Already Dead

by Stephen Booth

  Cooper worked his way through the back lanes on higher ground near Youlgreave as the news continued to get worse. Within an hour, the status of the emergency had been raised to a severe flood warning – and that meant danger to life. Emergency sandbags had been issued, pumps were being used to clear sections of road. Rail services were cancelled, flood water had closed more routes and landslides had blocked others. In places, high winds had brought down power lines and hundreds of homes were without electricity.

  Now the Fire and Rescue Service had boats operating in the worst-affected areas, picking up people who’d decided to stay in their homes in spite of the warnings. More heavy rain was predicted for the rest of the day. Falling on already saturated ground, it would make the situation even more critical.

  A mile further on, Cooper came across a team of council workers in yellow high-vis jackets, desperately trying to pump water off a flooded section of road. A huge amount of water was surging across the roadway, surely more than would be caused by surface flooding or blocked gulleys. It looked more like a burst water mains. He wound down the window and leaned his head out.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he said.

  ‘An adit has burst.’

  Then Cooper heard the noise. A thunderous roaring in the air, as if he was standing close to a giant waterfall. When he looked up he was amazed to see thousands of gallons of brown water gushing from an enormous hole in the hillside, forced out under pressure by the flood that had built up in the old mineshafts behind it. Where it hit the air, the torrent foamed into a creamy head as though the hill had turned itself into a vast spout of Guinness.

  He could see that the water was full of debris being scoured out of the mine. Soil, stones and the occasional larger lump of rock plummeted through the deluge and bounced off the hillside further down the slope before crashing into trees near the stream bed.

  ‘It must have got blocked further down for it to burst here. The water’s obviously been backing up for days. There’s not much we can do about it until the adit has emptied itself.’

  ‘Where is the water going?’

  ‘On to the road, as you can see. And then to wherever is downhill from here. You’ll have to find another way round.’

  ‘I’ll try Lea Road.’

  ‘I think you’ll find Lea Road is already closed, mate.’

  Cooper turned the Toyota round but a few minutes later he discovered the council workman was right. He could see across the valley that the road running down from Holloway into Cromford was flooded in two places, at Bow Wood near the car park for High Peak Junction, and again between St Mary’s Church and the railway station, where the rugby field was well under water.

  Down in the village, the water was three feet deep, and sandbags were piled at every door. People were always shocked by the speed that this could happen. Within twelve hours of heavy rain, you could find the waterline three feet up your walls and stinking brown sludge filling your ground-floor rooms.

  No vehicles could get through in these conditions. Driving at any speed into water more than about fifteen centimetres deep could feel like driving into a brick wall. Unexpected patches of deeper water might be hidden by a bend or a dip in the road. Just two feet of standing water could float your car, and just one foot of water if it was moving. As wheels failed to hold their grip, you lost control.

  The Toyota had an air intake higher off the ground then most modern cars, so Cooper had an advantage. But even a four-by-four vehicle could get swept away by flood water. It might be four-wheel drive, but it wasn’t amphibious. The abandoned cars standing in deep water for hours would need to have their spark plugs or injectors removed and their engines turned over to expel water from the cylinders before anyone tried starting them. But he bet that wouldn’t happen in a lot of cases. There would be a surge of claims on motor insurance policies for Glen Turner’s colleagues at Prospectus Assurance to deal with in the next few days.

  Walking could be just as dangerous. If the flow reached four miles per hour, anyone would be knocked off their feet and never be able to regain their footing.

  Cooper left his car, and looked over the wall. These low lying fields would have been constantly waterlogged at one time, a permanent marshland. Derbyshire’s answer to the Everglades. But the path through them was an ancient trackway. Centuries ago, stones had been laid to raise it above ground level, so that people were able to walk across the marshy fields. The river that started as a trickle a few miles to the north-west had collected water from the surrounding hills and swollen to a powerful torrent by the time it reached this point. A substantial bridge had been built to cross it. The meadows on either side had been flooded a week earlier, and large pools of surface water had been left behind. It was strange to think that the climate here was classified as a Marine West Coast. Temperate summers, and no dry season, waterlogged soils with poor drainage.

  Beyond the river, the trees of Shining Cliff Woods look dark and eerie. It had started to rain again, not with a gentle transition but a dramatic opening of the sluice gates, a torrent of water instantly cascading through the air. If he was to reach his objective, he would have to drive all the way round via Wirksworth.

  Cooper looked north, back towards Carl Wark’s stone ramparts, which marked the edge of the Dark Peak. A large part of him felt he belonged up there, among the bleak expanses of peat moor and the twisted gritstone outcrops. He’d felt at home in the darkness, surrounded by hostile reality. It had reflected what was happening inside him.

  There was only one place Ben Cooper could be heading for. Diane Fry called into the office and obtained the address of Josh Lane. A mobile home park? She looked at a map and struggled to locate it. She was lost in this area without someone like Cooper or Irvine to give her directions.

  Fry put her foot down and drove on through the rain, peering through the water that sluiced across her windscreen to catch a glimpse of a signpost or a familiar landmark. The Peak District looked darker and more dangerous than she’d seen it in all these years.

  Cooper could see the rising flood water lapping at the walls of the homes in the lower part of Derwent Park. Some residents had already left, advised to evacuate by the police. Others had stayed, determined not to be forced out of their homes but to see it out, trusting that the flood would subside within a few hours. This was England, after all, not New Orleans or the Indian Ocean. Surely the weather would change soon, and things would be back to normal, except for a major clean-up operation.

  A church stood on higher ground in the nearby village, but no one had gone there. Even in the middle of a natural disaster, they didn’t think of turning to God, but preferred to rely on a few sandbags. Those who had left were refugees now, with suitcases and carrier bags.

  Outside, fence posts dragged out of the earth by the flood bobbed to the surface. A sheep tried to swim, its eyes wild with fear as it was carried along by the current. The river had burst its banks, spilling out over the lower-lying fields, spreading inexorably into the bumps and hollows of the abandoned lead mines, filling the shallow bowls between the old spoil heaps and pouring through holes in the crude concrete caps that covered the shafts.

  Josh Lane’s home stood on its own shrinking island. Finally, Cooper saw his car, the silver grey Honda. Lane was trying to make a run for it. Had someone tipped him off? Who would do that? Cooper didn’t have time to worry about it.

  It was obvious that Lane had left it too late. All the other residents of Derwent Park had been evacuated but Lane must have been concerned with packing his belongings into the Honda. By the time he came out and got into his car, the roadway was already submerged, and water was lapping at the base of his mobile home.

  But like so many other motorists that week, Lane decided to risk it. He pointed the Honda towards the exit and drove into the water, hoping for the best. Cooper could see that he was driving too fast: his instinct was to put his foot down and get to the safety of the public road as quickly as possible. But it didn’t wo
rk that way when you were driving in a flood.

  Within seconds, the car had stalled. But then it began to move slightly. Not under control, but bobbing in the water as its wheels left the road surface. Its bonnet slewed to the left, in the direction of the current. A moment later, it was floating freely, swept away by a powerful flow of water strong enough to lift a car clean off the road.

  A hundred yards downstream was a low stone bridge, a single arch carrying the little back road from Cromford over the stream. Already, the level of the water was almost up to the top of the arch. As Lane’s Honda spun in the current, it gathered speed until it was heading rapidly towards the bridge. A few seconds later, a bang and a crash of metal against stone told Cooper that the car had impacted with the bridge.

  He ran towards his Toyota and started the engine. Slowly he crept down the road, staying in first gear, trying not to send up too much of a bow wave, slipping the clutch and revving the engine to clear the exhaust and keep the engine running if any water splashed on to the electrics.

  In a shallow dip, the Toyota began to aquaplane. He held the steering wheel lightly and lifted his foot off the accelerator until the tyres regained their grip. Like many four-wheel drive vehicles, this one had a high-level air intake, allowing him to drive through water a few feet deep, though he knew he could say goodbye to his carpet. And even a four-by-four could be swept away in flowing water.

  Cooper felt his wheels start to lose grip again halfway through the flooded section. The car was trying to float. He opened the driver’s door and allowed some water into the car to weigh it down until the tyres gripped the road surface again. At the same time, he continued revving the engine and slipping the clutch.

  Finally, he reached the bridge. He slid the Toyota to a halt and looked down at the trapped car. When he stepped out of the driver’s door, he was relieved to feel tarmac beneath an inch or two of water streaming down towards the flood below.

  He leaned over the low parapet. Josh Lane’s Honda was firmly jammed against the side of the bridge, its roof touching the top of the arch. The immense pressure of the torrent rushing downstream was pinning it against the stone like an insect crushed by a giant hand. The driver’s side window was partly wound down, and Cooper saw a struggling figure, arms flailing against the white blanket of an airbag inflated by the impact.

  As Cooper watched, Lane managed to get his head and part of his upper body through the window, then became stuck. The electrical wiring was dead, so the window wouldn’t wind down any further. And the pressure of the water was too strong for him to push against, even if there had been room to open the door against the stone arch. From here, he looked no more than a bundle of clothes, the material of his anorak billowing out in the water.

  Looking down from his vantage point, Cooper realised this was his best opportunity. Josh Lane was at his mercy. It was the moment he’d been dreaming of for months, his chance to take revenge for the death of Liz. On this bridge, he’d been presented with the possibility of achieving justice, at least a kind of justice that would make sense in his own world. All his thoughts and nightmares had been concentrated on the arrival of this moment. What was it Matt had said? For God’s sake, do something about it, or move on.

  He felt as though everything had led him to this point. The system had let him down all the way along the line. It had been made clear to him that Josh Lane would never face real justice. It was as clear as it could possibly be. And yet chance had presented him with this opportunity. If this wasn’t fate, he didn’t know what was. Destiny had put him on this bridge at this moment, and he knew what he had to do.

  With slow deliberation, Cooper opened the boot of his Toyota. Thanks to Matt, he had exactly what he needed.

  Diane Fry’s Audi ploughed into the water, sending up great tidal waves on either side. The surge hit the stone walls edging the road then was forced back towards her, water swamping her bonnet and lapping right up against the windscreen. Suddenly, the engine coughed and died.

  Fry tried her key in the ignition, but could get no spark. She looked down, and saw water creeping under the door sills and trickling from the engine compartment below the dashboard. The carpet behind her accelerator and brake pedals was already glistening with damp. The floor squelched when she moved her foot.

  ‘Damn.’

  Ben Cooper stood in the torrential rain. He was without his waxed coat now, had nothing to cover his head, but was apparently oblivious to the water soaking his clothes and plastering his hair to his skull. His shirt darkened, the rain ran down his arms and dripped from his fingers. He raised his hand slowly and looked at his wet palms, stared down at the widening pool at his feet, the stream gushing down the side of the road in front of him.

  His face was wet, and he blinked his eyes to clear his vision. But all he could see was water. He was surrounded by a world of it, rain falling all around him and covering the earth. If he stood still long enough, he imagined, it would continue to rise steadily until it was over his head. And he’d be standing in ocean where once the Peak District had been.

  He recalled being taught in school that three hundred million years ago Derbyshire had been covered by a series of shallow tropical lagoons, that the crags of Winnats Pass were formed from coral reefs: fossilised sea creatures could still be dug out of the limestone slopes. It had been impossible to imagine then.

  But standing in the centre of the deluge, he knew that everything came full circle, that human existence was no more than a few hours in the history of the earth and the life of one human being over in a second.

  His superstitious ancestors had dreaded fire and flood. But they’d been frightened of a lot of things. Every bump in the night was a devil at the door, every stranger a spy, every bird an ill omen. They lived in terror of the natural and the supernatural until finally they faced their greatest fear of all – death itself.

  Gradually he became conscious of a voice. Someone was shouting. As his awareness returned, he began to shiver. This was no tropical sea he was standing in. The rain was freezing.

  Diane Fry was wading through water that came almost up to her waist. Finally, Cooper saw her and shouted.

  ‘Diane, what are you doing?’

  ‘I came to find you.’

  ‘For God’s sake, if you lose your footing, that water will sweep you away. You could be killed.’

  ‘Well, help me out, then.’

  When he pulled her up to the bridge, she saw a body on the ground, streaming water.

  ‘Josh Lane,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What have you done?’

  Fry gripped the edge of the parapet and stared down at the trapped Honda. The flood water was up to its roof now, but she could see the smashed windscreen. She could also make out a sledgehammer wedged through the broken glass.

  She turned back and looked at Cooper, noticing now his sodden clothes, the blood trickling from half a dozen cuts on his hands. The body on the ground groaned, coughed out a gush of water, and gasped for breath.

  ‘You pulled him out of the car,’ said Fry.

  Cooper looked down at the ground, as if baffled by what he saw.

  ‘Of course I did,’ he said.

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Tuesday

  Ben Cooper had become a hero. No one quite knew how that had happened, least of all Cooper.

  When he came into West Street on Tuesday morning he looked almost the old Cooper, clean shaven and upright, though he was several pounds thinner and the shadow in his eyes was still there, the way that Fry had seen it in Wirksworth a few days ago.

  She watched Cooper shaking hands with everyone – Gavin Murfin, Luke Irvine, Becky Hurst. And of course Carol Villiers, though that was hardly necessary. Fry felt sure that none of them needed to be quite so enthusiastic about his reappearance.

  No matter what had happened, and what anyone else said, she didn’t feel able to treat Cooper like a hero. She was aware of what had been in his heart, if not in his mind. And s
he knew how close it had come to ending completely differently.

  But with the shotgun safely back in its locked cabinet at Bridge End Farm, there seemed to be no reason to mention it to anyone now. It felt strange to be sharing a secret with Matt Cooper, but there were stranger things in life.

  Detective Superintendent Branagh came through the office to greet Cooper. Another handshake there. Branagh stopped at Fry’s elbow, and smiled.

  ‘It was good to have DS Cooper’s input, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘If only unofficially.’

  Fry swallowed. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  No need to ask where that intelligence came from, then.

  By the time Fry finally got Cooper on his own she was fighting conflicting emotions. That always made her say the wrong thing.

  ‘Ben, I know you’ve been talking to members of my team,’ she said. ‘Trying to get information out of them. Don’t do it again. I don’t need to remind you – while you’re on leave, you’re just another member of the public.’

  Cooper gazed back at her, unblinking.

  ‘If you mean Carol, she’s my friend,’ he said simply.

  Fry bit her lip. For some reason, that reply hurt her more than anything else he might have said. She didn’t understand the sudden welling of pain it had caused, a confusing ache in her stomach as her diaphragm spasmed. She was overwhelmed by a desire to lash out in retaliation, as if she’d been physically attacked.

  As Cooper walked away, she remembered Carol Villiers saying that it was the name of Turner’s employers Prospectus Assurance that had sparked Cooper’s interest in the first place. At the time, she’d thought it was just familiarity, that he’d heard of the firm before. They had offices in Edendale, after all. But then, Ben Cooper had heard of everybody. He was the fount of all local knowledge. The name of one specific Eden Valley firm shouldn’t have made a particularly deep impression on him. There was more to it than that. There always was.

  Fry shook her head. It ought to have dawned on her before. Why hadn’t she figured this out earlier? She’d failed to see that something else might have been going on in Cooper’s mind. Something much more devious and worrying. Perhaps an indication of how close he was to tipping over the edge, how dangerously unbalanced he’d become.