The Devil’s Edge bcadf-11

by Stephen Booth

Cooper realised this was going to take some getting used to. Once his engagement was announced, and was out in the public domain, it became real.

  Inside the marquee, the long rows of tables looked spectacular. They were lined with all kinds of produce, from bottles of red sloe wine to jars of runner bean chutney. The scone classes seemed to have been particularly popular, and some of those extravagant flower arrangements must have taken many hours to create. Someone had even embroidered butterfly species around a cottage scene.

  Cooper saw that the band was a local one, from Hathersage. Mostly middle-aged men, dressed in red jackets. Though a bandstand had been set out for them, they were playing inside the produce tent to avoid the rain. One of the musicians had stored his tuba case under a trestle table covered in mammoth cabbages and strings of onions.

  ‘My brother used to be in a brass band,’ said Villiers. ‘Soprano cornet.’

  ‘I’d forgotten you had a brother.’

  ‘Charlie. You must have met him.’

  ‘I’m sure I did. I just can’t quite…’

  ‘He only joined the band for the beer,’ said Villiers.

  At the other end of the tent, Cooper stopped to look at the winner in the photographic competition, a stunning close-up shot of frost on a barbed-wire fence. The photographer had caught the spikes of the frost mirroring the angle of the steel barbs. The clarity of the detail was amazing. Every facet of the ice crystals shone out of the picture.

  Next to it on the table were entries in another photographic class – local scenes. Each entry was labelled with the name and village of the photographer, and one sprang out at him immediately. B. Gamble, Riddings. Of course. A keen amateur snapper like our Barry wouldn’t have been able to resist showing off his talents in the local show.

  Mr Gamble hadn’t won a prize, though. Not even highly commended. His entry showed a corner of Riddings that Cooper wasn’t familiar with. An ancient building with a corrugated-iron roof, moss growing on the stone walls, a door half covered in peeling green paint. No windows visible, so it was probably an old farm building. A lot older than most of the properties in Riddings. Perhaps it was a remnant of an agricultural holding that had stood in the village before the big houses were built.

  Cooper guessed that Gamble had been going for an artistic statement about decay and abandonment. The building had reached a fairly picturesque stage of dilapidation. The weeds in front of it were dense and impenetrable. A bird had built its nest on top of a broken downspout. But he could also see why the photograph hadn’t received even a commendation from the judge. The composition was all wrong. The angle of the shot was awkward, and the building itself was off-centre, part of it concealed by an ugly tree stump that had got in the way, as if the photographer hadn’t noticed it. Cooper wasn’t an expert, but even he could see that the picture would have been improved immensely if Gamble had simply moved ten yards to the right and got a few steps closer to his subject.

  ‘Our Mr Gamble,’ said Villiers, looking over his shoulder. ‘Will he be here?’

  ‘Oh, he wouldn’t miss this.’

  ‘A chance to observe his neighbours out in the open.’

  ‘The same reason we’re here, in fact.’

  Cooper looked around, searching for the familiar faces of Riddings residents. The relationships and hierarchies were difficult to assess without seeing people together. He had been speaking to them only on their own territory, where they could present themselves in their best light, give an account of their relations with their neighbours that they wanted him to believe, tell him any story without fear of contradiction.

  Outside the tent, children were running around with giant inflatable hammers their parents had won at a hoopla stall. Cooper and Villiers passed a vicar with cropped grey hair and a goatee beard, wearing muddy black jeans. A visitor had noticed his dog collar and stopped him: We don’t see a clergyman around here very often. The vicar started to explain that he covered a huge area, stretching from Riddings and Curbar across a vast swathe of the Peak District to Great Longstone and Stoney Middleton. The sighting of a Church of England clergyman in an English village was becoming as rare as a working phone box.

  The thought created a series of associations in Cooper’s mind. Erin Byrne had mentioned that the phone calls to the Eden Valley Times had been made from a public call box somewhere. And one of the walkers Gavin Murfin had spoken to had mentioned seeing someone in the phone box in the centre of Riddings on Tuesday night, making a call.

  It was a bit of a stretch. But it was one possible link in a case where nothing seemed to be connecting.

  Nearby, an old Lister engine chugged, whirred, and belched out fumes. He saw that there were tractors, too. Not doing anything, just standing in a couple of rows like exhibits in a museum. One of the owners was leaning against his old grey Ferguson. In other years, Matt might have been here with his own Fergie. But not any more.

  The first people Cooper recognised at Riddings Show were the Chadwicks. They seemed to have made a beeline for the book stall and snapped up all the Bill Brysons. Mrs Chadwick wore a blue anorak, and red cargo pants that stopped halfway up her calves, with white trainers. Her husband was in a green Craghoppers cagoule and matching straw hat. They looked as though they’d made a great effort to be casual. But William Chadwick wore a slightly hunted look, his eyes darting from side to side as he passed through the crowd, perhaps fearing to encounter a pupil or a member of staff from his school.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Chadwick,’ said Cooper.

  They stopped, surprised. Mrs Chadwick almost dropped her books into the grass, but recovered her poise.

  ‘Oh. It’s…’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Cooper. This is my colleague, DC Villiers.’

  Mr Chadwick remained frozen, words failing him for a moment, anxiety filling his eyes. A trickle of perspiration ran down his temple.

  ‘I’m really sorry to bother you,’ said Cooper. ‘I realise this is a social occasion. But there was something I wanted to ask you.’

  ‘Well… go ahead.’

  ‘Did you ever have any disputes with your closest neighbours in Riddings?’

  ‘Neighbours?’

  ‘Well, you live adjacent to the Hollands at Fourways, the Barrons at Valley View. Perhaps Mr Kaye at Moorside House?’

  The Chadwicks looked at each other, but actually seemed relieved at the question.

  ‘There was an incident with Jake Barron a while ago,’ admitted Mrs Chadwick.

  ‘It was silly really,’ said her husband. ‘It was at a time when I was feeling particularly stressed. Because of, you know…’

  ‘The incident,’ said his wife. ‘It was a very difficult period, in both our lives.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Anyway, the Barrons had a dog then.’

  ‘Did they?’

  ‘Yes, a Dobermann. They always had it out on the drive in a fancy collar, running about behind the gates. It used to bark incessantly.’

  ‘The Barrons told us once that Dobermanns are emotionally sensitive,’ said Mrs Chadwick. ‘And if they’re upset about anything, they bark. They claimed it was part of the animal’s duty as a guard dog. We politely suggested they might take the trouble to train it properly, but they took no notice, of course.’

  Chadwick nodded. ‘Then one afternoon I couldn’t stand it any longer. It was going on for hour after hour, day after day. It was intolerable. We shouldn’t have to put up with that, should we? So when I saw him coming by in his car, I stopped him.’

  ‘What did he say when you confronted him?’

  ‘He became very aggressive. Started shouting and swearing at me. Threatening retaliation, just because I had the nerve to complain. Yes, he soon showed his true colours. The man turned into a foul-mouthed thug in front of my eyes. I’ve got to tell you, having them as neighbours has been like living next door to a family of yobs on a council estate.’

  ‘Yet they‘ve always thought they were so superior,’ added Mrs Chadwick.
‘It makes me sick.’

  ‘But the dog isn’t there now, at Valley View,’ said Cooper. ‘There was no sign of a Dobermann, or any other breed.’

  ‘No. It went, about a month ago.’

  The Chadwicks looked at each other again. There were moments when Cooper wished he had the power to read minds. He would really love to know what this couple were thinking right now.

  ‘We heard it got sick and died,’ said Mrs Chadwick finally. ‘Sad for the animal, of course. But still…’

  They were silent for a few moments, gazing at Cooper and Villiers as if they expected to be challenged.

  ‘I suppose you think we shouldn’t talk about the Barrons like this,’ said Mrs Chadwick. ‘In view of what happened, I mean.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Cooper. ‘We much prefer it if people tell us the truth, instead of holding information back.’

  They watched the Chadwicks walk off towards the marquee. A few minutes later, Cooper saw their daughter drifting through the showground, dark hair hanging over her face, her manner giving the impression that she was far too sophisticated for all this nonsense.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ she said when he stopped her.

  ‘You’re off to university soon, aren’t you?’

  ‘God, yes. I can’t wait.’

  ‘Is it that bad?’

  ‘I need to get away. I have to get away from them.’

  ‘From your parents?’

  ‘Yeah. Well… from all of them. All the people here, in this place. Look at it. Our house is a like a prison inside a prison.’

  She drifted away again, and was swallowed up by a group of young people. No doubt some of the same bunch that had been at the party on Thursday night.

  The crowds were getting thicker now as the show became busier. The clothes on display were fascinating in themselves. Cooper saw pink wellies, white wellies with blue polka dots, wellies with roses on them. An incredible range of dogs was here at the show, too. Within a few yards he passed Great Danes, spaniels, pugs, golden retrievers, Airedales. There was even a St Bernard – and you didn’t see those very often. No Dobermanns, though.

  He looked at Villiers, trying to decide if it was a good time to ask her a personal question.

  ‘I wondered,’ he said. ‘I thought you might have reverted to your maiden name when you came back here to Derbyshire.’

  ‘I suppose I ought to,’ she said. ‘Yes, you’re right, I should.’

  ‘But…?’

  ‘But?’ She turned her face away. ‘Well, Glen’s name is the only part of him that I have left. How could I just throw that aside?’

  There was nothing he could say to that.

  ‘Let’s try down this way.’

  From his sign, Cooper gathered that the children’s entertainer was called Doctor Woof. And the dog seemed to be called Trevor. Surely it would have made more sense if the entertainer’s name was Trevor and the dog was Doctor Woof? But perhaps they had swapped personalities. The dummy certainly seemed to be the more lively of the two.

  Doctor Woof was doing magic tricks now, and the kids were lapping it up. He’d gathered quite a crowd, and they could hear his voice repeatedly urging overenthusiastic children to stay in the prize zone.

  Watching the entertainer in action, Cooper had the feeling of recognition again. He couldn’t be sure under all that makeup and the false beard, but he felt this was someone he’d seen before. But to become a children’s entertainer, Doctor Woof must have been CRB checked. If there was nothing found against him at the Criminal Records Bureau, then his own contact with him couldn’t have been anything too serious.

  After a while, Cooper found he could distinguish local residents from visitors. The locals wore outdoor clothes and sensible footwear, and tended to congregate near the gymkhana ring or the produce tent. Periodically they moved slowly up and down the aisle between the two, meeting each other and chatting in front of the RSPB stand. They seemed to be the local equivalent of Parisian promenaders. Couples met, air-kissed and chatted briefly. Then they moved on to the next encounter by the jam stall. A cry of Give everyone our love! drifted on the air behind them.

  On the other hand, most of the visitors from out of the area seemed to have dressed in the confident expectation that it never rained in Derbyshire in August. But it was a bank holiday weekend, for heaven’s sake. It always rained.

  During the showers, they all milled around the tea tent, dodging each other with trays of tea and cakes. It was a peculiarly British thing, the way people were able to drink tea and eat ice cream while sitting in the rain, yet still seem to be enjoying themselves.

  ‘Look at Mr Nowak,’ said Villiers. ‘No one is talking to him. They don’t even seem to acknowledge his presence. I saw one woman speak to his dog, but not to him.’

  ‘He came, though,’ said Cooper.

  ‘So why is he here? He must have known it would be like this.’

  ‘To be part of the village, I think. To feel that he belongs.’

  Villiers shook her head. ‘Surely it just rubs in the fact that no one else thinks he does belong.’

  ‘It’s a very deep instinct, the urge to belong, the need to be part of a group. People will put up with all kinds of humiliations in their desire to be accepted.’

  ‘Like initiations.’

  ‘Exactly. It happens everywhere, from street gangs to the police.’

  ‘And the military,’ said Villiers. ‘But sometimes they go too far, as we know.’

  ‘Mmm. Are you thinking…?’

  ‘That someone humiliated Mr Nowak a bit too much. It’s possible.’

  A hundred yards away, a man was shouting. At first Cooper thought it was part of the show. Another children’s entertainer, perhaps. But this one sounded too aggressive. And that language he could hear wasn’t suitable for children, surely?

  ‘What’s all the commotion over there?’

  ‘It looks like Richard Nowak and Alan Slattery.’

  ‘Had we better sort it out?’ said Villiers.

  ‘Give it a minute.’

  They moved a bit closer, watching the angry gestures, trying to hear what the raised voices were saying. It was difficult to tell which of the men was the most irate, or what they were arguing about.

  ‘Mrs Slattery and the Nowaks are direct neighbours too,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Interesting. Is this what you were hoping for, Ben?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  Villiers shook her head. ‘In some of the countries I’ve served in, people are incredibly polite to each other,’ she said. ‘There’s often a very elaborate system of manners, so elaborate that it becomes a ritual. And I think that’s because those are large populations of people living cheek by jowl, right in each other’s pockets. Sometimes you might have someone living literally on your doorstep. In those circumstances, you’ve got to have a way of masking the animosity that builds up between individuals.’

  ‘But here, they don’t seem to think it’s necessary?’

  ‘Well, they’ve got a certain amount of distance between each other. Or at least, the illusion of distance. And all that seems to have done is break down the barriers of courtesy. The animosity comes right out in the open.’

  ‘It’s a property thing,’ said Cooper. ‘Owning property is a very British obsession. And once you own it, you have to defend it against all comers. I’ve seen it so often.’

  He didn’t mention that he’d seen it in his own brother. Villiers hadn’t asked about his family yet, but he was sure she would before long. He was certain that she knew all about his father. Everyone with any connection to Edendale knew about the death of Sergeant Joe Cooper. In fact, he recalled her writing a letter, which had arrived just after the funeral. She was serving overseas somewhere then. He remembered opening the letter with its foreign stamp and discovering it was from his old school friend, offering her sympathy.

  But she might not know about the more recent death of his mother. It depended who she’d talked to since she’
d been back. It was strange to think that this person he hadn’t seen for so long might know everything about him.

  ‘I suppose it’s why guns are illegal in Britain,’ she said. ‘Neighbours would be shooting each other every week otherwise.’

  There was a final flurry of shouting, and some shocked gasps from onlookers.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Incoming,’ said Villiers.

  And they both watched Richard Nowak sprinting frantically across the showground towards them.

  20

  Diane Fry gazed out through the windscreen at the streets of Sheffield. They were in an area of the city she didn’t know at all. Firth Park. Narrow streets, endless rows of brick terraces. Satellite dishes sprouted in clusters from gable ends, wheelie bins stood on the pavement outside every front door. On the corner, a kebab and burger shop showed the only signs of life.

  ‘What are they playing around at? It’s like waiting for paint to dry.’

  DI Hitchens was tapping the wheel impatiently. Fry could see that he hated not being in control. The operation was in the hands of South Yorkshire Police, and they were taking their time. Fair enough. They wanted to get it right.

  ‘There’s no hurry,’ she said. ‘We’ve got all day.’

  ‘Sod that. I don’t know about you, Diane, but I’d like to get some time off this weekend.’

  Fry nodded. Station gossip had it that the DI’s girlfriend was pregnant, and that she was pressuring him to make plans. That sort of thing was difficult to keep to yourself. It was true that he was less keen these days to spend more time in the office than was strictly necessary. Fry felt she ought to be able to sympathise. A work-life balance, and all that. But you probably needed to get a life first, before you could properly understand.

  ‘They know what they’re doing,’ she said. ‘They’ve done the surveillance, collected all the intel. Let them have their moment. We’ll soon have ours.’

  Down the street was a lock-up shop. This one looked as though it had been locked up for years. Steel shutters were drawn down over the windows and the front door. A delivery entrance in a side street was protected by locked gates, with a No Parking sign faded almost to illegibility. Behind the shop, a derelict building was starting to crumble, cracks splitting the brickwork, weeds growing out of the window ledges and between the slates in the roof.