The Murder Road: A Cooper & Fry Mystery

by Stephen Booth

  ‘I was wondering if there’s anyone you can call,’ said Cooper. ‘Someone who can come and be with you. It’s best not to be alone when something upsetting happens like this.’

  Pat Turner didn’t look all that upset by her brother’s suicide, but the principle was the same. She might feel it as a relief now, an inevitable end to the problems of the last few years. But it could hit her badly later. And he wouldn’t be here by then, or anyone else from his team. There would be no family liaison officer allocated to Mrs Turner, as there would be in a murder case.

  ‘John wouldn’t be able to come home from work. He’s much too busy,’ she said.

  ‘A neighbour perhaps?’

  ‘I don’t know them that well.’

  ‘There must be someone.’

  ‘I do have a friend who lives nearby. Should I phone her?’

  Cooper noted her voice already faltering uncertainly. Who knew how she might feel in an hour or two?

  ‘Yes, I think that would be best,’ he said.

  That evening, when he went off duty, Ben Cooper called at Bridge End Farm to see his brother and his family. He didn’t get to Bridge End as often as he used to, though his memories of growing up here hadn’t faded at all.

  Every visit to his old home was comforting yet strangely distancing at the same time, as if each occasion he came here was one more step away from his past. Perhaps there was only so much nostalgia to draw from and soon the well would be dry. Then the farm would no longer be recognisable as the place he saw in his memories.

  The mind was perfectly capable of such tricks. It created false recollections layer by layer, until your remembrance had drifted well beyond reality. Sometimes that was a good thing.

  Driving down the track to Bridge End still felt the same, though. He had to twist the steering wheel at all the same points along the way to avoid the potholes, though tonight he was conscious of the jarring on the suspension of his new car. No matter how often Matt carried out repairs to the track with hardcore and compacted earth, the first heavy rain of the winter washed it all away again. Water that came rushing down from the hillside turned it into a river, sometimes overwhelming the field drains and flooding the yard.

  Just like at Higher Fold Farm, some stretches of dry-stone wall were beginning to bulge and would collapse within a season or two. It was an endless task keeping those miles and miles of wall in good condition. More repairs were inevitable. Like death and paperwork. Other things were changing, of course. His nieces, Amy and Josie, were growing up fast – and the trials of their teenage years weren’t making Matt’s temper any better. Well, that was unavoidable too.

  Soon he’d left the Toyota in the yard, wincing at the mud and fresh cow manure coating its tyres and splashed onto the paintwork. Inside, the farmhouse was warm and cosy, as always. Matt relaxed with him in the sitting room. This rare hour when they sat down together was good for both of them. They’d been so close as boys that it was vital to take the opportunity to talk when they could.

  Ben had always thought he and Matt had little in common physically, except perhaps a look of their late father around the eyes and nose. It was Matt who’d inherited their father’s size, the wide shoulders, the enormous hands – and the uncertain temper. But spending time with his younger brother seemed to provide an outlet.

  After catching up on the latest family news, Matt had begun to grumble. He was talking about a farmer further down the valley who’d decided to move with the times and was now selling mature ewes and wethers for mutton in the halal market. There was a rapidly growing demand, apparently. Mutton had gone out of fashion in England more than a century ago, when consumers switched to lamb. Sheep were slaughtered at a younger age to suit the change in tastes, and an endless supply of refrigerated meat from New Zealand made lamb available all the year round.

  Ben remembered reading The Diary of Samuel Pepys and novels by Dickens as a child and wondering why everyone in London ate mutton, when it no longer seemed to exist in the world he lived in. But mutton was making a comeback now, thanks to a changing ethnicity.

  ‘Shetlands are the breed he wants,’ said Matt. ‘Shetlands in Derbyshire? It seems all wrong to me.’

  ‘Perhaps it will work out okay for him.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Ben smiled. Every change in farming seemed wrong to Matt. If he’d been born a generation or two earlier, he’d have been shaking his head in disbelief at those new-fangled tractors.

  If Shawhead had been nearer to Bridge End, he might have asked Matt about the farmers there, Grant Swindells and Jack Lawson. But Matt’s world ended at Bakewell Agricultural Centre in the south and Buxton Market in the west. Anyone beyond that was a foreigner. New Mills was outside the edges of the known universe.

  His sister-in-law Kate was busy somewhere else in the house. Probably in the kitchen, judging from the enticing smells. In the past Amy and Josie would have been thrilled to see him. He missed the days when they would have run to meet him as soon as they heard his car and would throw their arms round him shouting with delight. Now it was different. The girls came to say hello, but without any great enthusiasm, then went back to their rooms as soon as they could, to do whatever teenage girls did in their rooms. He didn’t know and he felt sure Matt had never even dared to ask. Maybe they were texting their friends, or skyping, or updating their Facebook profiles, or playing Angry Birds.

  ‘We were in town on Monday night,’ said Matt. ‘We called at Welbeck Street to see how you’d got on with the house viewing. But you weren’t at home.’

  ‘No, I was down at Diane’s place in Nottingham,’ said Ben.

  Immediately, Matt narrowed his eyes at the mention of Diane Fry’s name. It was the closest he’d ever come to warning his brother off.

  Matt had met Fry a couple of times. And he wasn’t impressed, to say the least. Though he couldn’t have been described as the most sensitive of people, or the best judge of character, he’d made his reaction clear in this case. Ben could recall his brother looking at Fry with the same expression on his face that he used when he found a ewe suffering from advanced foot rot. It was a mixture of disgust at the noxious smell, irritation at the work involved in dealing with a problem – and a hint of pity for a suffering animal.

  Since Matt had become aware that there was more between Ben and his old colleague than a working relationship, he’d developed a version of that expression for every mention of her. He would probably never say anything, would shy away from speaking his mind out loud. But then, he didn’t need to. The Cooper brothers had always been able to communicate their feelings without the need for words.

  Ben smiled as he saw his brother’s expression. Would he bring himself to say something one day? Perhaps he would have to. Even if it was only a reluctant ‘congratulations’.

  He made a bit more small talk with Matt, telling him about the house viewing, but sensing all the while that the predictable question was coming. His brother was more interested in things than in people. Preferably mechanical things with engines.

  ‘And how’s the new car, by the way?’ he said.

  Ben sighed. ‘Right now,’ he said, ‘it’s covered in mud.’

  17

  Thursday 12 February

  Ben Cooper had found it difficult to sleep. He felt so restless that he was up and out of the flat well before daylight. The roads out of Edendale were empty, the moors black and forbidding against a heavy blanket of cloud.

  Because it was so quiet and free of tourists, he decided to head through Castleton and drive over the Winnats Pass. The limestone crags loomed towards the sky on either side of him as he climbed the narrow road, his headlights picking out the reflection from sheep’s eyes as they clustered close to the unfenced tarmac.

  This was another road completely unsuitable for heavy goods vehicles. But since the land slips from Mam Tor had permanently closed the old A625 in the 1970s, there was no alternative route westwards out of Castleton.

  It took him
less than half an hour to reach New Mills. The town was just stirring into life, commuters setting off on their journeys into Stockport or Manchester, or perhaps even further afield. Some of these motorists would be joining rush hour congestion on the M60. He didn’t envy them at all.

  It was just before 7 a.m. when he parked on Union Road near the headquarters of the Plain English Campaign. The first hint of dawn was starting to show in the sky to the east, but the sun wouldn’t rise for another half hour or so.

  He found the steps down into the Torrs and descended carefully, hanging on to the handrail as he left the street lights of the town behind him and headed into the darkness of the gorge. As his eyes adjusted, he could see the river foaming over the weir and the high arches of the Union Road bridge, with the lights of traffic passing over it.

  But Cooper turned away from the bridge and the hydro project and stepped onto the walkway. He followed its course as it swung towards the bend in the river, with the burned-out shell of the wrecked mill building on his left and the water rushing underneath. The roar of the weir echoing off the sides of the gorge filled his ears and drove out any thoughts of the town and the traffic.

  He leaned over the rail for a moment, but felt uncomfortably disorientated by the awareness of the drop into the darkness below his feet and drew back again. He’d reached the point in the cantilevered section where Scott Brooks had been found hanging.

  Cooper could see the appeal of the walkway. Down here it felt completely remote from the town just starting to come awake above his head. Scott had chosen the location with care, the way he’d done everything else. The plan had been fully worked out. Even the messages left around the house were part of it. Cooper felt sure of that now. They hadn’t really been meant for the dead Ashley. They were intended to be read by whoever came to the house when his suicide was discovered. The door had stood open so they would have no problems getting in. Scott had set the scene for them to find.

  What a pity, then, that his suicide note was so vague. A bit more information would have helped tremendously. Had Scott deliberately decided to be ambiguous at that point? Or had he lost confidence as he stood here on the walkway, with the rope in his hand and the drop to the river in front of him?

  Cooper could imagine how Scott Brooks had felt, but only up to this moment. The act of calmly and deliberately taking your own life was beyond his comprehension. Some people said it was the easy way out. But, as he stared at the foaming water in the darkness below, Cooper knew it must have taken an awful lot of courage.

  Perhaps Scott genuinely believed that he would be joining Ashley somewhere in death. That would be the only justification. Had that belief carried him along in his carefully laid-out plan, even in the face of the reality of this final moment? Cooper hadn’t gained a picture of Scott Brooks as a particularly spiritual man. But who really knew what went on in people’s minds in these circumstances?

  With an effort, Cooper pulled himself away from his contemplation of the drop from the walkway. The noise and movement of the water down there had started to seem too hypnotic, even enticing.

  He continued along the walkway, accompanied only by the sound of his own footsteps, passing round the sweeping bend to the other side of the mill and climbing the slope from the walkway up towards the signal box.

  He found himself standing on Station Road at the entrance to New Mills Central. There was traffic here, cars crawling over the narrow bridge in the hope of finding a parking spot near the station. It was only a few minutes to sunrise now, but it was still gloomy. The commuters looked miserable as they passed through the gate into the station, shoulders hunched in their coats. No one gave the impression that they were looking forward to their journey into Manchester. But it must be their own choice to do this every day.

  The Cooper saw someone he recognised. Unsure at first, he crossed Station Road and watched the figure join the crowd on the platform. Like train users everywhere, they were all staring anxiously up the line, watching for the first glimpse of an approaching train.

  Yes, it was definitely Ian Hibbert from Shawhead Cottages. Cooper recollected that Hibbert was the one who worked for a marketing consultancy. Something to do with financial planning? He had been most worried about the blocked road at Shawhead, because of his important job. But this morning he looked so miserable as he waited for a Manchester train that he ought to have been glad of an excuse for a day off, surely?

  Well, everyone was different. Maybe Mr Hibbert thought his work was vital and his presence at the marketing consultancy indispensable.

  Cooper saw a flurry of movement on the platform and a second later he heard a train arriving. The track passed along the high retaining wall over the walkway and the train was soon pulling into the station. Doors slammed and the platform rapidly emptied.

  Cooper looked at his watch as the train drew out again. It was seven thirty-nine. The sun was just coming up.

  But he needed to stop off somewhere for a coffee before he headed back into Edendale for a day’s work. There were some things he’d found he couldn’t manage without. A full night’s sleep wasn’t always necessary. But coffee was.

  As a result Cooper barely had time to prepare for Thursday morning’s briefing at West Street. He wanted to tell Detective Superintendent Branagh that he had some useful leads to follow. But right now he’d be struggling to explain where they led.

  So far the forensic haul from the bridge scene had been pitiful. Amanda Hibbert’s fingerprints were on the door handle of the lorry’s cab and on the bloodstained delivery docket. Some of the prints on the bodywork could be hers too. They were too smudged to be definite, but there were a number of comparison points.

  And what else did he have? Well, he had a mass of circumstantial details. There were tyre impressions on the track of the old mineral line that passed over the disused part of the bridge, and broken branches on the sapling growing out of the stonework in the gap between the two arches.

  Those details, taken with the scuffed shoe marks on the roof of the trapped lorry, gave him a picture of someone dropping onto the cab from above. It was a possibility to consider, but it wasn’t hard evidence.

  Then he had the height sign that had fallen, or been removed, from the arch on the approach to the bridge. He read through the forensic report again. He couldn’t see any reference to an examination of the screw holes where the sign had originally been positioned. It would be helpful to know whether the sign had been ripped off deliberately. Scenes of Crime would have to get their ladders out again.

  And then there was the diversion sign. The two uniformed officers he’d sent to do a search had come up with the goods. The yellow sign had been thrown over a wall at the corner of Cloughpit Lane. Its arrow pointed to the left.

  No viable prints had been recovered from either of the two signs, which was a shame. It meant they would have to be discounted as firm indications of a planned ambush. They might just be a result of coincidental vandalism or mischief. But as a whole they were definitely suggestive.

  He went into the briefing hoping for some more positive news from the forensic examination. For that he had to reply on the Crime Scene Manager, Wayne Abbott.

  ‘First of all there’s the site where the body was concealed,’ said Abbott when everyone had gathered together. ‘The makeshift grave, if you want to call it that. We’ve lifted some prints off the smoother stones. The ones at the bottom of the pile were dry and protected, so the prints were clear enough.’

  ‘Did you get a match on the database?’

  ‘No such luck. But then, you probably didn’t expect that.’

  ‘It was a long shot,’ admitted Cooper.

  Abbott shook his head. ‘You’re just going to have to find a suspect we can compare prints from.’

  ‘Easier said than done.’

  ‘Well, fortunately, that’s your job,’ said Abbott, with a smile. ‘We do hope to get a DNA profile from the unidentified fingerprints in the cab. Whoever left them was s
weating. There’s enough residue for the lab to work on.’

  ‘That would be great.’

  ‘It takes time, of course.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes, the satnav. You asked us to examine it. It was in car mode.’

  ‘It was? That’s interesting.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, this wasn’t specifically asked for, but we did a full examination of the satnav device. We recovered a number of fingerprints from the casing. Many of them were Mr Kelsey’s, of course. But they were overlaid by a set of partials. As far as we can tell, they match the prints taken from the door handle of the cab.

  ‘Raising the possibility that whoever was in Kelsey’s cab changed the settings on his satnav. Perhaps with the intention of making it look as though it had led him onto the wrong road. Whereas in fact he’d learned from his previous incident not to rely on his satnav too much, but to use his common sense.’

  Cooper made a note. So the satnav settings had been changed, but it was impossible to tell when it had been done. That was of limited help too.

  ‘We’ve analysed the victim’s mobile phone records,’ said Abbott. ‘There were no calls within the last hour before the estimated time of his collision with the bridge. Or afterwards, which is perhaps more surprising.’

  ‘We know that his depot didn’t get a call from him when he got trapped,’ said Carol Villiers. ‘And whatever happened, he didn’t have the chance to phone for help.’

  Cooper turned to Abbott again. ‘What about earlier calls?’

  ‘There’s nothing of any interest in Malcolm Kelsey’s phone records. A fairly normal number of calls home and to his employer’s number. Nothing that stands out at all.’

  ‘His wife has no helpful information either, unfortunately,’ said Cooper. ‘We need to get the names of some close friends we can interview. They might well have a different perspective. There might be somebody he talked to in the pub. And did we recover Mr Kelsey’s car from Windmill Feed Solutions?’