The Murder Road: A Cooper & Fry Mystery

by Stephen Booth

  ‘Yes, a silver-grey Renault Megane,’ said Villiers. ‘There’s nothing of any interest, so far as we can see.’

  Wayne Abbott was waiting patiently. Cooper checked his notes again. There was another vital question.

  ‘Did you find any sign of a weapon?’ he said.

  ‘Well now,’ said Abbott. He had that smile on his face again, the one Cooper was learning to distrust. ‘There was nothing near the body. Some of the stones had traces of blood on them, but none we could say with any certainty were used as a weapon. However . . .’

  Abbott pinned a set of photographs onto the board. Cooper leaned closer to make out what he was seeing.

  ‘The item on the left,’ said Abbott, ‘is a retractable shark knife. It’s a fairly common DIY tool used for carpet fitting, but also by delivery drivers for cutting nylon twine and packing tape, that sort of thing. The other two items are more unusual for a driver to possess. The middle one is a baseball bat. I don’t suppose Mr Kelsey played baseball in his spare time?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Perhaps it was kept for protection, then. The bat was stored under the sleeping compartment behind the driver’s seat. Now, on the right, you might recognise the third item . . . ?’

  ‘It’s a Taser,’ said Irvine.

  ‘Indeed. More accurately, a conducted electrical weapon made by Taser International. These items were all found concealed in the cab of the DAF when we conducted a thorough search in the garage.’

  ‘A Taser is classified as a prohibited weapon under the Firearms Act,’ said Sharma. ‘The maximum sentence for unauthorised possession is ten years in prison.’

  Abbott nodded. ‘Nevertheless – it seems your murder victim was in possession of one in the cab of his lorry.’

  A press conference was being held that morning. Ben Cooper was asked to sit at the table alongside Superintendent Branagh. He took his seat praying that he wouldn’t be called on to answer any questions. This was one part of the job that most coppers hated. But it was a necessary evil sometimes. The media had to be kept on side, in case they were needed at some point. Press appeals to the public could produce useful results, if all else failed.

  The death of Malcolm Kelsey wasn’t a high-profile case as far as the press were concerned, so there was only a small turnout. Cooper recognised Erin Byrne, chief reporter of the Eden Valley Times. From what he’d heard about the staff cuts they were going through, she might be the only senior reporter left now. But Edendale was lucky that it still had a local paper at all. Many other towns of a similar size had lost theirs already.

  When the opportunity came to ask questions, Byrne was the first one to raise her hand. Hazel Branagh nodded at her.

  ‘How certain are you that this is a murder inquiry, Superintendent?’ she asked.

  Branagh gave her a hard stare for a moment – not out of any anger probably, but simply because it was her usual expression.

  ‘While we don’t yet have a specific cause of death, the circumstances are clearly suspicious,’ she said. ‘I can tell you, for example, that significant efforts were made to conceal the body. Certain unidentified persons were involved in this incident, and we intend to find them and get an explanation of what happened to Malcolm Kelsey.’

  When the press had gone, Detective Superintendent Branagh sat down with Ben Cooper and asked him if there really was some possibility of getting answers.

  ‘I think we’re making real progress now,’ said Cooper. ‘Some active lines of enquiry to follow at least.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. But what connection could there be between the death of Malcom Kelsey and this suicide, Scott Brooks?’

  ‘At this moment we don’t know. We’re following up as many leads as we can. But all we can do is carry on asking questions everywhere until we turn something up. And keep our fingers crossed.’

  ‘At least let’s hope that Mr Kelsey’s death wasn’t a random killing,’ said Branagh, echoing the nagging worry that had been at the back of Cooper’s mind for two days.

  ‘Yes, let’s hope so. It might mean we have some chance of success.’

  Branagh frowned at a form on her desk.

  ‘I’ve been asked to sign something to do with deceased sheep,’ she said. ‘A post-mortem examination. Really?’

  Hesitantly, Cooper explained the possible significance of the sheep.

  ‘The owner, Mr Swindells, says the sheep were already dead. I asked for a vet to take a look at them, to see if we can get a cause of death.’

  ‘Is that necessary, Ben?’

  ‘It will confirm whether Mr Swindells is telling the truth. It eliminates a potential motive.’

  Branagh seemed happier with that.

  ‘Ah, motive,’ she said. ‘Yes. Money, jealousy, revenge? We can count out money, can’t we? There was no robbery in this case.’

  ‘It seems not,’ said Cooper.

  ‘But we always keep an open mind, don’t we?’

  ‘Of course we do.’

  ‘And Detective Sergeant Sharma?’ said Branagh.

  ‘Yes, ma’am?’

  ‘Fitting in, is he?’

  Cooper was at least beginning to feel that he knew Sharma a little bit better. He’d learned that his wife’s name was Asha, that they had no children yet, that they attended the Geeta Bhawan Temple on Pear Tree Road in Derby. It was information. But he still didn’t feel that he knew the man. He had a surface impression, but nothing deeper. Perhaps it would just take time. That didn’t mean it wouldn’t happen. Everyone had to be given a chance.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘DS Sharma is fitting in just fine.’

  Back in his own office, Cooper immediately began to have doubts. As he sat at his desk he found himself turning over in his mind the names of officers he might know well enough to ask for a discreet bit of information.

  There was a detective sergeant he’d been on a course with once, when he was still hoping for promotion to DI. Marston, was that his name? Yes, Phil Marston. Cooper remembered him as the sociable type, much happier leaning on a bar counter with a few mates than sitting in a classroom being lectured about the identification and management of operational resources.

  Marston had been aiming for inspector himself, but hadn’t made it yet. Perhaps he’d just been unlucky that no suitable vacancy had arisen. Instead he’d been put back into uniform for a while to get more experience and was now in charge of a response team in D Division.

  Cooper knew if he phoned Marston, he would have to put up with half an hour of grumbling about the pressure he was under, the shortage of staff, the impossible targets he was being given. But he would know Devdan Sharma.

  Yes, D Division might be bigger – it covered the city and some of the larger towns in the south of the county. But coppers were the same everywhere. They wanted to know who was getting promotion, who’d applied for a transfer, which officers had been commended by their divisional commander, or had been summoned for ‘words of advice’ after a complaint. It was amazing how fast speculation and rumour could be firmed up into positive intelligence. That applied to fellow officers as much as to members of the criminal community.

  Cooper looked up Marston’s number and found he was based at St Mary’s Wharf, just to the north of Derby city centre. He put in a call and left a message. Within a few minutes Marston rang him back.

  ‘A DI, then?’ he said straight away. ‘Do I have to call you “sir” now?’

  ‘You know you don’t.’

  It had been said lightly, but Cooper thought he detected more than a hint of resentment in the tone. It was understandable. Everyone wondered why someone else got promotion ahead of them. It was only human to conclude that there was some hidden reason for it. Influence in the right places, perhaps. But it might do no harm if Marston thought he had that sort of influence. The ability to put in a good word.

  ‘Devdan Sharma,’ said Cooper when he tentatively got around to the question after the obligatory small talk.


  ‘Sharma? Yes, he’s pretty well known in D Division.’

  ‘Is that a good thing?’

  ‘It’s good for your prospects. If the bosses are already aware of you, it’s an advantage when it comes to promotion time.’

  ‘You’ll make it soon,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll tell them you’ll give me a good reference, then.’ Marston laughed. ‘Sharma won’t have this trouble, though. All he has to do is keep his nose clean. Funny thing is, though . . .’

  ‘What, Phil?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure he has kept his nose clean. There was a bit of talk about his connections with the wrong type of people in the Asian community here in Derby. Nothing too major. Low-level organised crime. The story was that one of his DCs had gone to Professional Standards with a complaint about Sharma’s conduct.’

  ‘He didn’t go straight to his line manager?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  Cooper thought about that for a moment. An officer who failed to report suspicions about a colleague’s unprofessional conduct could face disciplinary action himself these days. But bypassing the management structure suggested a lack of confidence in the normal procedures.

  ‘And what happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Marston. ‘Well, that’s not quite true. The DC was shipped off to C Division shortly afterwards and he’s working in some out of the way place over there now. Staveley or Shirebrook, somewhere like that. Junkies mugging old ladies, retired coal miners having their whippets stolen. As for Sharma . . . well, you know all about that. You’ve got him.’

  18

  In the CID room Cooper found Luke Irvine not doing very much. He was used to finding Gavin Murfin doing that, or less. But he couldn’t accept it from Irvine.

  ‘Luke, have you confirmed Ian Hibbert’s movements on Monday?’ he said. ‘What time he arrived home, where he was when Mac Kelsey was killed?’

  ‘That’s my next job’, said Irvine defensively.

  Cooper could see he knew it was something he ought to have done by now.

  ‘And did you check on the theatre production Amanda Hibbert says she was involved in?’ he said.

  ‘No. But I could Google it.’

  Cooper stared at Irvine. Was he joking? But perhaps not. The internet was an essential tool for police officers now. Even social media had become obligatory. Public alerts were sent out by email and all the Safer Neighbourhood Teams had Twitter accounts. One of the PCSOs had recently been tweeting pictures of a family of pigeons nesting on a ledge in a corner of the garage at West Street.

  ‘I’d prefer it if you went yourself and spoke to someone,’ said Cooper. ‘Or phone them at least, if you’re too busy to spare the time. It’s always better. You pick up things you would never know in any other way.’

  Irvine shrugged, his expression suggesting that he would do it, but only to humour an out of touch Luddite.

  Cooper was about to expand on his view when he heard the phone ringing in his office. He dashed to answer it. A missed call was often a missed opportunity, or a bit of information that went overlooked.

  ‘Detective Inspector Cooper.’

  It was Mr Bateman, the transport manager at Windmill Feed Solutions. And he’d called to have a grumble.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve any idea when we’re going to get our vehicle back?’ he said, when Cooper answered.

  ‘No. I’m sorry, sir. Not until it’s been fully examined.’

  ‘It’s a bit of a nuisance, you know.’

  ‘I thought you had an extensive fleet.’

  ‘We do, but it’s a busy time for us. I’ve got customer orders stacking up on the system.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Bateman, there’s nothing I can do. It will take however long it takes.’

  ‘You do realise there are dozens of bags of cattle feed in the back of that vehicle? That’s a valuable asset. Our company has a lot of money tied up in that vehicle you’ve impounded. Not to mention that we’ve had the customer on the phone playing merry hell with us.’

  ‘Which customer?’ said Cooper quickly.

  ‘Mr Elliott at Bankside Farm, of course.’

  The name meant nothing to Cooper at first. His brain tried to relate it to the people of Shawhead, but failed to make a match.

  Then he remembered standing by the lorry while it was still stuck under the bridge and talking to Grant Swindells. Bankside Farm was the address where Mac Kelsey should have been delivering to when he took the wrong road and ended up near Shawhead. Mr Elliott must have waited all evening for his animal feed to arrive. It was one of those unconsidered consequences that rippled out from a serious crime. A lot of people were affected.

  Cooper apologised to Bateman a third time and put his phone down. Before he could move, it rang again.

  ‘It’s Erin Byrne,’ said the voice at the other end of the line.

  ‘Hello, Erin,’ said Cooper cautiously. ‘What can I do for the Eden Valley Times? Due warning – it may not be very much.’

  ‘Actually, I thought I might do something for you,’ she said.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, unless you’ve already made the connection yourself.’

  ‘What connection.’

  ‘There was a suicide case in New Mills yesterday. I’ve just heard that the man has been identified as Scott Brooks.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Cooper, confident that the information was already general knowledge after a force press release.

  ‘I knew him,’ said Byrne. ‘I did a story about him, nearly eight years ago now. A sad case really. I thought he must have got over it by now. But obviously not.’

  ‘Over what?’ said Cooper.

  ‘So you haven’t enquired into his background very much.’

  ‘I can’t comment. You know we have an active murder inquiry on our hands at the moment.’

  ‘Well, exactly.’

  Cooper began to get impatient. ‘Spit it out, Erin. Why are you trying to say?’

  ‘The story I did about Scott Brooks followed a tragic accident on the A6. A serious crash involving a couple of HGVs. A woman died in her car, which was parked in a lay-by. The woman was Ashley Brooks, Scott’s wife. He was devastated, of course. After the driver was convicted of causing death by dangerous driving I did a long interview with him. He poured his heart out, and it was very moving. A terrific human interest piece. Even better, we got it as an exclusive. He didn’t talk to anyone else.’

  ‘Congratulations. But what does this have to do—’

  ‘I’m getting there,’ said Byrne. ‘Hold your horses.’

  ‘I am quite busy.’

  ‘With your murder inquiry. I know. But that’s exactly what I’m telling you. Scott Brooks made some very bitter statements about his wife’s family in our interview. Flynn, they’re called. There was quite a bit of fallout from that. A real family feud. Both sides were as bad, but some of the Flynns even threatened to sue us for libel. That was touch and go for a while, but it was settled out of court.’

  ‘And?’ said Cooper, ready to put the phone down if she didn’t get to the point.

  ‘Well, one of the most outspoken members on the Flynn side was an aunt of Ashley’s. We had her shouting the odds in the office a few times and I remember her well. We couldn’t calm her down. She kept swearing that she would do anything for her family. The thing is – and this is what made me phone – she lives in that little hamlet, Shawhead. She moved there not long ago.’

  Cooper found he was gripping the handset a bit more tightly, no longer thinking of putting it down.

  ‘I take it she’s married and her name isn’t Flynn any more.’

  ‘No. Her married name is Schofield. Donna Schofield.’

  ‘Thank you, Erin,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Do you owe me one now?’ said Byrne brightly.

  ‘Within reason.’

  She sighed. ‘That’s always the way.’

  Great. Everyone had complaints to make today.
/>
  ‘But I’m grateful,’ said Cooper. ‘Truly. That’s very helpful.’

  ‘I suppose that will have to do, then,’ said Byrne. ‘And, Ben – if you happen to be speaking to dear old Donna, give her my love. Not.’

  When she’d rung off, Cooper banged the phone down a bit too hard. Donna Schofield. That was definitely a priority job for today. He needed to locate Mrs Schofield and her husband, whether they were in Thailand or wherever.

  But he had another important job to do this morning. He was due at the mortuary for the results of the post-mortem on Malcolm Kelsey. Cooper looked at his watch. He’d better get moving, in fact.

  He stood in the door of the CID room as he pulled his jacket on and addressed the sparse team of detectives at his disposal.

  ‘DS Sharma,’ he said, ‘I want you to pull out everything you can find for me about the fatal crash on the A6 in which Ashley Brooks was killed.’

  Sharma sat upright and stared at him, as if startled by his tone.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It was about eight years ago,’ said Cooper. ‘Find me court reports, witness statements, everything. I want an in-depth briefing when I get back.’

  ‘Right.’

  Sharma looked around uncertainly and Cooper had a moment of sympathy for him as a newcomer.

  ‘DC Villiers will assist you,’ he said. ‘And DC Irvine . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’ll be back at Shawhead. You’ve still got the Hibberts’ movements to check on. And I want a current location for the Schofields of Top Barn urgently. Not just hearsay from the neighbours that they might be in Thailand. Pin them down. Produce them for me, if you can.’

  ‘Okay, boss.’

  ‘And Luke?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Make sure you go there. In person.’

  The mortuary at Edendale District General Hospital wasn’t Ben Cooper’s favourite place in the world. He only came here when death had entered his life. There were only so many times you could do that without being affected by it. You either became hardened and immune to the underlying humanity of the victim, or it all became too much and you couldn’t stand it any more.