‘So what makes you think this is more than just a suicide, Becky?’
‘Well, I’m not saying that exactly. But I do think there’s a connection with the Shawhead murder inquiry. It may mean nothing, of course . . .’
‘Don’t doubt yourself so much,’ said Cooper. ‘Your instincts are good.’
Hurst smiled. ‘Thanks.’
‘So . . . ?’
‘Mr Brooks left a note.’
She handed Cooper a plastic evidence bag. It contained a single sheet of white A4 paper, folded in half. There were only a few lines printed on it.
I didn’t intend anyone to die. It was all a misunderstanding. Don’t blame them. For Ashley’s sake.
Cooper read it through a second time. It was hardly very informative.
‘Who’s Ashley?’ he said.
‘It looks as though she’s his wife, or girlfriend at least. There’s a photo in his wallet. See, it says, “Ashley and Scott” on the back.’
It looked like a holiday snap, two young people smiling in bright sunlight against a backdrop of deep blue sky and a glint of sea. The woman was very striking – not what he would have called beautiful, or even pretty, but eye-catching. Her face seemed full of life and personality. Her eyes glowed with a warmth and a glitter of amusement that would have caught any eye.
‘It’s quite an old photo,’ said Hurst. ‘He looks ten years younger there.’
Cooper hadn’t seen the face of the suicide. He could go down and ask for the body bag to be unzipped, but it didn’t seem necessary. There would be pictures later and Hurst had already experienced the unpleasant task of viewing the corpse. But she was doing very well to see past the bloated features, bulging eyes and discoloured flesh of the typical hanging victim.
‘How can you tell, Becky?’ he said.
‘He’s much slimmer in the photo,’ said Hurst. ‘I’d say he’s put on a stone or two since then. And he had more hair in those days too. The man who’s just hanged himself looks unkempt. I’d say he wasn’t in the best of conditions, even when he was alive.’
Cooper nodded, still studying the woman in the photograph.
‘A memory of a happier time, perhaps,’ said Hurst.
‘Yes. I’m sure you’re right.’
Cooper couldn’t look at her. Hurst had made the remark so casually that she must be completely unaware of how deeply it had pierced him. Cooper had a similar photograph in his own wallet, taken when Liz was alive, on the day they’d got engaged. He understood the need to keep a memento of a happier time close to your heart.
He wondered if his photograph with Liz would get as old as the one Scott Brooks had carried. He hoped so. And it would probably start to look as dated too. He would age and he would no longer look the same. In time he might become unrecognisable as the happy young man in the picture. Only Liz would stay preserved, the same for ever.
‘She would be his next of kin then,’ he said.
‘If she’s still alive,’ said Hurst.
And that struck even deeper. For a moment Cooper felt dizzy, as if he was falling towards the river. But he shook himself to clear his head and forced himself to focus on the facts he was being presented with.
Two bodies within three miles of each other on the same day – that was certainly out of the ordinary in this area, even if one of them was a suicide. He couldn’t ignore the potential significance, the possibility of a connection. A murder, followed by a suicide? It was an old, familiar pattern in criminal investigation. And the note suggested guilt as a motive for Scott Brooks taking his own life. But Cooper knew he needed more. A lot more. If he was going to get anything concrete, he would have to let Becky Hurst follow those instincts of hers and see what she came up with.
‘Get someone on to tracing Mr Brooks’ movements,’ he said. ‘He must have been seen around town, and probably recognised if he lived in New Mills. Shops he might have called at. Pubs nearby. People often need a few drinks before they have the courage to do something like this. And he might have a car parked not far away.’
Slowly, Cooper and Hurst walked back to the steps leading up to Union Road. Here the Torrs were overlooked by the balconies of some flats behind a vegetarian café. One of the flats was available to let – Cooper could see a board for the estate agents whose offices stood directly opposite on Union Road.
‘And we’ll need to speak to the residents of those flats,’ said Hurst, without being told.
Cooper nodded, though he held out little hope of getting an account of what had happened. The story was probably very simple anyway. Yet one more desperate person who couldn’t take living any more. It was so common that it was hardly worth commenting on, barely something to notice as you went about your daily routine.
Scott Brooks had lived in a terraced house in the Peak Road area of New Mills, with just enough space to get a car off the road if you didn’t care about having a front garden. Nearby, several vehicles were parked half on the road and half on the pavement. Their wheels had churned a thin strip of grass into mud and potholes. All along the street a row of satellite dishes pointed east, as if they were all praying to Mecca.
A fancy letterbox on a line of decorative brickwork was the only ornamentation on the frontage of Mr Brooks’ house. Vertical blinds were drawn shut on all the windows. And the front door stood open.
‘A break-in?’ said Hurst quietly.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Cooper. ‘But we’d better check there’s no one in the house first.’
But the house was empty. And it seemed tidy too. No signs of intruders ransacking the place after finding the door unlocked. In fact, it was tidier than Cooper’s flat. Unusual, for a man living on his own.
‘So why was the door open?’ said Hurst, puzzled.
‘I think he knew someone would be coming,’ said Cooper. ‘I’ll be okay here for a while, Becky. Go round and speak to any neighbours you can find.’
‘I’m on it.’
Scott Brooks’ home was a typical council house, part of a terraced row of identical properties, with two bedrooms upstairs and a small patch of garden at the back.
Displayed on the window ledge in the sitting room were photos of Ashley and a few of Scott and Ashley together, some obviously taken on their wedding day. The usual poses loved by wedding photographers. To Cooper’s eye, Ashley had a hard look, a coldness in her eyes that belied the smile she’d put on for the photographer and didn’t suit the white veil and the flowers and the scattering of confetti. It looked like a perfect day. But he sensed that Ashley had never been the perfect bride.
The smallest of the bedrooms had been in use as a study or library. Brooks had put a desk in there with a computer that looked well past its best days. Cooper didn’t bother trying to switch it on. It was probably password-protected. And he could guess what its owner might have been doing on it anyway.
Many individuals who planned to kill themselves now used the internet to research the best methods. Scott Brooks had been very organised. It was likely that he’d taken advice from some websites when he planned his death. He’d used that thin scarf as padding to prevent the rope cutting into his neck. And he’d known that it was important to avoid interruption. If someone intervened during a hanging, it might save the victim, but was likely to result in permanent brain damage.
And Mr Brooks might even have calculated the optimum length of the rope. Too short and he would strangle himself, a long and painful death. But too long a drop could result in instant decapitation. Scott Brooks had got it pretty much right.
The walls of the study were covered in bookshelves. Cooper ran his eye over row on row of classic novels in old editions dating back several decades at least. Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy, Anthony Trollope. They were the sort of books many people only saw when they had to study them at school. The pages were dog-eared and the spines were cracked from frequent use. Scott must have picked them up for a few pence at second-hand bookshops. As a result the room was full of the distinctive
aroma of old books, the smell caused by chemicals breaking down in the ink and paper, and in the glue used for the bindings. That scent was like the headiest of perfumes to a book collector.
In the sitting room Cooper picked up a small square of pink paper pulled from a notepad. It had a line of adhesive on the back and had been stuck to the table. Just two words were written on the front in an ornate but slightly unsteady hand: For Ever.
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, as if he could sense a presence in the room. It was almost as though someone had spoken those words out loud. Cooper glanced over his shoulder. But Becky Hurst had gone to talk to the neighbours and there was no one else in the house. It was just his imagination.
As he walked round the house, Cooper collected more messages. There were dozens of them. The words varied, but they had the same theme. My Angel, Only You, Sweet Heart, I Want U, Ever Yours, Find Me, For Keeps, You and I, You’re Mine, Come Back To Me.
It began to feel relentless, as though the voice of Scott Brooks was pursuing him through the rooms, addressing him personally. But surely not him. Not Ben Cooper, or even some random police officer who’d come to Mr Brooks’ house after his suicide. These were addressed to someone else entirely. Someone who wasn’t here.
He was reading a final note when Hurst returned. Luv U 24/7. That looked like a text message.
‘I was right about the wife,’ said Hurst when she met Cooper at the door. ‘The neighbours say Mr Brooks was a widower. He lived on his own and didn’t talk to anyone. Some complained he was a bit snooty and thought he was too good for them. You know the sort of thing.’
‘Yes. That’s explains the graffiti on his fence. He wasn’t welcome here. A loner always attracts rumours and suspicion.’
‘One neighbour says he often saw Mr Brooks drinking around town. He went into lots of pubs, apparently.’
‘So that he wasn’t a regular anywhere. It sounds as though he was deliberately trying not to belong.’
‘But there is a sister living locally,’ said Hurst. ‘She’s probably next of kin.’
‘Can we get an address for her?’
‘That’s my next job,’ said Hurst.
‘Good. And if you find anything else significant, let DS Sharma know. I’ll be on my way back to Shawhead.’
‘Okay.’
‘What do you make of these, Becky?’ asked Cooper.
Hurst studied the messages, picking them up one by one and putting them down with an expression of slight distaste.
‘To be honest, they seem a bit creepy.’
‘Not romantic?’ said Cooper.
‘Perhaps, if he wasn’t living on his own. But the neighbours say his wife has been dead for eight years.’
‘Yes, in that case it does look a bit obsessive.’
‘Ever Yours, For Ever, You and I. That’s one thing,’ said Hurst. ‘But Come Back To Me? That’s weird.’
‘I suppose he was thinking that they’d meet again,’ said Cooper. ‘When he was dead, I mean.’
‘So perhaps he’d been planning it for some time. I’ll keep trying neighbours to see if I can find out more.’
Cooper picked up the note that said Come Back to Me. ‘But why leave the messages here? It was hardly as if she was going to walk through the door and see them.’
‘And they’re certainly not meant for us,’ said Hurst.
But Cooper frowned, repeating Hurst’s phrase to himself. He didn’t know why, but it sounded like one of those casual statements that seemed obvious at the time, but turned out to be completely opposite to the truth.
15
As he arrived back at the bridge scene in Shawhead, Cooper saw the Lawsons’ Range Rover go past, taking advantage of the road finally being open. Young Nick was in the passenger seat, with a dark-haired woman driving, presumably his mother. What was her name – Sarah?
At the same time a train approached the bridge. Even during his brief periods at the scene, Cooper was learning to distinguish between the Manchester express trains and the smaller local units, which had a distinctive rattle as they approached the bridge, rather than the whine of the express.
Carol Villiers had the scene well organised – the tape at the outer cordon securely attached instead of flapping in the breeze and trailing in the mud, and the line of vehicles neatly parked instead of stuck in at random angles. It was always Villiers sorting things out. That should be his sergeant’s job. But it just came naturally to Carol.
As he approached the cordon, Cooper spotted a figure lurking on the other side of the wall.
‘Mr Swindells?’
The farmer straightened up and stared at Cooper, as if he’d just happened to be passing and hadn’t realised anyone else was there.
‘Yes. What’s up now?’
‘I assume those are your sheep that we found buried in the field near the bridge?’
‘Well, that’s probably a good assumption. I mean, what are the chances of someone else sneaking in at night with a couple of dead sheep and burying them on my land? We get poachers round here sometimes, but they’re usually interested in taking animals away, not bringing them in.’
‘What happened to the sheep?’ said Cooper patiently. ‘How did they die?’
Swindells stared at him. ‘What interest is it to you?’
‘If you could just answer the question, sir.’
‘A fox got them, or maybe somebody’s dog. It happens. They even die of old age sometimes. Sheep are like that.’
‘It wasn’t anything to do with the incident at the bridge?’
Swindells frowned. He looked genuinely surprised and puzzled at the suggestion. ‘Some of the flock got onto the road,’ he said. ‘I reckon someone left a gate open. It might have been deliberate. It might just have been ramblers. I put the sheep back in the field. That’s all. The two ewes were dead before that.’
‘So was it you who buried them?’ asked Cooper.
‘Who else?’
‘When did you do it?’
The farmer shook his head. ‘I can’t remember. Sunday probably.’
‘You didn’t bury them very deeply, Mr Swindells.’
‘I didn’t have time. I’d normally get the tractor down to a dig a decent hole, but I was too busy that day. I just got them out of the way to keep the scavengers off. Dead animals attract all kinds of things you don’t want. What do you want with my dead sheep anyway?’
‘We might get a vet to take a look at them, to establish the cause of death.’
‘Help yourself,’ said Swindells with a shrug.
‘You mentioned poachers,’ said Cooper. ‘Have you had trouble recently?’
‘Not me. There was a bloke over Mellor way who lost some stock a month or two back. They come out from Manchester with a truck, you know. Sometimes they don’t even bother taking the sheep away. They just slaughter them in the field and leave the heads and innards.’
Swindells looked across the field at where the crime scene tents were up around Mac Kelsey’s shallow grave.
‘I kept meaning to repair that wall,’ he said.
‘How long has it been collapsed?’
‘About five years.’
Cooper laughed. ‘You could hire a dry-stone waller, you know. There are plenty of them around. You could get someone who’d do a proper, permanent job of the repairs.’
‘Wallers cost money,’ said Swindells. ‘Money I haven’t got. The best quote I could get is about forty pounds a square metre. That’s why I have to do everything myself round here.’
‘Thank you for letting us use your land for our vehicles,’ said Cooper. ‘We won’t be here any longer than necessary.’
Swindells pulled a face. ‘And that will be too long.’
DS Dev Sharma was gesturing from the collection of police vehicles and Cooper walked over to join him.
‘Have you got something?’ he said.
‘Yes, DC Hurst called in with this. She’s got a bit more on the suicide, Scott Brooks.’
/> ‘She works fast,’ said Cooper. ‘I only left her a few minutes ago.’
‘Well, it turns out Mr Brooks lost his wife in tragic circumstances,’ said Sharma.’
‘What happened?’
‘She was killed in a serious road traffic collision, when her car was hit by an HGV. The lorry driver was convicted of causing death by dangerous driving.’
‘A fatal accident?’ said Cooper. ‘Where did this take place?’
‘Well, nowhere near here. It was on a dual carriageway section of the A6, near the Bridgemont Roundabout.’
Cooper hunched his shoulders for a moment, his face creasing in pain, as if he’d been punched in the ribs. Then he relaxed again. But slowly.
‘Come with me.’
‘Sir?’
‘This way. Watch out for the brambles.’
They scrambled back up the slope, walked over the line of the old mineral track and reached the railway line.
‘DI Cooper, are you sure it’s safe?’
‘As long as you don’t hang about on the line. But you can go back and put on a high-vis jacket, if you feel it’s necessary.’
Sharma didn’t hesitate any longer. ‘No, all right. I’m coming.’
They crossed the rail line and crunched over a few feet of crushed stone, the bed of the track. Cooper leaned against the far parapet of the bridge and motioned Sharma to join him.
Below, the valleys of Black Brook and the River Goyt met a few hundred yards north of Whaley Bridge. Between this point and the opposite hills lay two rivers, a canal and another railway line. And, just visible among the trees in the bottom of the valley, streams of traffic moving in both directions on a major road, an articulated lorry painted in dark green on the inside lane, a red car coasting past it on the outside. A BMW or a Mercedes, paintwork catching a gleam of light.
‘Is that . . . ?’ asked Sharma.
‘Yes,’ said Cooper. ‘The A6.’
‘I had no idea. It’s all the hills, I suppose. And the way these little back roads twist and turn so much.’
The Murder Road: A Cooper & Fry Mystery Page 14