The Devil's Edge (18 page)

Looking down on Riddings, through a camera mounted on an orbiting satellite, he felt a bit like God casting his eyes down from heaven, knowing all about the activities of the in habitants in this little place on the edge of Derbyshire. If he was God, would he have delivered a punishment on them like this? Let some of them die? And made the rest of them live forever in fear?

Well, of course he didn’t know everything about what went on in Riddings. He knew far too little, in fact. But down there was someone who knew more. Someone who
had
decided to take on the role of God, and had handed out the punishments. Did that person see the village as clearly as Cooper did now on his Google satellite image?

Along the corridor in the superintendent’s office, Hazel Branagh looked up at DI Hitchens, and raised an eyebrow.

‘Detective Sergeant Fry, you say?’

‘Yes, she’s a good officer,’ said Hitchens. ‘And her skills are being wasted at the moment.’

‘Possibly.’ Branagh picked up a memo. ‘But there’s a small matter of a Leicestershire officer with a broken nose.’

‘What does that have to do with anything?’

‘Well, like DS Fry, this officer is also a member of the Implementing Strategic Change working group. And it seems Fry was the only, er … witness to the incident in which he suffered his injury.’

Hitchens smiled. ‘I imagine it was self-inflicted.’

‘According to his own statement, he tripped over the kerb in a pub car park and struck his face on the bonnet of his own car.’

‘It’s easily done,’ said Hitchens. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve seen that happen.’

Branagh replaced the memo on her desk. ‘It used to be suspects who fell down the stairs on the way to the cells,’ she said. ‘Even when the custody suite was all on one level.’

‘So I’ve heard. Those were the days, eh?’

‘Mmm. But now it seems to be our own officers who suffer mysterious injuries.’

‘Times change,’ said Hitchens. ‘But there are accident-prone individuals in every walk of life, I imagine. Besides …’

‘What?’

‘I thought you said he was from Leicestershire?’

Branagh’s lips twitched, the closest she came to a smile. For her, it was practically a belly laugh.

‘Good point,’ she said.

‘Anyway, we’ve been asked to withdraw DS Fry from the working group.’

‘She was never right for it,’ said Branagh.

‘About as right as a pit bull in a poodle parlour.’

‘Perhaps we’d better find her something more meaty to get her teeth into, then.’

‘You’re going
where
tomorrow?’ Gavin Murfin was saying.

‘Riddings Show,’ repeated Cooper. ‘Do you fancy coming?’

‘Look,’ said Murfin, pointing at his chest. ‘This is me. Add Saturday afternoon, plus the start of the football season. And what do you get?’

‘Pride Park,’ said Cooper.

‘Correct.’

The new season had started, and Murfin was a hardcore Rams fan. So dedicated that he’d even recovered from relegation and the arrival of American owners. His threats to transfer allegiance to Nottingham Forest had never translated into action. It was inconceivable, anyway. He was a true Derby County fan.

‘Take Carol with you,’ said Murfin. ‘Why not?’

Cooper looked at Villiers, and saw her expression immediately become eager.

‘You don’t have to come,’ he said. ‘There’s no overtime, remember.’

‘What else would I be doing?’ she said. ‘I haven’t been back in the area long enough to get a social life sorted out for myself yet.’

Murfin opened his mouth to make a suggestion.

‘And I don’t like football,’ said Villiers.

‘Riddings Show it is, then. I’ll buy you a choc ice.’

In a corner of the CID room, a TV news programme was replaying a clip from Superintendent Branagh’s earlier press conference, following the incident at Fourways.

‘Yes, we are connecting the inquiries,’ she was saying. ‘We believe the people who carried out this attack are the same offenders currently being sought for a series of previous incidents in other villages in this part of the county.’

Listening to her words, Cooper couldn’t help shaking his head.

‘You still think they’re wrong,’ said Villiers.

‘I can see why they’re thinking this way,’ said Cooper. ‘But it feels wrong to me.’

‘But you can’t go to Hitchens or Branagh and say you have a feeling, right?’

‘No.’

Villiers smiled. ‘I think I’m getting the hang of the way things work here. I thought there might be a bit more freedom to use your own initiative, but maybe not. It’s okay, it’s what I’m used to. But still …’

‘You think I ought to do something about it,’ said Cooper.

‘It’s not for me to say. You’re a newly promoted DS, you want to keep your nose clean. At least until you’ve got your feet properly under the table. I understand that.’

Cooper looked at her. ‘It was one of the things that held me back for so long, my tendency to act on feelings, to follow an instinct when all the evidence pointed in a different direction. Otherwise I might have been a DS long before now.’

Villiers said nothing. But he could see from her face that she was disappointed in him. He couldn’t help that. This case was starting to irritate him.

‘One thing I really don’t understand is this obsession with Sheffield,’ he said. ‘Why does everyone keep talking about Sheffield? It’s as if they might be able to shift responsibility for a problem by pointing a finger at the nearest city. I’m telling you, Sheffield is just a distraction. It means nothing.’

Down the room, Luke Irvine had answered a phone call, and looked across at Cooper.

‘Ben, there’s a reporter downstairs from the local paper.’

‘The
Eden Valley Times
?’ he said. ‘They want a press officer, then. There’s someone in the building, Luke. Try the incident room.’

‘No, she wants to speak to a detective involved in the Riddings case. She thinks she might have some useful information to pass on.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘That’s what she says.’ Irvine pointed at the phone. ‘Does the address Sheffield Road mean anything to you?’

17

As she passed through the corridors of E Division head quarters towards the end of Friday afternoon, Diane Fry felt like a ghost. It was as if there were people here but she couldn’t see them. And, of course, they couldn’t see her. She was only a dim memory to them, a presence forgotten in every way but for her fading signature on a file.

In the CID room, she saw a woman talking to Ben Cooper. A woman who seemed at home, occupying a desk that had once been hers. She guessed this must be the new DC.

At least Cooper had tidied himself up a bit. Maybe becoming DS had done that for him, or perhaps the serious girlfriend, the little SOCO with the dark hair. When she’d first worked with Cooper, Fry had stifled a constant urge to tell him to straighten his tie, push his hair back from his forehead, get rid of that boyish look.

She’d always thought of Cooper as the social-worker type of police officer – the sort who thought there were no villains in the world, only victims; that people who did anything wrong must necessarily be in need of help. When she arrived in Derbyshire, he had obviously been well settled and popular, with friends and relatives around him, helping him out, smothering him with support. And preventing him from standing on his own two feet, the way she did herself.

But when she looked at him now, from beyond the doorway, Fry could see that the change in him went deeper than she’d thought. There was a different set to his shoulders, a firmer tone to his voice, and a new confidence in his eyes as he gazed around the room. He had the air of a prince surveying his domain. So he was maturing. She’d never really noticed it before.

And another thing. What was it that she detected in his manner when he spoke to the new woman? A fleeting expression, an exchange of glances, a suggestion of familiarity in the body language.

Fry’s eyes narrowed. She’d known there was a fresh addition to the E Division CID team. No one had bothered to tell her, of course. That was so typical. Before she’d gone to Nottinghamshire for the working group, she’d just overheard their DI, Paul Hitchens, say something like
when the new DC arrives
. And he’d given a meaningful nod towards one of the empty desks.

Now the new DC was here. Fry managed to hold her tongue for a while so that she didn’t look as if she was desperate to know about her. Then she turned to Gavin Murfin.

‘So who’s the new girl?’

‘Carol? You mean Carol Villiers, the new DC, I guess.’

‘Where has she come from?’

‘She’s ex-military. RAF Police.’

‘Really?’

Murfin smiled. ‘Apparently she’s a friend of Ben’s, from way back. An old school pal.’

‘Oh.’

‘From what I’ve seen of her, she seems great.’

‘I’m sure she is.’

The reporter’s name was Erin Byrne. She was one of the senior staff at the
Eden Valley Times
– though that wasn’t saying much, in Cooper’s experience. The turnover in the editorial department of the
Times
seemed to be very rapid, as anyone with two or three years’ experience moved on to better things. And for reporters on Edendale’s local paper, ‘better things’ didn’t necessarily mean the excitement of Fleet Street. It often meant a move into public relations, or the press office at Derbyshire County Council.

Byrne was dark and angular, with a soft Irish accent that made Cooper think of some rural county in the west of Ireland. Galway or Mayo. She was dressed all in black, like a high-powered businesswoman. One of those destined for a career in PR, perhaps.

‘We’ve been getting these messages,’ she said. ‘At first we didn’t take any notice. We get our fair share of loonies, you know.’

‘I’m sure you do.’

She smiled. ‘Some of them complaining about the police, of course.’

‘So what did these messages say?’

‘It’s a male caller. He claims his call is connected to the Riddings murder inquiry, and he says, “Tell them Sheffield Road.” He’s called three times now.’

‘Just Sheffield Road?’

‘That’s what he said. The trouble is, he’s been put through to a different person each time he’s called, and we all wrote him off as a nutter. It was only when someone mentioned it that we realised three of us had received similar calls. Mine was the most recent one.’

‘And they were all exactly the same?’

‘It certainly seems to have been the same man each time. He sounded as though he was calling from a phone box somewhere, too. Probably had an idea that we might trace his call. People get exaggerated ideas of what journalists can do.’

‘
Tell them Sheffield Road
. That’s it?’

‘Well, my call was a bit different. He was getting cross by then. He didn’t like being passed from person to person, and thought we weren’t taking him seriously.’

‘Which you weren’t.’

‘True.’ She laughed. ‘Anyway, when he got me, on the third occasion, he was very unhappy. Maybe because I was female, I don’t know. He might have thought he’d been fobbed off with the secretary or something. He ended up slamming the phone down. But before he did, he said he would put it in writing.’

Cooper’s ears pricked up. ‘And has he?’

‘Not yet. Are you interested?’

‘On its own, the message doesn’t seem to mean anything.’

‘It didn’t to us, either. But I thought there might be some significance in the context of the inquiry. I mean, you must have gathered a lot of information that we’re not aware of. There might be a significant detail that you haven’t chosen to share with the press.’

Byrne raised an eyebrow and looked at him expectantly. He knew she was fishing for a titbit, an angle that she could turn into an exclusive story for her paper. Her charm probably worked on some people. But in this job, you learned to be close-mouthed when it came to giving out information to the public.

‘There’s a Sheffield Road out of Baslow,’ said Cooper. ‘The A621. Not many houses on it, though. A couple of farmsteads down at Far End, near the roundabout. And a big house in the woods across Bar Brook, just under Jack Flat. But that’s about it, I think.’

‘That’s the only one I know of, too.’

He pictured the road as it climbed out of Baslow. Gardom’s Edge on one side, Baslow Edge on the other, two pincers of rock squeezing the road into a narrow gap. It was a busy route, though – the main road up to the junction at Owler Bar, and on into the city via Totley. Many people thought of Owler as the gateway into the Peak District. At that curious elliptical junction sandwiched between two pubs, you could choose to head north towards Hathersage and the Hope Valley, or southwards to Baslow and Bakewell. Either way, you had to work your way round the edges and the expanse of Big Moor. If you were travelling by car, at least.

‘Well? Any thoughts?’

Cooper shook his head. ‘I can’t think what significance Sheffield Road has. It might be the route the attackers took if they came from Sheffield, but so what? There are only two possible routes to Riddings from the east anyway. It’s that, or the A625.’

‘I don’t know what to make of it, then. I thought you might understand what it meant.’

‘I wish I did.’

‘I’m sorry, I seem to have wasted your time, then.’

‘No, that’s all right. And if you do happen to get a written message …’

‘I’ll let you know what it says.’

‘It might be helpful if I could see the actual message,’ he said. ‘Helpful how?’

‘I don’t know. But seeing the original can often make quite a difference to its interpretation.’

‘Okay. If that happens, I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’m on duty this weekend. If a letter arrives in the morning …?’

Cooper gave her his card. ‘Don’t wait until Monday. Call my mobile number, or email me.’

He escorted Byrne back into reception. In the entrance, two sets of double doors faced the reception desk, looking out on to the visitors’ car park. A van came through the barrier, carrying a prisoner to the custody suite behind the station.

He held the door open for her, but she hesitated.

‘I might see you again, then,’ she said.

‘It’s possible.’

She gave him a small wave as she went down the steps to her car, and Cooper smiled automatically. It was only as Byrne pulled away that he noticed a crime-scene van waiting for the barrier to rise. It was inevitable that it should be Liz who was driving it.

On his way back to the CID room, Cooper glimpsed Diane Fry in the doorway, and wondered if she had come to see him. But a moment later, she was gone again. He shook his head in incomprehension. It was strange how Fry always seemed to be in a doorway, forever passing through from one place to another.

‘I see Diane Fry is back,’ said Hurst.

‘Is she? I thought it had turned cold suddenly,’ said Murfin.

‘I wonder what happened to the Implementing Strategic Change working group.’

‘There are rumours,’ said Murfin darkly.

Cooper turned towards him. ‘There are always rumours, Gavin. Usually being spread by you.’

Murfin tapped the side of his nose. ‘But this is from a reliable source, like.’

Cooper sighed. ‘Go on, then.’

‘Well, they say that something happened in Nottinghamshire, after one of the meetings. An
incident
. Some occurrence that upset the deliberations of the Incessant Sodding Change working group.’

A few minutes later, Cooper turned a corner in the corridor and found himself face to face with Fry, who was coming the other way. They both stopped, uncertainly.

‘Hi, Diane.’

She nodded briskly. ‘How are things going?’

‘Busy, you know.’

‘Absolutely. I do know.’

‘You’ve heard about the attacks in Riddings? The home invasions?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Cooper looked at her more closely. She fidgeted from one foot to the other, as if she was anxious to sidestep him and get on with whatever she was doing.

‘I suppose you’re anxious to get involved,’ he said.

‘Not particularly. I’m sure you’re on top of things. You surely don’t need any help from me. You never did, Ben.’

He took a step back, stung by her tone. He’d thought it might be different, now that they were no longer under each other’s feet.

‘Diane …’

‘I have a meeting with Superintendent Branagh,’ she said.

‘That’s why I’m here, if you really want to know.’

‘Oh, okay. So it’s nothing to do with the incident, then?’

‘Incident?’

‘Well, I heard …’

‘Yes, I can imagine what you heard. There are too many people who can’t keep their mouths shut.’

‘Things don’t change much here,’ said Cooper.

‘There’s one lesson you really should learn, Ben, if you never learn anything else. Places don’t change. If you want things to change in your life, you have to make it happen yourself.’

‘Well, thanks for that. I wasn’t expecting a thought for the day.’

He made to move past her, but she stopped him.

‘So, how is GI Jane getting on?’ she said.

‘Who?’

‘The female Rambo. Your new DC.’

‘Carol Villiers. Have you been checking up on her?’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘I have no idea. But it sounds that way from your sarcastic references. Otherwise, how would you know she was in the services?’

‘I’m not totally out of touch, you know. You haven’t quite got rid of me from Edendale yet. It’s all around the section who the new DC is. Old pals, aren’t you? You went to school with her, right? It must be nice to reminisce about the old days together whenever you feel like it.’

‘I suppose you’ve been talking to Gavin,’ said Cooper as he brushed past her. ‘I wish you wouldn’t try to interfere with my team.’

He knew Fry was watching him as he walked away, but he didn’t look back.

‘It used to be
my
team,’ she said. But he pretended he hadn’t heard her.

* * *

When Cooper returned to the CID room, Diane Fry was still there. And she’d met Carol Villiers. The two were sitting at desks opposite each other, though they didn’t seem to be speaking.

Murfin was watching Fry and Villiers sizing each other up.

‘Who do you think would win in a fight?’ he said when he saw Cooper. ‘Well, I suppose there’s only one way to find out …’

‘Gavin,’ said Cooper warningly, knowing he was wasting his breath.

‘Go on. I bet you’ve wondered. Do you think Villiers knows those SAS death grips? Can she kill someone with nothing but a ballpoint pen? Only, I’ve got a spare one, if she needs it.’

Cooper couldn’t help following Murfin’s gaze. The sight of the two women drew his attention irresistibly. They seemed to be talking to each other now. He strained to hear what they were saying, but Villiers was sitting with her back to him, and Fry was speaking too quietly to be heard against the background noise of ringing phones. That was unlike her, too. She had never been one to whisper or mumble. And she had certainly never been afraid of letting people hear her opinions.

‘Wishing you could lip-read?’ said Murfin.

‘What? Of course not,’ said Cooper, though it was exactly what he’d been thinking.

‘Mostly swear words, I reckon. A bit of sarcasm. Ritual abuse.’

Cooper looked at Fry’s expression again, saw a raised eyebrow that accompanied a murmured question.

‘No, Gavin,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t think so.’

Becky Hurst had been busy working on her PC, but she stopped when an officer brought in a copy of the Sheffield evening paper to show her.

‘I can’t believe this,’ she said.

Cooper caught her outraged tone.

‘Becky?’

‘People are starting to treat the Savages as some kind of heroes.’

‘What is it?’

‘This story in the Sheffield paper. It’s as if they’re Robin Hood and his Merry Men or some rubbish. Unbelievable.’

Murfin chuckled. ‘Stealing from the rich and giving to the poor? But they’re only doing the first part, surely?’

‘How do we know?’ said Cooper.

‘Well …’

‘We don’t know, do we? We don’t know anything about them.’

‘Still, whoever they are – they’re not heroes.’