The Murder Road: A Cooper & Fry Mystery

by Stephen Booth

  A tall man in his forties entered the canteen. He was wearing a white coat with the Swizzels logo on the breast pocket, a white hair-net and a blue beard cover.

  ‘I’m Duncan Kime,’ he said. ‘They sent me down from the powder room to talk to you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. We’re sorry to take up your time.’

  Cooper introduced himself and Hurst, then asked Kime about Scott Brooks and Ashley Flynn. He pulled off his hair-net and beard cover, revealing dark hair pushed into untidy strands as if he’d just got out of bed.

  ‘Yes, I worked with them both,’ he said. ‘I remember them becoming a couple.’

  Like so many other couples, Scott and Ashley met in the factory. There must be something about working in a building where the window panes were covered in sugar, with pink chewy goo spilling from taps, puffed rice popping out of machines and millions of Love Hearts being stamped out with cute messages. Hug Me, For Keeps.

  Ashley had worked at Swizzels since she was sixteen, leaving school to start on the Double Dip machines, then becoming a machine operator in the jelly room. Her parents had both worked here in the old Bettabars section making sweets of puffed rice and caramel. Her uncle worked in lolly wrapping and other members of the family had done spells in the factory at various times. In the summer, when extra staff were needed, the management encouraged the children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews of existing employees to come in and work, rather than hiring temporary employees through agencies.

  ‘It’s family friendly here,’ said Kime.

  He explained that the factory had complicated shift patterns to accommodate staff and the need for a twenty-four-hour production schedule. One of his colleagues took a two-hour lunch break so that she could to go home to look after her elderly mother, a retired employee who used to work in the chew department.

  Scott and Ashley had met when they both worked in the powder room on the fourth floor, where Love Hearts were made. At times, said Kime, you could barely see each other through a thick fog of powdered sugar. He described workers adding colour and flavouring before vast oceans of sugar were poured into a hopper. Down below, a clanking machine pounded it into tablets and stamped in the messages. My Girl, It’s Love, For Keeps.

  Those tiny Love Hearts were produced under eight tons of pressure, Kime said. Cooper repeated the information. Eight tons? Far more pressure than real-life love could survive.

  Scott and Ashley had started passing Love Hearts down the production line to each other, then got chatting in the canteen.

  Was it the constant sugary love messages, or was there something in the air? According to the media hype, the Swizzels Matlow factory claimed to be the most lovestruck workplace in Britain. A quarter of its five hundred workers were said to be in a relationship with another employee.

  Cooper looked at Hurst and caught the sceptical look on her face. There was a cynical version of the story. Some would say it was nothing to do with the factory, just with the nature of New Mills. After all, the local people here were often referred to as ‘in-breds’, and not just by Gavin Murfin.

  ‘It’s a very close-knit place.’

  Duncan Kime told them his mother had worked here on Love Hearts too. She could remember messages from the fifties and sixties that had long since disappeared. Hey Daddio and Far Out, Man. Recently, the factory had produced a special edition of Love Hearts dedicated to the boy band One Direction. The messages read Harry 4 U, I Love Louis, Always Niall.

  ‘We get customers to suggest new messages from time to time. I don’t understand what half of these latest ones mean, to be honest. Skype Me, Take A Selfie. And how about Swipe Right?’

  ‘Swipe Right is a reference to a dating app,’ said Hurst.

  Cooper looked at her in surprise. He would have expected Luke Irvine to know that, but not Becky. She was full of surprises.

  ‘Some of them aren’t even in English,’ said Kime. ‘We’ve got Totes Hilar and Yolo. Apparently, that means You Only Live Once. But there are still a lot of the traditional messages in use. I Love You, or All Mine.’

  ‘Come Back to Me,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘It’s a message we found among the others in Scott Brooks’ house.’

  Kime shook his head. ‘There’s never been a Love Heart with that message. They’ve changed quite a bit over the years. There were some old ones in the sixties and seventies which went out of fashion. Then we went for text messages.’

  ‘Luv U 24/7.’

  ‘That sort of thing. But Come Back to Me? Never.’

  They stood up to leave the canteen.

  ‘That smell,’ said Hurst. ‘Like burned sugar.’

  ‘The factory is making liquorice today. When you work there, you don’t notice the smell. Sometimes when I go home my wife says, “What’s that smell?”. But I can’t smell it myself.’

  They thanked Kime and left the factory, stepping back to allow another lorry load of sweets to drive out through the gates.

  Cooper heard the sound of a train and looked over a wall. He knew the Sheffield to Manchester express trains passed straight through New Mills, bypassing both stations to enter the Disley Tunnel. But he hadn’t realised the express line ran right under the car park at the Swizzels Matlow factory. The railway seemed to be everywhere in this inquiry.

  ‘The Factory of Love,’ said Hurst before she got in her car. ‘As if love could be produced in a factory. It’s not something that comes off a production line.’

  ‘No, Becky.’

  But Cooper had seen many examples of love that had been squeezed and twisted and pounded into shape. There was a lot it could survive. Even death, perhaps.

  24

  At West Street Cooper was putting down the phone when DC Becky Hurst appeared in the doorway to his office.

  ‘Dev,’ he called over her shoulder. ‘Mr Bateman isn’t at work today. See if you can track him down for me. We need to speak to him about Mac Kelsey and that accident on the A6.’

  ‘No problem,’ responded Sharma.

  Hurst dropped the package she was carrying onto Ben Cooper’s desk. It landed with a thud and a rustle of old paper.

  ‘What is this?’ said Cooper.

  ‘A cuttings book. We found it in Scott Brooks’ house, in a drawer of the desk.’

  It was even more faded and dog-eared than the second-hand volumes on the bookshelves in Scott’s study. Cooper could see yellowed newspaper cuttings protruding from the pages, torn and folded over to make them fit.

  ‘I don’t really have time to read it now, Becky.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Hurst. ‘You’ll only need a quick glance to see what it’s all about.’

  And she was right. The book was full of cuttings about the fatal accident on the A6. Many of them had the familiar image of James Allsop arriving at court, and of course Ashley herself. Their dates ranged over many months, because that was how long it had taken for the trial to come to a conclusion and sentence to be passed. Scott Brooks had put a lot of time and effort into collecting these cuttings.

  Later in the afternoon Cooper gathered his team for an assessment of the progress they were making with the Kelsey inquiry. It was always important to keep everyone on track and avoid duplication of effort, as well as to make sure everyone was up to speed. He couldn’t remember who knew what, so a summary did no harm – especially with Becky Hurst back in the office. So far she hadn’t played an active part in the inquiry, but she ought to.

  ‘When Mr Kelsey hit the Cloughpit Lane bridge,’ Cooper was saying, ‘he wasn’t texting by any chance, was he?’

  Carol Villiers shook her head. ‘No. Why?’

  ‘It was just a thought.’

  ‘Like the lorry driver on the A6,’ said Dev Sharma eagerly. ‘You think there’s a connection?’

  ‘Well, it seems possible.’

  ‘Someone might have seen Mr Kelsey texting on his phone and decided to punish him. It would have to be someone who suffered from the outc
ome of the previous accident. Such as the husband of the woman who died.’

  Becky Hurst looked up from her notes.

  ‘Scott Brooks,’ she said.

  Cooper thought he detected a note of possessiveness. Understandable, since she’d done so much work on Brooks yesterday.

  ‘But Mr Kelsey wasn’t responsible for the A6 accident,’ said Sharma. ‘He was an innocent victim, who just happened to be parked in the same lay-by. The reports say he suffered a fractured wrist and scalp lacerations from the broken glass. He could easily have been killed.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Cooper.

  ‘So it doesn’t make sense. Why would anyone blame him?’

  Villiers had been looking from one to the other in surprise.

  ‘Malcolm Kelsey wasn’t texting anyway,’ she said. ‘No calls. No texts.’

  ‘But there’s still a link,’ insisted Cooper.

  There was silence for a moment, as everyone looked at him. He wondered who would be the first to challenge him on his statement. Somebody should.

  ‘What link, Ben?’ asked Villiers finally. ‘Wasn’t it just a coincidence that Kelsey found himself near Shawhead? It was a result of a satnav error and a height restriction sign missing from the bridge. That’s all.’

  ‘The suicide of Scott Brooks must be the link,’ said Cooper. ‘I think he knew what the connection was.’

  ‘It’s a shame that he decided to take the easy way out instead of waiting to explain it all for us, then.’

  ‘Suicide is never the easy way out.’

  Cooper let that sink in for a moment. It was important for them to understand the significance of what Brooks had done. Then he turned back to the facts as he knew them.

  ‘In his job as a driver for Windmill Feed Solutions, Malcolm Kelsey didn’t normally deliver in Derbyshire at all,’ he said. ‘I think that’s an important factor. His usual route was in Cheshire – the villages out towards Macclesfield and Congleton. But the driver who covered the New Mills area is off work sick and Kelsey was covering his route.’

  ‘So he was making deliveries to places he didn’t know,’ said Hurst.

  ‘Exactly. It would explain why he might have been relying totally on his satnav and wouldn’t have any idea he was on the wrong road. The usual driver wouldn’t have made the mistake of trying to get a vehicle of that size under the bridge.’

  ‘Mrs Hibbert said she gets her horse feed from Windmill,’ pointed out Irvine. ‘How do they normally manage to deliver to Shawhead? There’s no other route but under the bridge.’

  ‘They send a smaller vehicle. The transport manager Mr Bateman would be aware of the access problems at Shawhead. It’s probably flagged up on the customer’s account when they put in an order.’

  ‘So it appears that Mr Kelsey was just badly lost and he ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ said Sharma. ‘The other circumstances are coincidental. That would mean it was a random victim. Whoever killed him had no idea who he was. They chose him because . . . well, because he was there.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened,’ said Cooper.

  ‘You’d think he would stop and ask someone for directions if he didn’t know how to get to his next delivery,’ said Hurst. ‘But that’s men for you. Just ploughing on and hoping for the best, rather than admitting they’re lost.’

  ‘That’s sexist,’ said Irvine.

  ‘It’s just an observation from personal experience.’

  Cooper ought to stop them from squabbling again. But he was hardly listening now. He was picturing Mac Kelsey driving his enormous DAF curtainsider, leaving his last delivery at a farm near Dove Holes. There wasn’t really anywhere you could stop on the A6 and ask for directions. Certainly not in a vehicle that size. Unless—

  He grabbed his coat. He could send one of the DCs on this job, but he really wanted to get out of the office. The thought of sitting in that room hardly bigger than a cubby hole for the rest of the day was too depressing, and his team had plenty of tasks to being getting on with.

  Before he left he caught Carol Villiers’ eye.

  ‘Carol, can you call that previous customer on Mac Kelsey’s schedule again, please – the one near Dove Holes?’

  ‘And ask him what?’ said Villiers.

  ‘Ask him what time Kelsey made his delivery. There are no approximate times on his schedule, they’re an order to create a logical route.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Villiers. ‘Where . . . ?’

  ‘Then call me when you’ve got a time.’

  And Cooper was out of the door of the CID room and heading for the stairs before anyone could ask him any more questions.

  Juliana van Doon was surprised to see him at the mortuary. She was still stripping off her gloves from an examination as she came through the double doors in a powerful burst of disinfectant and a glint of polished steel.

  ‘Which case?’ she said abruptly.

  ‘Malcolm Kelsey again,’ said Cooper. ‘The stabbing victim.’

  ‘Something I forgot?’ said the pathologist. ‘Or something you forgot, Detective Inspector?’

  ‘Well, I hate to ask this,’ said Cooper, ‘but have you examined the stomach contents in that case?’

  ‘Of course I have,’ said Dr van Doon. ‘It’s part of my job. Not my favourite task, I must admit, but necessary.’

  ‘What were the results?’

  She put on a pair of reading glasses and tapped at a computer keyboard, scrolling through the results.

  ‘That particular individual had eaten a substantial meal not long before he met his death,’ she said. ‘Within two hours I’d say, given the partially digested state of the contents.’

  ‘Within two hours?’ said Cooper. ‘And any assessment of what he’d eaten?’

  The pathologist looked at him over her glasses.

  ‘I believe I told you that last time you were here,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Burgers and chips, fried eggs and baked beans.’

  Cooper gazed at her with gratitude.

  ‘Probably with lashings of tomato sauce,’ he said.

  ‘Precisely.’

  Carol Villiers called Cooper as he left the mortuary and was walking back to his car.

  ‘Yes, Carol?’

  ‘That farmer at Dove Holes. He says his animal feed was delivered early in the afternoon. Mac Kelsey arrived at about two o’clock and left three quarters of an hour later. He had to shift some bags into the storage shed by forklift, which takes longer.’

  ‘So he was on the road again by about a quarter to three?’ said Cooper.

  ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  Sally was wiping the counter when Cooper walked up the steps to the Snack Box again. She looked as though she was getting ready to close up for the day. Her ‘The Full English’ apron was spattered with specks of grease and a brown trickle of her strong tea.

  ‘You again,’ she said. ‘Cup of tea in a mug, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Not today,’ said Cooper. ‘Thanks all the same.’

  ‘And I don’t suppose you’re eating either. I can’t tempt you to my Special Burger?’

  ‘I’m sure it’s delicious, but . . .’

  She sighed. ‘What a surprise.’

  Cooper glanced over his shoulder. The seating area of the cafe was empty. The only trace of Sally’s customers were the copies of the Sun and the Daily Mirror left lying on the tables, folded open at the sports pages. A red blob or two of tomato sauce on the formica, a stray fork lying abandoned on a napkin. It was like the galley of the Mary Celeste, after the crew had gone overboard.

  ‘Yes, I do remember him,’ said Sally when Cooper showed her a photograph of Malcolm Kelsey. ‘Monday, was it?’

  ‘That’s what I’m asking you,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Yes, I think it would be Monday. I had a fresh batch of burgers on the griddle. They’d just been delivered. I get through a lot of bu
rgers over the course of a week.’

  ‘What time did he call in?’

  Sally automatically glanced up at the clock on the wall of the cafe. It was what people always did when they were asked when something happened. They glanced at the clock, or at their watch, as if some moment from the past was preserved there for them to refer to. Cooper was reminded of a sketch he’d once heard from some old radio show. Spike Milligan and Peter Sellers in The Goons. Milligan’s character always knew what the time was, because he had it written on a piece of paper.

  ‘It was in the middle of the afternoon,’ said Sally decisively. ‘I was past the lunchtime rush, but not getting ready to close up for the day. He had the all-day breakfast.’

  ‘Burger and chips, fried egg and beans?’

  ‘And the rest. A good blow-out, I call it.’

  ‘He isn’t one of your regulars, is he?’

  ‘No, luv. I’d never seen him before. But his mate calls in sometimes.’

  ‘His mate?’

  ‘Another lad called Derek, who drives for the same outfit. He was delivering for the animal feed company, wasn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Sally chuckled. ‘I don’t always remember their names, but I notice what they’re driving, you see. That way I know what to get on the griddle when I see them pull up. That day I recognised the rig he was driving. But it was a different driver. He didn’t usually deliver in this area, he said. But I could have told him that. It’s Derek’s patch, as a rule. And I reckon Derek had tipped him off to come here. That’s usually the way it works.’

  ‘Did he ask for directions?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘Why, yes – he did. Fancy you knowing that.’

  ‘Where did he say he was going?’

  ‘Oh, it was the name of a farm,’ said Sally. ‘Somewhere this side of New Mills. How did you know?’

  ‘It was an educated guess.’

  ‘Anyway, it was place I’d never heard of. I mean, a farm? I couldn’t help him with that.’