Stephen Booth - The Devil’s Edge

Although he couldn’t see the extent of the grounds, he sensed that they must be enormous. All he could make out from the piazza was a large monkey puzzle tree, its shape suggesting a mature specimen, with deep green leaves forming dense clusters at the top. A male tree, judging by the cones.

He was greeted at the door of the house by a woman in an apron, who introduced herself as the housekeeper. She led him into a hallway, watched him carefully as he wiped his feet, then escorted him across an expanse of carpet so soft and springy that he felt as though he was walking on a trampoline. A good jump and bounce, and his head would almost touch that crystal chandelier.

He entered a room filled with a confusingly diverse range of furniture and ornaments. Porcelain vases, a brass bar ometer, a large tapestry showing figures against a background of stylised foliage and towers. There were so many items he felt as though he’d just walked into an antiques shop.

The man he’d seen in the metallic blue Jaguar XF was sitting at a large round glass table. His image was reflected perfectly in its surface, as if he was looking out over a pool of clear, still water. Iron-grey hair swept back, a sardonic eyebrow, a loud and commanding tone of voice.

‘Russell Edson. This is my mother, Glenys.’

Edson didn’t bother getting up, didn’t offer to shake hands. The gesture towards the plump lady with the blue rinse was fairly perfunctory too. He seemed supremely confident about who was important in this room, and who wasn’t. So far, he was only counting himself in the first category.

‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr Edson.’

‘Well, I hope you have some news, Sergeant. Made a quick arrest, have you? No, I suppose that would be too much to hope for from our local constabulary.’

‘It’s early days yet, sir,’ said Cooper, falling back on a stock phrase to cover what he would really have liked to say.

‘Early days? Of course, I expect you like to take your time. Judging from the speed that things happen around here, we’ll all be in our graves by the time you crack the case.’

Cooper recalled the number plate of the Jag that Edson had been driving – RSE1. He could think of a few possibilities for what ‘S’ stood for. He could hear Gavin Murfin’s voice in his head. Russell Soddin’ Edson.

‘I just need to know if you saw or heard anything out of the ordinary last night, sir,’ he said.

‘Well, I suppose you’ve talked to the old man of the woods? He can’t be hard to find, at least. You only need to follow the smell.’

‘Who?’

‘Gamble, for heaven’s sake. Barry Gamble.’

‘Oh, Mr Gamble, yes.’

‘I mean, he was the only person who saw anything, so far as I’m aware. Not that he would be my idea of a reliable witness. But I suppose you have to make do with what you can get. There’s a definite shortage of evidence, from what I hear. The police are baffled, and all that.’

Edson snorted loudly, and Cooper realised he was laughing.

‘How do you know about Mr Gamble being a witness, sir?’

‘Well, if there was going to be a witness, it would be him, wouldn’t it? It’s rather stating the obvious. Besides, he was here.’

‘Here? At your house? When?’

‘Last night, of course. The idiot came running up our drive and banged on the window. He frightened the life out of my mother, I can tell you. She can do without shocks like that at her age. So I went out to see what was going on, planning to give him a piece of my mind, and he was standing there on the drive, with the security lights on him, gibbering about Zoe Barron being injured. When I finally got a proper story out of him, I offered him the use of my mobile phone to dial 999. But it turned out the old fool had his own phone with him all the time.’

Cooper glanced at Glenys Edson. She hadn’t spoken, but had stared at him so fixedly throughout his visit that she was starting to make him feel uneasy. When he looked more closely, he could see that she was heavily made up, and probably well over seventy. Perhaps she was afraid to speak in case the make-up cracked. Or perhaps she had tried to conceal her age with Botox treatment, and couldn’t move her face anyway.

‘So Mr Gamble ran to your house first,’ said Cooper, ‘before he called the police or an ambulance?’

‘Yes,’ said Edson.

‘Why would he do that?’

Edson shrugged. ‘Why do people do anything? In his case, I’d suggest insanity.’

‘I don’t think he mentioned that he came here – either to me, or to the officers who took his initial statement.’

‘Well, Sergeant,’ said Edson. ‘If you’re going to spend much time in Riddings, you’ll find that people never tell you more than they think you need to know.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’

Edson seemed to look at him properly for the first time, perhaps detecting something in his tone of voice.

‘I’m sorry, would you like a drink?’ he said. ‘My housekeeper will-’

‘No thank you, sir. I have some more visits to make.’

Cooper could have drunk a coffee right now. But he would have been afraid to put his cup down on that glass table. It must take someone hours to polish it to such an immaculate shine, without a streak or a smear. Even with a coaster, the danger of spilling just a drop of liquid on the table was too great. It would be like splashing acid on the Mona Lisa and expecting da Vinci to paint it all over again tomorrow.

‘In that case, if I can’t help you any further…’

‘Do you have many staff at Riddings Lodge, sir?’

‘The housekeeper, Mrs Davis, and a girl who helps her in the kitchen. A couple of cleaners. And an odd-job man I get in to maintain the property – there’s quite a lot of work, as you can imagine. Why do you ask?’

‘We’ll need to speak to them too.’

‘I’ll make sure they’re available.’

Cooper gazed out of the window of the lounge. He was looking at a vast expanse of garden, sloping lawns leading down to a pond so large that it might have been described as a lake. The monkey puzzle tree stood in a prominent position, dominating the foreground.

‘The tree is splendid,’ he said.

‘Do you like it?’ asked Edson. ‘There are male and female trees, I’m told. You need both sexes for the seeds to be fertile, but there isn’t another one of this species for miles.’

Beyond the tree, a long bank of rhododendrons formed a backdrop and blocked out any sign of the neighbouring properties. To Cooper’s eye, the flower beds on either side looked regimented and weed-free.

‘Are you a keen gardener, sir?’ he said.

‘No, of course not,’ said Edson. ‘I get a man in to do that, too.’

Gavin Murfin was humming to himself when Cooper met him on the corner of Curbar Lane and The Green. When he got closer, he recognised the tune. Neighbours. Everybody needs good neighbours.

‘You’re not going to sing, are you, Gavin?’ he said.

‘Not in this life.’

‘Thank heavens for that.’

‘Right,’ said Murfin, settling down on the horse trough with his notebook. ‘I thought you might like to share my insights, honed to perfection over many years as an experienced detective.’

‘Who have you talked to?’

‘I’ve been on the back lane there, behind Valley View.’

‘Croft Lane.’

‘There’s no street sign, but if you say that’s the name…’

‘It’s a private road, I think. But that’s how it’s known locally.’

‘Okay, Croft Lane. I spoke to Mrs Slattery at South Croft. She’s the widow of a local GP, Doctor Slattery, and she lives alone now, though there seems to be a son in the background. Then there’s Mr and Mrs Nowak at Lane End. I got nothing from either of them. They can barely see the Barrons’ property from their houses, you know.’