Cooper put the photos back in the file when Villiers had seen them. At least Scott Brooks hadn’t been expected to look at these. They were enough to disturb anyone.
‘James Allsop, then?’ said Cooper. ‘He was the man responsible for this.’
Villiers took a deep breath and read from her notes.
‘Under Section One of the Road Traffic Act 1988, James Allsop was sentenced to eight years in prison for the offence of Causing Death by Dangerous Driving,’ she said. ‘He was also disqualified from driving for eight years, with an automatic extended re-test at the end of his ban.’
‘Eight years is in the Level One range, isn’t it?’ said Cooper.
The Court of Appeal has set down four levels of seriousness for the offence of Causing Death by Dangerous Driving. An eight-year prison sentence fell into the most serious range.
‘Yes. The offence Allsop committed initially appeared to be at Level Two – driving that created a substantial risk of danger by a gross avoidable distraction, in this case composing a text message. But the initial circumstances were compounded by evidence that he’d been driving while knowingly deprived of adequate sleep.’
‘So the Crown Prosecution Service achieved a Level One sentence by presenting them both together,’ said Cooper.
Allsop was lucky, though. The maximum sentence at Level One was fourteen years. If he’d been drinking or under the influence of drugs as well, he would have been spending a few years longer inside.
‘James Allsop was released on licence four years ago. His sentence expired last month. He’s a free man, Ben.’
‘Where did he go? He must have been living at an approved address during his period on licence.’
‘Of course. But here’s the thing. His life was threatened at the time of the court hearing and again when it was reported that he was going to be let out. It was a big story for the local papers, you know.’
‘Yes.’
‘So he’s been living under a different name, for his own protection.’
‘Not an anonymity order,’ said Cooper.
Official anonymity orders for offenders on licence were very rare indeed. Currently there were only four, so far as Cooper was aware. They were all notorious names – Jon Venables, Robert Thompson, Mary Bell and Maxine Carr. The circumstances had to be exceptional, the risk to them very high. James Allsop wasn’t nationally known like Venables and Thompson, the killers of two-year-old James Bulger. But he was recognisable locally and feelings had run high in some quarters.
‘No, it’s not an official anonymity order. They didn’t give a new identity. But his offender manager from the Probation Service agreed to him going by a new name when he left prison on licence. It’s common practice among sex offenders, so they can settle anonymously into new communities. But in this case, he hasn’t been doing anything wrong. He hasn’t even tried to take a job under his new name. He just took his mother’s maiden name.’
‘All right,’ said Cooper, putting on his jacket.
‘Hold on, you haven’t asked what his new name is.’
‘I’d be very surprised,’ said Cooper, ‘if it’s anything else but the name I’m thinking of.’
Ben Cooper looked at the yard full of vehicles, some of which would never move again. He realised what it was that had seemed wrong about Shaw Farm. It wasn’t really logical, just something that came from his instinct, a result of a lifetime spent among these hill farming families. But it had led him to the right conclusion.
The door was answered by the woman he’d seen driving the Range Rover. Sarah Wyatt. She took one look at him and her face fell. Her expression suggested she was resigned to the inevitable.
‘Jack,’ she called. ‘The police are here to see you.’
A minute later Jack Lawson appeared walking down the hallway, his limp worse than Cooper remembered it. He looked grey and ill.
Cooper didn’t ask to enter the house, but permitted Lawson to steer him out into the yard. Psychologically, it meant he wasn’t being allowed all the way into Lawson’s life. But step by step it would all come out.
‘Well?’ said Lawson with a faint note of impatience. Once this moment had arrived, perhaps he wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.
But Cooper wasn’t ready to get straight to the point with his questions. It was better if Lawson was willing to tell the story for himself.
‘Which of these cars do you drive, sir?’ he said. ‘The Range Rover looks more your style than the Panda.’
Lawson grunted irritably. ‘I drive a tractor round the farm. That’s my style.’
‘Really?’ said Cooper. ‘You said you’d only been in farming a few years?’
‘We bought this place when the last owners went out of business. They couldn’t make it pay any more. You know what it’s like.’
‘Yes. So how long exactly?’
‘How long?’
‘How long have you been here at Shaw Farm?’
‘Oh, about two years.’
Cooper turned and looked at Lawson. Would he take the trouble to lie about his past now, or was it something he was anxious to talk about, given the opportunity?
‘And what did you do that before that, sir?’
Lawson regarded him for a long moment. ‘I think you probably know that already,’ he said finally.
‘I could take a guess.’
‘And I bet you’d be right with your guess. I suppose you’ve been asking enough questions, digging things out, putting two and two together. I was a lorry driver. I did that job for fifteen years. But not any more.’
‘You’re still banned from driving, I imagine? That’s why Sarah and Nick drive the cars.’
Lawson shook his head. ‘No, you’re wrong there. My disqualification came to an end six months ago.’
‘So why . . . ?’
‘I just can’t face it. I haven’t the stomach to get behind the wheel again after what happened. I suppose you’d say I’ve lost my nerve.’
‘How are the burns, sir? Did they leave any scars? I notice you have a limp.’
‘The doctors say it’s psychological,’ said Lawson. ‘The burns were just superficial. But some things go deeper than the skin.’
‘Yes, I can imagine.’
‘So how did you know?’ said Lawson.
‘There were a few clues,’ said Cooper. ‘The first was something very trivial. I thought it was odd, when Mr Swindells’ sheep got out on the road, that it was the Durkins who went down to help him get them back in. Farmers normally pitch in and help their neighbours in those circumstances. You didn’t.’
‘No, I couldn’t do that.’
‘But it was really something my sergeant said. About people coming and going, and some who never went out at all. I thought at the time he meant old Mrs Swindells. And then I realised. I’d seen Sarah Wyatt driving that Range Rover and her son Nick in the Fiat Panda. But not you. Jack Lawson is the one who never goes out.’
‘Oh, that’s me all right. The man who never goes out. My latest claim to fame.’
Cooper watched him walk slowly across the yard towards the half-mended tractor.
‘Your real name is James Allsop, of course,’ he said.
Lawson’s shoulders slumped. ‘I could never have come here using that name. Not anywhere in this area.’
‘I take it Sarah knows all about it.’
‘Of course. We’ve never actually married, but you can’t start a relationship on lies.’
‘Well, that’s another thing. The records show that James Allsop had no children. But nor does Jack Lawson. Nick isn’t your son.’
‘I call him my stepson. He’s like family now anyway.’
‘So what happened to Mrs Lawson?’ said Cooper.
‘What do you think? She divorced me while I was inside. When I came out on licence, I was totally on my own. I had no idea what I was going to do with myself. I thought about moving right away from here, emigrating to Canada or Australia. Well, I don’t know w
hat I would have done.’
Lawson stroked the huge back tyre of the John Deere, knocking off a chunk of dried mud that broke and scattered on the surface of the yard.
‘Then I met Sarah,’ he said. ‘She’s been the best thing that ever happened to me. I couldn’t let anything jeopardise that. Sometimes secrecy is necessary. That’s just because of the way people are. They won’t let you forget something you did years ago, no matter how much you’ve changed.’
‘Is the farm in Sarah’s name?’ asked Cooper.
Lawson nodded. ‘She had some money after her previous husband died – Nick’s father. There was a property to sell and a decent insurance policy. Yet she accepted me and understood about my past. You see what I mean? She’s too good to be true.’
‘But why the farm?’
‘Sarah comes from a farming family and Nick is interested in the business too. When this farm came up for sale and at a price we could afford . . . well, it was too good to resist. I’m not a farmer myself, but I’m doing my best.’
‘And I take it the problem is Donna Schofield at Top Barn?’
‘You seem to know everything about me,’ said Lawson. ‘Yes, the barn conversion work was going on when we came here. Grant Swindells sold it off because he can’t make a go of it at Higher Fold and needed the money. We didn’t think anything of it at first. But then that damn woman moved in. Can you imagine what that was like? One of the Flynn family right here in Shawhead?’
‘It must have been difficult,’ said Cooper.
‘Difficult? It was like my past was pursuing me. I thought I was never going to escape from what I did. Well, I couldn’t risk her recognising me. The Flynns were in court all through the trial, you know. Particularly those two brothers. They shouted abuse at me when I was sentenced. They said they’d kill me when I got out.’
‘And that was why you changed your name.’
‘I got approval from my probation officer, so I could be known as Lawson while I was on licence. It was my mother’s maiden name.’
Lawson gestured round the yard and at the house where Sarah Wyatt was waiting for him.
‘I’ve got a new life now, a new family,’ he said. ‘I ought to be allowed to put the past behind me. But I don’t go out, in case she sees me. I haven’t been out in daylight since the Schofields came. I feel like a vampire. I’m Count Dracula, or some other monster. One of the undead.’
It struck Cooper as a strange expression to use. Only an hour before, he’d been looking at the post-mortem photographs of Ashley Brooks. If Lawson was the undead, she was definitely the dead. And so was Malcolm Kelsey. Which of them was the better off?
‘I’d rather people in Shawhead didn’t find out who I am,’ said Lawson.
‘I’m afraid it might already be too late for that, sir.’
Now Lawson looked defeated and Cooper began to feel sorry for him.
‘You know that cab-over-engine design in most HGVs?’ said Lawson. ‘Some people call a cab like that a “flying coffin”.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of its position right over the engine. When an accident happens, there’s no escape for the driver.’
Cooper nodded. ‘But you did escape,’ he said.
Lawson flinched. ‘You’re not the first person to point that out. Well, the reason I escaped without serious injury was because the truck only hit a small car. It was no contest. The Honda took all the damage.’
Cooper could see that the memory still made Lawson edgy.
‘I have to ask you, sir – were you involved in the death of Malcolm Kelsey in any way?’
‘Why would I hold any kind of grudge against Kelsey?’ said Lawson. ‘I was the guilty one.’
30
With her usual efficiency, Carol Villiers had made sure the scene at the Cloughpit Lane bridge was cleared and the field provided by Grant Swindells as a parking area for police vehicles was left tidy.
When Ben Cooper encountered Mr Swindells near the entrance to his farm, he almost looked happy, so far as any farmer ever did.
‘A satisfied member of the public?’ Cooper asked Villiers.
‘Well, it’s nice to have someone vaguely on our side at least,’ said Villiers. ‘Were you right about Jack Lawson?’
Cooper nodded. Perhaps he ought to feel more pleased that he’d been right. But at the moment it didn’t feel like a triumph.
‘So we’ve eliminated the Hibberts and Jack Lawson, have we?’ said Villiers.
‘They weren’t involved in the murder of Malcolm Kelsey,’ said Cooper. ‘I’m pretty sure of that.’
‘Not exactly innocent, though, are they?’
‘Who is, really?’ said Cooper.
‘What next, then? We’re left with the Schofields and the Durkins.’
‘The Schofields are having some building work done at Top Barn. They’re restoring an old farm building. A byre.’
‘The Hibberts mentioned that, I think,’ said Villiers. ‘And Luke saw that when he checked out the property. There were a lot of building materials lying around, but no one working of course.’
‘They couldn’t get through to Shawhead because of the blocked road,’ said Cooper.
‘And haven’t bothered coming back since. Isn’t that always the way?’
‘Perhaps it was different this time.’
‘What about the Durkins?’ said Villiers. ‘The people round the bend.’
‘Oh, yes. That strange-shaped house you noticed, Carol. It isn’t a former windmill. It’s part of what used to be a coal mine, Clough Pit. That tower would have housed the winding gear.’
‘Of course. Cloughpit House. It seems obvious now.’
‘The old mineral line runs from the back of their property and passes over the bridge,’ said Cooper. ‘It’s not clear on a map, but it’s obvious on the ground. That’s how the coal was transported when the mine was still working. But there are no tracks now, just the bed of the old line on top of a foundation of ballast. It makes quite a good road.’
‘So they have their own route out. They could drive from their property and pass right over the bridge.’
‘Yes, if they wanted to.’
‘Where would they come out?’ asked Villiers.
‘Near New Mills Junction, where the old track meets the existing railway line. There’s a signal box and a maintenance shed there.’
‘But if they went that way, someone on a train was bound to have seen them driving alongside the track.’
‘Perhaps they did. But I suppose people on this line are used to seeing maintenance work going on. They might notice a car in the wrong place. But they wouldn’t think anything of it, if it was just another workmen’s van.’
‘Or a motorbike?’ suggested Villiers.
‘Yes. And the Durkins have a Yamaha.’
‘On a motorbike you could be there and back without anyone even seeing you.’
‘It’s time to go and talk to Tania and Vincent again,’ said Cooper. Then he remembered the monosyllabic Vinnie. ‘Or to Tania, at least.’
Tania Durkin was the first person Cooper had met in Shawhead who looked almost pleased to see him. But Vincent wasn’t at home today and the motorbike was gone. Perhaps the goats weren’t enough company for her when she was on her own.
‘Tania, has anyone else been on your property recently?’ asked Cooper.
‘Oh, do you mean the roofers?’ she said. ‘They’ve been working next door at Top Barn. They came one day and asked if they could get access through our field to get to the old byre. They needed to get some scaffolding up on this side so they could work on the roof.’
Cooper looked down the field at the old building with the missing tiles.
‘There doesn’t seem to be any scaffolding. Didn’t they manage to get it up?’
‘They started last week some time. Then they came back again. Maybe, with all that’s been happening . . .’ said Tania doubtfully.
‘Did you actually see them go down there?’
‘Can we have a look?’
‘You’ll need decent footwear. It’s a bit claggy at this time of year.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
Tania Durkin led him down the field to the stable block, where they turned and skirted a pen full of goats. At this end of the field the ground was wet and muddy. Cooper’s boots slithered on the flattened grass as they reached a gateway. The entrance was churned up by hooves and he had to edge round the worst parts as Tania unhooked the gate.
Beyond the stable was another field. This one was low lying and looked more like a marsh. Clumps of coarse sedge broke up the boggier stretches. It was obvious to Cooper now why this bit of land had never been incorporated into one of the farms. It was useless for growing crops, or even grazing livestock, without a major drainage scheme.
‘You can only get a vehicle down the far side, where it’s drier,’ said Tania.
‘Yes, I see.’
They followed the line of the fence marking the boundary with Top Barn. Work had certainly been taking place on the old byre, but not from this side. Not so far as he could tell.
‘That’s funny,’ said Tania, standing with her hands on her hips and her wellies sinking into an inch of boggy water.
The Murder Road: A Cooper & Fry Mystery Page 29