Stephen Booth - The Devil’s Edge

He took a step back, stung by her tone. He’d thought it might be different, now that they were no longer under each other’s feet.

‘Diane…’

‘I have a meeting with Superintendent Branagh,’ she said.

‘That’s why I’m here, if you really want to know.’

‘Oh, okay. So it’s nothing to do with the incident, then?’

‘Incident?’

‘Well, I heard…’

‘Yes, I can imagine what you heard. There are too many people who can’t keep their mouths shut.’

‘Things don’t change much here,’ said Cooper.

‘There’s one lesson you really should learn, Ben, if you never learn anything else. Places don’t change. If you want things to change in your life, you have to make it happen yourself.’

‘Well, thanks for that. I wasn’t expecting a thought for the day.’

He made to move past her, but she stopped him.

‘So, how is GI Jane getting on?’ she said.

‘Who?’

‘The female Rambo. Your new DC.’

‘Carol Villiers. Have you been checking up on her?’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘I have no idea. But it sounds that way from your sarcastic references. Otherwise, how would you know she was in the services?’

‘I’m not totally out of touch, you know. You haven’t quite got rid of me from Edendale yet. It’s all around the section who the new DC is. Old pals, aren’t you? You went to school with her, right? It must be nice to reminisce about the old days together whenever you feel like it.’

‘I suppose you’ve been talking to Gavin,’ said Cooper as he brushed past her. ‘I wish you wouldn’t try to interfere with my team.’

He knew Fry was watching him as he walked away, but he didn’t look back.

‘It used to be my team,’ she said. But he pretended he hadn’t heard her.

When Cooper returned to the CID room, Diane Fry was still there. And she’d met Carol Villiers. The two were sitting at desks opposite each other, though they didn’t seem to be speaking.

Murfin was watching Fry and Villiers sizing each other up.

‘Who do you think would win in a fight?’ he said when he saw Cooper. ‘Well, I suppose there’s only one way to find out…’

‘Gavin,’ said Cooper warningly, knowing he was wasting his breath.

‘Go on. I bet you’ve wondered. Do you think Villiers knows those SAS death grips? Can she kill someone with nothing but a ballpoint pen? Only, I’ve got a spare one, if she needs it.’

Cooper couldn’t help following Murfin’s gaze. The sight of the two women drew his attention irresistibly. They seemed to be talking to each other now. He strained to hear what they were saying, but Villiers was sitting with her back to him, and Fry was speaking too quietly to be heard against the background noise of ringing phones. That was unlike her, too. She had never been one to whisper or mumble. And she had certainly never been afraid of letting people hear her opinions.

‘Wishing you could lip-read?’ said Murfin.

‘What? Of course not,’ said Cooper, though it was exactly what he’d been thinking.

‘Mostly swear words, I reckon. A bit of sarcasm. Ritual abuse.’

Cooper looked at Fry’s expression again, saw a raised eyebrow that accompanied a murmured question.

‘No, Gavin,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t think so.’

Becky Hurst had been busy working on her PC, but she stopped when an officer brought in a copy of the Sheffield evening paper to show her.

‘I can’t believe this,’ she said.

Cooper caught her outraged tone.

‘Becky?’

‘People are starting to treat the Savages as some kind of heroes.’

‘What is it?’

‘This story in the Sheffield paper. It’s as if they’re Robin Hood and his Merry Men or some rubbish. Unbelievable.’

Murfin chuckled. ‘Stealing from the rich and giving to the poor? But they’re only doing the first part, surely?’

‘How do we know?’ said Cooper.

‘Well…’

‘We don’t know, do we? We don’t know anything about them.’

‘Still, whoever they are – they’re not heroes.’

‘It’s the way they’re managing to come and go at will,’ said Murfin. ‘Evading capture, eluding the police. The public love all that. It makes them think they’re watching a Hollywood film. You’ll see, they’ll be built up into legends if we don’t catch them soon. There’ll be stories told about them, all kinds of exaggerations. Songs, jokes – it’ll all happen.’

‘There’s already a Facebook fan page,’ said Irvine.

‘A what?’ asked Cooper.

‘A fan page. On Facebook.’ Irvine looked at him as if that was enough explanation for anyone.

‘Show me,’ said Cooper.

Irvine called up the page. It was headed We all luv the Savages. Cooper read through a few of the messages before he could stand any more.

These guys are legend.

Just brilliant the way they’re giving the f***ing cops the runaround. Ram it to the pigs!

You said it, dude. More power to the Savages.

‘Who are these people?’ he said.

‘All kinds of folk. It’s been building up ever since the first attack. Not the first one in Riddings, I mean the first one attributed to the Savages.’

‘In Hathersage.’

‘Right. That guy they robbed was a banker.’

‘No, he was a financial adviser,’ said Cooper.

‘Still. You know how people feel. That was enough for public support to come down on the side of the Savages. And then, with them sticking it to the police the way they have…’

‘So these are their groupies. Criminals with a fan club. Pity we can’t shut them down.’

‘We could try. Facebook might cooperate.’

‘It’s freedom, though, isn’t it?’ said Irvine. ‘That’s what the internet is supposed to be about, the freedom to express your own views and share information.’

‘Freedom can be used as a weapon, too,’ said Hurst.

Surprised, Cooper looked round at her. He was seeing a side of her he hadn’t noticed before.

Hurst flushed slightly at his look.

‘Well, it’s true,’ she said defiantly. ‘Sometimes you have to protect people from themselves.’

Irvine laughed. ‘Listen to Maggie Thatcher. It’ll be no such thing as society next. Roll on the Fourth Reich.’

‘That’s very offensive,’ said Hurst, going redder.

‘Well, lighten up.’

‘All right,’ said Cooper firmly. ‘That’s enough. You two can continue your political debate in your own time.’

Hurst and Irvine went back to their desks in silence. Hurst ostentatiously picked up her phone and turned her back to her colleague to make a call. Cooper looked round the office, wondering where the suddenly sour atmosphere had come from. But Fry was no longer there. She seemed to have faded into the background, vanishing as unexpectedly as she’d arrived.

Carol Villiers placed copies of her reports on Cooper’s desk for him to check, along with an envelope of crime-scene photographs from Riddings.

‘Not much love lost there, then,’ she said. ‘That was a surprise.’

‘They’re okay,’ said Cooper. ‘I think they like each other really.’

‘Some people have a funny way of showing it.’

‘Yes, they do.’

Cooper opened the envelope and spread the photos out on his desk. Some of them still made him flinch. For some reason, the scene of a violent crime always looked so much more sordid in the photographs than in real life. It might be because the victim was no longer a person, but had been reduced to a tangle of pale, dead limbs, an untidy heap of clothes, a drying bloodstain on the floor. The small details of that person’s life were just so much rubbish scattered in the background, every item marked with a crime-scene number.