Stephen Booth - The Devil’s Edge

And then the moment had come when he’d found himself holding his mother’s hand as she slept, and realised that she wasn’t asleep, but dead. Her fingers felt limp and cold. Her stillness was beyond sleep.

He’d expected to go through all kinds of emotions, but none of them seemed to come. There was only a spreading numbness, an emptiness waiting for something to fill it.

He remembered walking down the corridor to the nurses’ station. A young nurse in a blue uniform looked up at him, and smiled.

‘Yes, sir? Is there anything I can do for you?’

‘It’s my mother,’ he’d said. ‘I think she’s dead.’

And that had been it. Now he would never be able to tell her about his engagement. The two things she’d hoped for, his promotion and his marriage, had both evaded her in life.

‘The Hollands,’ said Villiers. ‘I guess that’s where we’re going next.’

Cooper jerked, drawn back into the here and now by her voice.

‘Fourways,’ he said. ‘Right on the corner of Curbar Lane, and next door to the Barrons. He’s a retired lawyer. They seem pretty harmless, but…’

‘You never know, do you?’

‘Not here,’ said Cooper.

As they entered Fourways, Cooper noticed something he hadn’t seen on his previous visit, perhaps because he’d been distracted by a phone call or a text, he couldn’t remember which. A stone feature had been constructed in the front garden, a sort of vertical rockery built from the local gritstone. It seemed to be intended to echo the view of Riddings Edge beyond the house. On top of smooth slabs someone had balanced jagged and weathered stones, apparently chosen to suggest animal shapes. Cooper gazed at it for a moment, trying to fathom its significance. He didn’t know what it meant, but he knew what it was. This was the Devil’s Edge in miniature, right here outside the Hollands’ front door.

‘Mrs Holland. This is my colleague, DC Villiers.’

‘Hello. What can we do to help?’

‘Just a quick question.’

Sarah Holland looked expectant, but she was smiling. Her expression suggested she was alert, and ready to help. Quite the opposite of Barry Gamble.

Cooper gestured first at the rockery. He needed to satisfy his curiosity.

‘Who built the stone feature in your garden, Mrs Holland?’

‘Oh, I did,’ she said. ‘Though Martin collected most of the stones for me, on his walks.’

‘Mr Holland is a keen walker?’

‘He likes to keep fit. And walking is wonderful exercise at our age. Good for the heart, isn’t it?’

‘I believe so. Does he go walking on the edge?’

He didn’t feel the need to specify which edge he meant. She must be as conscious as he was of the gritstone battlement looming over their heads.

‘Yes, of course. It’s a great place to walk. It’s quite flat on the top, you know – once you get up there.’

Cooper looked at the small-scale version of the Devil’s Edge again.

‘Do you do your own gardening, Mrs Holland?’

‘What?’

‘It’s a big garden. Do you do all the work yourself?’

‘No, we have a couple of young men who come in now and then to mow the lawns, do the weeding, all the heavier work. They work at quite a lot of properties in Riddings. They’re good boys. Hard workers.’

‘AJS Gardening Services?’

‘Yes, that’s them.’

Martin Holland came through the house to join them.

‘Ah, glad to see you’re still on the job,’ he said. ‘Nothing like a police presence. How can we help you?’

‘Where were you both on Tuesday?’ said Cooper. ‘I’m not sure I asked you before.’

‘Oh, we’d been out balsam bashing,’ said Mrs Holland, with a smile.

For a moment Cooper thought he must have misheard her. ‘You’d been out…?’

‘Balsam bashing.’

No, he’d definitely heard it right. And she sounded proud of it, too. So it probably wasn’t a euphemism – not for the sort of thing he was imagining, anyway. There were all kinds of quaint local customs in Derbyshire, of course. Well dressing, garland ceremonies, Shrovetide football games. But balsam bashing was not one he’d heard of before.

‘Himalayan balsam,’ said Mrs Holland.

‘Oh.’

Now she looked disappointed in him. He’d failed some kind of test, and that didn’t happen to Cooper very often where local knowledge was concerned.

‘It’s an invasive species,’ she said. ‘It smothers riverside habitats, harms native plant life and erodes the riverbanks. It needs to be rooted out by late August, before its seed pods explode.’

‘I see.’

‘It was on TV.’

‘Was it?’

‘Central News. That was when the schoolchildren helped to clear Calver Marshes. Everybody’s been helping along the Derwent. Cub scouts, conservation volunteers, Duke of Edinburgh Award people. Everybody.’

‘I must have missed it,’ said Cooper. He actually was surprised that he hadn’t known about it. Normally he would have been aware of a project like that. Living in the town was somehow disconnecting him from what was going on in the villages.

‘So anyway, there was a working party. We were clearing the stretch of river from Froggatt Old Bridge down past Calver Mill and around the weir. It was quite a big party of volunteers, maybe three dozen or so. We were there most of the day, from about ten o’clock in the morning. Hard work it was, too. But it’s all in the interests of the community and the local environment.’

‘Who else was there from Riddings?’

‘Well, Barry Gamble, of course. A few of the other people from Chapel Close. Old Mrs Slattery drifted by, but she didn’t stay very long. She’s not too strong, from the look of her.’

‘How about Mr Edson?’

Mrs Holland sniffed. ‘You’re joking. Edson wouldn’t get his hands dirty with a job like that. He wouldn’t even think it was worth getting a speck of mud on his green wellingtons. Though I’m surprised he didn’t send the gardener down to do some work on his behalf.’

‘Anyone else you knew?’

‘I think they were mostly people from Calver or Froggatt. Plus a couple of national park rangers.’

‘What time did you come back?’ asked Villiers. ‘You weren’t working in the dark, I’m sure.’

Mrs Holland laughed. ‘Oh, no. Most of us went for a drink at the Bridge Inn afterwards. It’s thirsty work, you know. And it was our last session together, so it was a kind of celebration drink. Or two.’

‘Or three,’ said her husband.

‘Well, some of us, perhaps.’ She looked at him accusingly. ‘Anyway, that meant it was dark when we came home. So it was after nine o’clock, I suppose. Possibly nearer ten.’

‘Is the balsam bashing finished, then?’ asked Cooper.

‘Until next year. Why, were you thinking of volunteering?’

‘I don’t think I’d have time.’

‘That’s what everyone says.’

‘I suppose they do.’

‘Do you know many of the residents of Riddings?’ asked Villiers.

‘Quite a few,’ said Holland. ‘More than most do, I’d say. We’re quite gregarious, and like to say hello when we’re passing. But you don’t get people coming together much in this village.’

‘That’s right,’ said his wife. ‘There’s no pub here, or anywhere else to meet. We only have the chapel, and that’s just for a few particular individuals. The annual show is about the only time you see people together.’

‘Oh, Riddings Show?’ asked Cooper.

‘Yes, it’s this Saturday, as it happens. Always on the bank holiday weekend. For some folk in this village it’s the one day of the year that they actually see each other. It’s funny, they might have spent the previous twelve months avoiding someone, but everyone goes to the show. Everyone. You have to put in an appearance.’