There were many boggart holes in the bare earth. Some of them looked deep, dug by animals into the shallow peat. Reddish-brown soil had been kicked out of the larger holes. You could put your arm right down into them, if you weren’t too worried about what you might touch. This was adder country, after all.
‘This place is full of legends, you know,’ he said.
‘Nice things, legends. I like ’em.’
‘You know about hobs, Carol?’
‘I know you have to show them respect, or they cause mischief in the house.’
‘You got that from your grandmother?’
‘Of course.’
Not too long ago, a bowl of cream would have been left on many Derbyshire hearths to ensure that the hobs did good for the household. Of course, many people believed that a hob’s real home was out here, in the wild landscape. There was a Hob Hurst’s House in Deep Dale, and another on Beeley Moor, just to the south of here.
Over there was an area called Leash Fen, said to have been a community the size of a small market town. There was nothing to be seen now. According to the stories, the town had sunk into the bog, and vanished without a trace. It sounded unlikely, until you went up there. In the winter, with your feet sinking deep into the ground, your trousers wet up to the knee, it was possible to imagine the fate of Leash Fen. If you had the imagination, you could even picture the ruins of the stone houses lying mouldering under the ground as the bog deepened over the centuries. In fact, there were probably other things under there too. Animals that had strayed off the track, a crashed Second World War German bomber, and maybe the odd hiker who had never returned home. Cooper wondered if global warming would dry out the bog one day, revealing all the buried secrets of Leash Fen.
They walked across the moor, following a faint track through the heather, until they came to another guide stoop. This one was smaller, less than three feet tall, possibly only the top half of a broken stone.
Cooper recalled that there was supposed to be one that had been damaged by gunfire when the military were training on the moor during the war. He felt that was further on, though – in Deadshaw Sick, near Barbrook Reservoir. This one had just fallen or been broken accidentally. It was probably a common fate for moorland stones. Yet the inscriptions were clear on each face. Chasterfield Road, Hoope Road, Dronfeld Road. The way the names of the towns were spelled must have reflected the accent of the stonemason, he supposed. None of the men who chiselled the letters on these guide stoops in the eighteenth century would have been entirely literate. Yet each of them had their own ideas about spelling. This one knew how to spell ‘road’, at least.
‘Not this one,’ he said.
‘How many more are there?’ asked Villiers.
‘I’m not sure. A lot of them will have disappeared over the decades. But at one time they would have been all over these moors. They were the only means the packhorse men had of navigating their way across, especially when there was snow on the ground to cover the trails.’
Cooper imagined the immense task it must have been to get these guide stoops into position. A full-sized stone had to weigh around four hundred kilos. Once they had been shaped and inscribed by the stonemason, they had to be transported from the mason’s yard, brought as far as possible by horse and cart, then probably dragged by wooden sledge and manpower to their final position.
‘In that case, we could spend all day out here.’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Cooper.
He turned his body through three hundred and sixty degrees, trying to orientate himself. He could picture the old packhorse men doing this, too, taking their position from the sun or stars, or from a distant landmark.
Over that way, if you took a route directly across the moor, you would enter South Yorkshire and emerge in woods near the hamlet of Unthank. But in the other direction, you were in Derbyshire, the Derwent Valley – in the villages below the edges.
‘This way,’ he said. ‘It shouldn’t be too far.’
After five more minutes of walking, Villiers stopped and pointed across the moor.
‘Is that one over there?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
They could soon see a full-sized stone, standing straight and upright. For Cooper, it was as welcome a sight as it might have been for many weary travellers crossing this moor. When they reached it, Villiers rubbed a patch of lichen off the inscription.
‘It’s a bit eroded, but…’
‘What does it say?’
‘ Sheffeild Rode. This is it, Ben.’
She looked flushed and excited, like a child who’d just won a treasure hunt, or discovered a hidden Easter egg.
They walked round it, exploring the wonderful tactile surface of the rough gritstone, tracing the letters on each of the four faces. Bakwell Rode, Tidswall Rode, Hatharsich Rode. And most carefully of all, they studied the symbol chiselled into the stone below Sheffeild . The horizontal line and arrow. The surveyor’s benchmark. The mason’s spelling had been eccentric, but the ‘Rode’ was consistent. And the inscription on that face was exactly as it had been reproduced on the message sent to the Eden Valley Times.
‘Brilliant,’ said Villiers. ‘I’m so glad we found it.’
But Cooper was shaking his head.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s the wrong way round,’ he said.
‘What?’
Cooper had orientated himself at the last stone, and had retained his sense of direction as he covered the last few hundreds yards across the moor. He knew which way was which.
‘The route to Sheffield would be that way, to the east,’ he said. ‘This guide stoop needs turning ninety degrees to be pointing in the right direction. I suppose it must have fallen over and been replaced at some time. And whoever repositioned it didn’t worry too much about getting the direction right.’
‘Well, they don’t exactly serve a useful purpose any more, do they? I mean, nobody is likely to follow their directions.’
‘No, they’re just history, I suppose,’ said Cooper. ‘Another part of our useless heritage.’
Villiers ran a hand over the eroded stone. ‘So the Sheffield road
…?’
‘Isn’t the Sheffield road at all. The hand is pointing south instead.’ Cooper turned round to face the other way. ‘It points downhill, look. Directly towards Riddings.’
He gazed down the slope. Nothing looked quite so dead as dead heather. Though it was probably only last year’s growth, the stems of the dead plants already looked fossilised, dry and skeletal, their brittle stems crumbling under his boots. They were petrified, as if they were already on their way to becoming the next layer of peat.
‘And I think that could be the packhorse way,’ he said.
From the guide stoop, there was a clear route winding its way down the hillside. Overgrown with bracken and reeds, it looked hardly more than a rabbit track. But for the route to have remained distinct even during the summer, there must at least be well-compacted earth, or more likely stone slabs laid on the ground to make it passable in wet weather. Otherwise the undergrowth would have covered it completely in time.
With his back to the guide stoop, Cooper let his eye follow the line of the track downhill. It curved between the scattered rocks, taking a circuitous route that avoided the steepest parts of the slope.
‘Is that what you’d call a road?’ said Villiers, when he pointed it out.
‘Some people would. If they used tracks and old pathways to get around this area. That looks almost like a three-lane highway.’
She shrugged. ‘I suppose we should follow it, then?’
Towards the end of the track, just before they reached the outskirts of the village, they stumbled across an area enclosed by half-tumbled stone walls and fractured lengths of barbed-wire fencing.
‘Wait,’ said Cooper.
Through the undergrowth he’d glimpsed the remains of an ancient building with a corrugated-iron roof and no windows.
Moss grew on the stone walls, and a crooked door was half covered in peeling green paint. The weeds in front of it were dense and impenetrable, and a bird had built its nest on a broken downspout. He was looking at an old farm building, a lot older than most of the properties in Riddings. It was Barry Gamble’s artistic statement about decay and abandonment.
And now Cooper could see why the composition of Mr Gamble’s photograph had been all wrong. There was a reason why the angle of his shot had been awkward, with the building off-centre. The photographer had been unable to move those ten yards to the right and take a few steps closer to his subject. He had been prevented by the barbed-wire enclosure.
Inside the enclosure, Cooper saw a pair of brick slurry pits, which must have lain disused for decades. They were overgrown with willowherb and full of a dark, oily sludge, choked with old tyres and covered with green scum. He dreaded to think how foul that sludge would smell, once you broke through the crust on the surface. Matt would never have let any part of his land get like this.
Cooper leaned over and looked into the nearest pit. There was one clear patch on the surface, where something had dropped through the scum and vanished into the murky depths. A small cloud of mosquitoes hovered over it.
For a moment, he stood quite still, oblivious to anything else around him. The moor seemed to recede as if it was no more than a landscape in a dream. For a second he’d slipped back into the real world, the one inhabited by all those people down there in Riddings.
He looked towards the village, and saw the distinctive roof of one of the houses very close to the bottom of the track. His mind filled rapidly with images. The body of Zoe Barron, her blood staining the tiles. The fragments of gravel scattered across the Barrons’ lawn. The white handprints on their back wall. Gardeners, a grey woollen fleece, and a gust of wind blowing canvas over a face-painting tent.
Then he shook himself. He felt as though he’d just woken up and found the nightmare was real. He took a step backwards, and almost bumped-into Villiers.
‘What’s the matter?’ she said. ‘Ben? What is it?’
Cooper could barely answer her. After everything that had happened this week, it was as if his mind had suddenly cleared. The fog had lifted, the mist had finally been burned away by the sun. He still didn’t have the proof, of course. But like those white chalk marks on the rock faces of the edge, he realised that there were one person’s prints all over this case.
‘We need to get some equipment up here, and empty out these slurry pits,’ he said.
‘Oh my God, Ben. Are you serious? You are going to be really popular.’
‘I know. Trust me, I know.’
25
Diane Fry stood in the farmyard at Bridge End, watching the activity still going on. A tractor had been reversed out of the way to give the forensics team room to work, and a ballistics expert brought in from the Forensic Science Service was faffing about in the yard in his scene suit. To one side stood a trailer full of fresh manure, which no one had wanted to move. Nearby, a cat sat on the wall, washing its paws calmly, as if waiting for the next stage of the entertainment.
Fry had supervised a neighbouring farmer who had come to deal with the cows, taking them round the back of the milking parlour to avoid crossing the ground in front of the house. That would have made DCI Mackenzie really unhappy, to see a herd of cattle trampling his crime scene. Considering that possibility, Fry almost wished she’d allowed it to happen.
She looked around the yard again, picturing the scenario of last night’s shooting. The victim, Graham Smith, had been hit by a single shotgun blast in the middle of the yard. Blood splatter on the ground had been indicated by a series of yellow plastic evidence markers. The preliminary theory was that Smith had been shot in the back while running away from the farmer brandishing a shotgun. And no evidence had so far been found to contradict that theory.
According to the ballistics man, the lead shot used would have had a muzzle velocity of more than thirteen hundred feet per second. Fry knew that that could make a terrible mess of a human body at close range. Further away, the damage was serious, but more widely spread. Individual pellets became embedded under the skin – but provided the face wasn’t hit, it might only be a question of scarring once the pellets were removed.
But if the pellets missed their target and travelled even further, they would become scattered and lose their velocity, causing minimal damage. Eventually, the shot would fall harmlessly to the ground.
Fry stood in the doorway where Matt Cooper would have emerged from the house, an old jacket and a pair of jeans pulled over his pyjamas. He would probably have fired from here, if he’d been defending his property. But perhaps not if he’d been pursuing an innocent victim who was already fleeing. No cartridge case or wad had been found to show where he was standing when he fired. But the victim had been hit in the back, so it was obvious, wasn’t it?
She studied the surface of the yard around the area of the yellow markers. Then she took one final glance around the outbuildings, the parked tractor, the trailer full of manure, the cat grooming itself.
Finally, she sighed. Of course, she felt under no obligation to try too hard to find evidence clearing Matt Cooper. And yet…
Fry looked at Mackenzie as he walked gingerly along the edge of the yard, skirting the smellier areas. She remembered seeing the DCI slip on a cowpat as he came into the yard, twisting his body painfully as he tried to keep his footing.
‘What are you thinking about, DS Fry?’ asked Mackenzie as he came nearer.
‘Cow muck.’
‘Well, there’s plenty of it.’
‘And it’s slippery.’
‘Yes. So?’
‘I’m thinking that if Graham Smith slipped as he was running away across the yard…’
Mackenzie looked at her more closely. ‘It’s possible. I did it myself.’
‘I know you did, sir. I saw you.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Matthew Cooper has been saying in interview that he thought one of the intruders was armed, hasn’t he?’
‘Yes. But as you know, they weren’t in possession of any firearms. And nothing has been found at the scene.’
Out of the corner of her eye, Fry could see the FSS man removing his scene suit and packing his gear, getting ready to depart. Job done, then? Well, perhaps not.
‘Take a look over here,’ she said. ‘Would you, sir? Please?’
‘Why, what have you found?’
‘I could tell you what I think we’ll find. But you should see it for yourself.’
Mackenzie crossed to the trailer with her, wrinkling his nose at the increasing pungency of the smell as they approached. Fry pulled on a pair of latex gloves, ignoring the odour and the cloud of flies that rose from the manure. She began to shake loose some of the straw.
‘I don’t know what on earth you’re doing,’ said Mackenzie. ‘Is it some kind of rural custom?’
‘It’s all a question of trajectory and velocity,’ said Fry.
‘Oh?’
‘Well, mostly. There’s also the complication of people who see only what they want to see, and ignore anything unpleasant.’
A black pellet dropped into her gloved hand.
‘Is that it?’ said Mackenzie.
‘No,’ said Fry. ‘There’ll be more shotgun pellets over this way.’
‘Where?’
‘In the trailer.’
‘But it’s full of…’
‘I know. So?’
The DCI grimaced. ‘How did they get here?’
‘Some of the pellets missed their target,’ said Fry. ‘At that range, you wouldn’t miss. Not unless your target moved suddenly.’
‘I see.’
‘And now, given the velocity and trajectory, we’ll be able to calculate exactly where the shooter was standing when he fired.’
Mackenzie bent to look at the pellet in her hand.
‘I’ll get the ballistics expert back.�
�
He called over one of his DCs to send him after the forensic scientist, who was probably washing his hands before departure.
‘By the way,’ said Fry, ‘when they searched Matt Cooper in the custody suite, was there anything in the pockets of his jacket?’
The DC checked his notebook. ‘I can tell you that.’
‘Let me guess,’ said Fry. ‘A seventy-millimetre cartridge casing, and a plastic wad.’
‘Yes, exactly right.’
Fry nodded. A sea of conflicting emotions was seething inside her. She loved those moments when she was proved right. Everybody did, didn’t they? It was pretty much what she lived for, that brief surge of adrenalin and excitement that made her heart quicken and her breath catch in her throat. But the credit in this instance wasn’t hers. Not truly. It belonged to the same person who had so often snatched the glory from her in the past. Even now, when he shouldn’t even have been speaking to anyone involved in the investigation. How did he manage to do that?
An incongruous shape caught her eye. Something round and shiny, a curious object to be nestled in a heap of cow manure. Fry reached in a hand. It was fortunate that she was still wearing her gloves. She took hold of the object and drew it slowly from the manure. It kept coming – more than three feet of it; a length of pale, smooth wood sliding into the light and becoming thicker as it emerged. A baseball bat.
‘Well I think that’s pretty clear,’ she said. ‘Don’t you?’
***
An hour later, DCI Mackenzie was preparing to leave the farm. Before he got into his car, he turned to Fry with an ironic smile on his lips.
‘You’re a real farm girl, aren’t you? A proper expert in rural life. I was thinking of offering you a job with my team in Derby, but you’re obviously more at home here in the country.’
‘What?’ said Fry, outraged. ‘ What? ’
Mackenzie laughed as he opened his car door, wiping the soles of his boots carefully on the grass.
‘Look at this stuff. I don’t want to take any of this back to the city with me, do I?’
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