Stephen Booth - The Devil’s Edge

‘Carol? You mean Carol Villiers, the new DC, I guess.’

‘Where has she come from?’

‘She’s ex-military. RAF Police.’

‘Really?’

Murfin smiled. ‘Apparently she’s a friend of Ben’s, from way back. An old school pal.’

‘Oh.’

‘From what I’ve seen of her, she seems great.’

‘I’m sure she is.’

The reporter’s name was Erin Byrne. She was one of the senior staff at the Eden Valley Times – though that wasn’t saying much, in Cooper’s experience. The turnover in the editorial department of the Times seemed to be very rapid, as anyone with two or three years’ experience moved on to better things. And for reporters on Edendale’s local paper, ‘better things’ didn’t necessarily mean the excitement of Fleet Street. It often meant a move into public relations, or the press office at Derbyshire County Council.

Byrne was dark and angular, with a soft Irish accent that made Cooper think of some rural county in the west of Ireland. Galway or Mayo. She was dressed all in black, like a high-powered businesswoman. One of those destined for a career in PR, perhaps.

‘We’ve been getting these messages,’ she said. ‘At first we didn’t take any notice. We get our fair share of loonies, you know.’

‘I’m sure you do.’

She smiled. ‘Some of them complaining about the police, of course.’

‘So what did these messages say?’

‘It’s a male caller. He claims his call is connected to the Riddings murder inquiry, and he says, “Tell them Sheffield Road.” He’s called three times now.’

‘Just Sheffield Road?’

‘That’s what he said. The trouble is, he’s been put through to a different person each time he’s called, and we all wrote him off as a nutter. It was only when someone mentioned it that we realised three of us had received similar calls. Mine was the most recent one.’

‘And they were all exactly the same?’

‘It certainly seems to have been the same man each time. He sounded as though he was calling from a phone box somewhere, too. Probably had an idea that we might trace his call. People get exaggerated ideas of what journalists can do.’

‘ Tell them Sheffield Road. That’s it?’

‘Well, my call was a bit different. He was getting cross by then. He didn’t like being passed from person to person, and thought we weren’t taking him seriously.’

‘Which you weren’t.’

‘True.’ She laughed. ‘Anyway, when he got me, on the third occasion, he was very unhappy. Maybe because I was female, I don’t know. He might have thought he’d been fobbed off with the secretary or something. He ended up slamming the phone down. But before he did, he said he would put it in writing.’

Cooper’s ears pricked up. ‘And has he?’

‘Not yet. Are you interested?’

‘On its own, the message doesn’t seem to mean anything.’

‘It didn’t to us, either. But I thought there might be some significance in the context of the inquiry. I mean, you must have gathered a lot of information that we’re not aware of. There might be a significant detail that you haven’t chosen to share with the press.’

Byrne raised an eyebrow and looked at him expectantly. He knew she was fishing for a titbit, an angle that she could turn into an exclusive story for her paper. Her charm probably worked on some people. But in this job, you learned to be close-mouthed when it came to giving out information to the public.

‘There’s a Sheffield Road out of Baslow,’ said Cooper. ‘The A621. Not many houses on it, though. A couple of farmsteads down at Far End, near the roundabout. And a big house in the woods across Bar Brook, just under Jack Flat. But that’s about it, I think.’

‘That’s the only one I know of, too.’

He pictured the road as it climbed out of Baslow. Gardom’s Edge on one side, Baslow Edge on the other, two pincers of rock squeezing the road into a narrow gap. It was a busy route, though – the main road up to the junction at Owler Bar, and on into the city via Totley. Many people thought of Owler as the gateway into the Peak District. At that curious elliptical junction sandwiched between two pubs, you could choose to head north towards Hathersage and the Hope Valley, or southwards to Baslow and Bakewell. Either way, you had to work your way round the edges and the expanse of Big Moor. If you were travelling by car, at least.

‘Well? Any thoughts?’

Cooper shook his head. ‘I can’t think what significance Sheffield Road has. It might be the route the attackers took if they came from Sheffield, but so what? There are only two possible routes to Riddings from the east anyway. It’s that, or the A625.’

‘I don’t know what to make of it, then. I thought you might understand what it meant.’

‘I wish I did.’

‘I’m sorry, I seem to have wasted your time, then.’

‘No, that’s all right. And if you do happen to get a written message…’

‘I’ll let you know what it says.’

‘It might be helpful if I could see the actual message,’ he said. ‘Helpful how?’

‘I don’t know. But seeing the original can often make quite a difference to its interpretation.’

‘Okay. If that happens, I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’m on duty this weekend. If a letter arrives in the morning…?’

Cooper gave her his card. ‘Don’t wait until Monday. Call my mobile number, or email me.’

He escorted Byrne back into reception. In the entrance, two sets of double doors faced the reception desk, looking out on to the visitors’ car park. A van came through the barrier, carrying a prisoner to the custody suite behind the station.

He held the door open for her, but she hesitated.

‘I might see you again, then,’ she said.

‘It’s possible.’

She gave him a small wave as she went down the steps to her car, and Cooper smiled automatically. It was only as Byrne pulled away that he noticed a crime-scene van waiting for the barrier to rise. It was inevitable that it should be Liz who was driving it.

On his way back to the CID room, Cooper glimpsed Diane Fry in the doorway, and wondered if she had come to see him. But a moment later, she was gone again. He shook his head in incomprehension. It was strange how Fry always seemed to be in a doorway, forever passing through from one place to another.

‘I see Diane Fry is back,’ said Hurst.

‘Is she? I thought it had turned cold suddenly,’ said Murfin.

‘I wonder what happened to the Implementing Strategic Change working group.’

‘There are rumours,’ said Murfin darkly.

Cooper turned towards him. ‘There are always rumours, Gavin. Usually being spread by you.’

Murfin tapped the side of his nose. ‘But this is from a reliable source, like.’

Cooper sighed. ‘Go on, then.’

‘Well, they say that something happened in Nottinghamshire, after one of the meetings. An incident. Some occurrence that upset the deliberations of the Incessant Sodding Change working group.’

A few minutes later, Cooper turned a corner in the corridor and found himself face to face with Fry, who was coming the other way. They both stopped, uncertainly.

‘Hi, Diane.’

She nodded briskly. ‘How are things going?’

‘Busy, you know.’

‘Absolutely. I do know.’

‘You’ve heard about the attacks in Riddings? The home invasions?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Cooper looked at her more closely. She fidgeted from one foot to the other, as if she was anxious to sidestep him and get on with whatever she was doing.

‘I suppose you’re anxious to get involved,’ he said.

‘Not particularly. I’m sure you’re on top of things. You surely don’t need any help from me. You never did, Ben.’