerb, turning his body away towards the shop window behind him. There were too many eyes gazing from the windows of the bus, and the likelihood of too many familiar faces, people he didn’t want to meet when he was off duty. Half of the names on his arrest record had addresses on the Devonshire Estate. He didn’t recognise the voices, but there was no doubt their owners knew him.

  Well, this was his own choice. Many police officers chose to live outside the area they worked in, for exactly this reason. When you went for a quiet drink in your local pub, you didn’t want to find yourself sitting next to the person you’d nicked the day before, or sharing a table with a man whose brother you’d just send to prison.

  But Cooper had resisted moving to a neighbouring division. He could easily have travelled into Edendale every morning from Chesterfield or Buxton, but that wouldn’t be the same. He belonged here, in the Eden Valley, and he wasn’t going to let anything push him out. He intended to stay here, settle down, raise a family, and eventually turn into a cantankerous pensioner who rambled on about the good old days.

  That meant he had to put up with these awkward moments - the looks of horrified recognition on faces, the shying away as he passed in the street, the aggressive stare at the bar. It was all part of life. All part of life’s rich pageant. That was what his grandmother would have said. He had no idea where the expression came from. But he knew the phrase would stick inside his head now, until he found out. He supposed he’d have to Google it when he got home. He seemed to be turning into one of those people whose minds collected odd bits of information like a sheep picking up ticks.

  As he walked, Cooper checked his phone in case he’d missed a text message, but there was nothing. He carried on towards the end of Hollowgate, ignoring the loud group of youngsters. Not his business tonight. He’d only just come off shift, at the end of a long drawn-out series of arrests and the execution of search warrants. With six prisoners processed through the custody suite at West Street, there wasn’t much of the evening left by the time he finally clocked off.

  At the corner of Bargate he stopped again and listened for the sound of the river, just discernible here above the sound of the traffic. The council had been talking about making Hollowgate a pedestrianised zone, like neighbouring Clappergate. But of course the money had run out for projects like that. So a stream of cars still flowed down from Hulley Road towards the High Street, forming Edendale’s version of a one-way system. ‘Flow’ wasn’t exactly the right word for it. Half of the cars stopped in front of the shops to unload passengers, or crawled to a halt as drivers looked for parking spaces, the little car park behind the town hall already being full at this hour.

  Cooper studied the pedestrians ahead. There was no sign of her yet. He glanced at his watch. For once, he wasn’t the one who was late. That was good.

  He decided to wait in front of the estate agent’s, looking back towards the clock on the Wavy House to make sure his watch wasn’t fast. There was always a smell of freshly baked bread just on this corner, thanks to the baker’s behind the shops in Bargate. The scent lingered all day, as if it was absorbed into the stone and released slowly to add to the atmosphere. It was good to have somewhere in town that still baked its own bread. For Cooper, it was these sounds and smells that gave Edendale its unique personality, and distinguished it from every other town in the country, with their identikit high streets full of chain stores.

  He turned to look in the estate agent’s window, automatically drawn to the pictures of the houses for sale. This was one of the more upmarket agents, handling a lot of high-end properties, catering for equestrian interests and buyers with plenty of spare cash who were looking for a country residence. He spotted a nice property available not far away, in Lowtown. An old farm house by the look of it, full of character, with a few outbuildings and a pony paddock. But six hundred and fifty thousand pounds? How could he ever afford that? Even on his new salary scale as a detective sergeant, the mortgage repayments would be horrendous. He had a bit of money put away in the bank now, but savings didn’t grow very fast these days, with interest rates still on the floor. It was a hopeless prospect.

  “So which house do you fancy?” said a voice in his ear.

  It was totally different voice from those that had shouted to him from the bus. This was a warm voice, soft and caressing. A familiar voice, with an intimate touch on his arm.

  Liz appeared at his side, laid her head against his shoulder, and slipped her hand into his. He hadn’t seen her approach, and now he felt strangely at a disadvantage.

  “What, one of these?” he said. “Chance would be a fine thing.”

  She sighed. “True, I suppose.”

  Cooper looked beyond the the pictures of houses and caught their reflections in the glass. The pair of them were slightly distorted and smoky, as if the glass was tinted. Edendale’s traffic moved slowly, jerkily behind them, like a street in an old silent film. And, not for the first time, it struck him how well matched they looked. Comfortable together, like an old married couple already. Liz looked small at his side, her dark hair shining in the street lights, her face lit up with a simple, uncomplicated pleasure. It delighted him that she could respond this way every time they met, or even spoke on the phone. Who wouldn’t love to have that effect on someone? It was a wonderful thing to bring a bit of happiness into the world, to be able to create these moments of joy. A rare and precious gift in a world where he met so much darkness and unhappiness, so many lonely and bitter people.

  “Kiss, then?

  He bent to kiss her. She smelled great, as always. Her presence made him smile, and forget about the gaping faces. Who cared what other people thought?

  They crossed the road, squeezed close together, as if they’d been parted for months. He always felt like that with Liz. At these moments, he would agree to anything, and often did.

  “So, any progress on the big case?” she said.

  “The home invasions, you mean?”

&n
bsp; “Yes. The Savages. That’s what the newspapers are calling them.”

  Cooper grimaced at the expression, sorry to have the mood momentarily spoiled. It was typical of the media to come up with such a sensational and ludicrous nickname. He knew they were aiming to grab the public’s attention. But it seemed to him to trivialise the reality of the brutal violence inflicted on the victims of these particular offenders.

  “No, not much progress,” he said.

  “It must be awful. I mean, to have something like that happen to you in your own home.”

  “The victims have been pretty traumatised.”

  The gang of burglars the papers were calling the Savages had struck several times this summer, targeting large private houses in well heeled villages on the eastern edges. E Division was Derbyshire Constabulary’s largest geographical division by far, and the edges marked the furthest fringes, the border with South Yorkshire.

  Cooper wondered how he’d feel if he owned that nice home in Lowtown, and someone broke into his house. He’d been told that owning property changed your attitude completely, made you much more territorial, more aggressively prepared to defend your domain. Well, he’d seen that at first hand. Because it had certainly happened to his brother. He’d watched Matt turn into a paranoid wreck since he became responsible for the family farm at Bridge End. He patrolled his boundaries every day, like a one-man army, ever vigilant for the appearance of invaders. He was the Home Guard, ready to repel Hitler’s Nazi hordes with a pitchfork. That level of anxiety must be exhausting. Was owning property really worth it?

  “Do you think the Savages are local?” asked Liz, voicing the question that many people were asking. “Or are they coming out from Sheffield?”

  There were few people he could have discussed details of the case with. But Liz was in the job herself, a scenes of crime officer in E Division. She’d even attended one of the scenes, the most recent incident in Baslow.

  “They know the area pretty well, either way,” said Cooper. “They’ve chosen their targets like professionals so far. And they’ve got their approaches and exits figured out to the last detail. At least, it seems so - since we haven’t got much of a lead on them yet.”

  They had a table booked at the Columbine. It was in the cellar, but that was okay. In Edendale, there wasn’t much of a choice of restaurants where last orders were taken at ten. And even at the Columbine that was only from May to October, for the visitors. Edendale people didn’t eat so late.

  Cooper was looking forward to getting in front of a High Peak rib-eye steak pan fried in Cajun spices. Add a bottle of Czech beer, and he’d be happy. And he’d be able to forget about the Savages for a while.

  They opened the door of the restaurant, and Cooper paused for a moment to look back at the street, watching the people beginning to head out of town, back to the safety of their homes. If anyone’s home was safe, with individuals like the Savages on the loose.

  “Well,” he said, “at least they haven’t killed anybody yet.”

  In Riddings, a figure was moving in the Barrons’ garden. Barry Gamble was approaching their house cautiously. The last time he’d been on the drive at Valley View, it hadn’t been a happy experience. Some people just didn’t appreciate neighbourly concern. He hoped there was no one hanging around outside, no chance of seeing any of the Barrons. He would just have a quick check, make sure everything was okay, then get back to his own house a few hundred yards away in Chapel Close.

  Gamble shook his head at the roof trusses and window frames stacked untidily against the wall. That was asking for trouble, in his opinion. It gave the impression the house was empty and vulnerable while construction work was going on. The Barrons’ improvements seemed to have stalled, though. The area that had been cleared behind the garage was supposed to be an extension for a gym and family room, so he’d heard. But the foundations were still visible, the breeze block walls hardly a foot high where they’d been abandoned. Perhaps the Barrons had run out of money, like everyone else. The thought gave Gamble a little twinge of satisfaction.

  He wondered if some item of builder’s materials had made the noise he’d heard. A dull thump and a crash, loud on the night air. And then there had been some kind of scrabbling in the undergrowth. But he was used to that sound. There was plenty of wildlife in Riddings at night - foxes, badgers, rabbits. Even the occasional deer down off Stoke Flat. The noises animals made in the dark were alarming, for anyone who wasn’t used to them the way he was.

  Gamble skirted the garage and headed towards the back of the house, conscious of the sound of his footsteps on the gravel drive. He tried to tread lightly, but gravel was always a nuisance. He’d learned to avoid it whenever he could. A nice bit of paving or a patch of grass was so much easier.

  He began to rehearse his excuses in case someone came out and challenged him. I was just passing, and I thought I heard… Can’t be too careful, eh? Well, as long as everything’s all right, I’ll be getting along. He couldn’t remember whether the Barrons had installed motion sensors at Valley View that would activate the security lights. He thought not, though.

  The house was very quiet as he came near it. The younger Barron children would be in bed by now. He knew their bedrooms were on the other side of the house, overlooking the garden. Their parents tended to sit up late watching TV. He’d seen the light flickering on the curtains until one o’clock in the morning sometimes.

  Gamble peered through the kitchen window. A bit of light came through the open doorway from the hall. But there wasn’t much to see inside. No intruders, no damage, no signs of a breakin or disturbance. No one visible inside the house, no soul moving at all.

  In fact, there was only one thing for Barry Gamble to see. One thing that made him catch his breath with fear and excitement. It was nothing but a trickle. A narrow worm, red and glistening in a patch of light. It was a thin trickle of blood, creeping slowly across the terracotta tiles.

  THE DEVIL’S EDGE is published by Little, Brown under their Sphere imprint:

  The Devil’s Edge paperback

  And don’t miss the new Cooper & Fry novel DEAD AND BURIED:

  Dead and Buried hardcover

  About the author:

  Stephen Booth is a multiple award winning UK crime writer. He is best known as the creator of two young Derbyshire police detectives, DC Ben Cooper and DS Diane Fry, who appear in twelve novels, all set in England’s beautiful and atmospheric Peak District. Stephen has been a Gold Dagger finalist, an Anthony Award nominee, twice winner of a Barry Award for Best British Crime Novel, and twice shortlisted for the Theakston’s Crime Novel of the Year. DC Cooper was a finalist for the Sherlock Award for the best detective created by a British author, and in 2003 the Crime Writers’ Association presented Stephen with the Dagger in the Library Award for “the author whose books have given readers the most pleasure”. The Cooper & Fry series is published all around the world, and has been translated into 15 languages. The latest titles are THE DEVIL’S EDGE and DEAD AND BURIED, published by Little, Brown.

  For the latest news, visit the author’s website:

  http://www.stephenbooth.com

  or stay in touch on Twitter:

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  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ssD8g65LK8

  Back to Contents

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  What the critics said

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Se
ven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Author’s Note

  Other books by the same author

  Extract from The Devil’s Edge

  About the author

  Table of Contents

  Back to Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  What the critics said

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One