Stephen Booth - The Devil’s Edge

Cooper laughed. ‘Worse than that. They didn’t believe him for a second. Kids are much smarter now than we ever were.’

‘Less gullible, anyway.’

‘Some people say it’s a boundary pole, marking the spot where Yorkshire becomes Derbyshire, or vice versa. I seem to remember there was an old man who lived near here who claimed that lots of poles were erected on the moors during the Second World War, to prevent the Germans landing gliders full of troops to invade Sheffield.’

‘That’s the way it goes around here. You make up your own stories, and people choose which they want to believe.’

‘You’re right. It’s always been like that, I think.’

The National Trust sign was pretty much as Cooper remembered it. When you went up close to see what it told you about the pole, all it said was: Keep to the paths, do not climb the walls, keep dogs on leads. Observe the by-laws.

The pole stood about twenty feet high, but it was rather a knobbly-looking affair. In fact, it had the appearance of a failed totem pole, one that had been abandoned before the proper carving had been done. Basically, it was the trunk of a spindly tree, possibly a silver birch.

‘I’m glad we got this time together,’ said Liz. ‘I suspect you’d only be thinking about the Riddings case otherwise. You do get a bit obsessive, Ben.’

‘There are two Riddings cases,’ said Cooper.

‘Oh?’

That was one of the things he liked about her. She worried about him getting obsessed with particular cases, but she couldn’t hide the fact that she experienced the same surge of interest. It was evident in her voice, just that one word.

‘It’s not really clear yet,’ he said. ‘Too few obvious lines of inquiry to follow. But I think the hunt for the Savages is misguided. Well – not misguided, but not relevant to Riddings, or to the death of Zoe Barron.’

Liz sat up. ‘Have you told your DI?’

‘No. It would be the wrong thing to say at the moment.’

‘Mmm. You have to toe the party line.’

‘Yes.’

‘Or appear to be doing so, anyway.’

‘I can ask appropriate questions. But I can’t tell Mr Hitchens and Superintendent Branagh that they’re wrong. Not without some evidence.’

‘You’d better find some evidence, then. What’s your theory?’

‘I don’t have one yet,’ said Cooper. ‘I just have the feeling that the answer lies over there, in Riddings. There’s an awful lot of hate in that village.’

The words sounded wrong and out of place in this location, with the sun beating down on them, the hills rolling gently away to the west, the sound of sheep quietly bleating to each other in a field down the valley. But Cooper knew what he’d said was right. He could sense it wherever he went in Riddings, and not just from Richard Nowak or Alan Slattery. They were open about it. Those who concealed their feelings were the most worrying.

‘This latest attack,’ said Liz. ‘Mr and Mrs Holland?’

‘Yes. You were there, at their house. Fourways.’

‘We found very little in the way of forensic evidence, you know.’

‘I heard.’

‘So unless the lady can provide any information about the intruder

…?’

Cooper hadn’t been present at the interviews with Mrs Holland, but he’d read the transcripts. She’d told her interviewers that she had caught sight of a single figure in the garden of their home, no more than a glimpse of the intruder through a window. She couldn’t say whether he had been heading towards the house, or away from it. She couldn’t even say for certain that it was a he. When pressed, though, she swore that the intruder was wearing a dark mask. Otherwise she would have been able to see a face, wouldn’t she?

‘Nothing of any use so far,’ said Cooper.

‘Perhaps she’ll remember something later.’

‘She thinks the intruder she saw wore a mask.’

‘Like the Savages do.’

‘But there was only one intruder at Fourways, so far as we can tell. The Savages always operate in a group, two or three of them at least.’

‘I see.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t make me call them the Savages,’ he said.

‘Oh, sorry.’

‘Besides…’

‘What?’

‘There’s really no evidence that anyone was trying to break in at the Hollands’ place.’

Liz nodded. ‘No, that’s what we found, from a forensic point of view. No tool marks on the doors, no broken windows, nothing. The intruder was outside. And even then, he was careful not to leave footprints on soft ground.’

‘Careful, or lucky.’

‘The result is the same.’

‘Apparently the Hollands even set off their own burglar alarm,’ said Cooper. ‘They activated the motion sensors and didn’t turn the alarm off.’

‘Well, it would be the last thing on your mind, with your husband breathing his last on the doorstep.’

‘Oh, yes. If Mr Holland hadn’t rushed out to confront the intruder, the outcome would have been quite different,’ he said. ‘A 999 call would have been far better. Well – on most nights, it would.’

Cooper stared across the valley, not seeing the trees or the hills, but trying to picture the scene at Fourways that chaotic night. Had someone taken advantage of the noise and disturbance in the village to undertake a risky mission of his own?

‘What about the suspect you pursued on the night?’ asked Liz.

‘Barry Gamble? He was questioned, of course, but there was nothing to place him at the Hollands’. We found no mask on him, or anything else incriminating. Besides, some of the teenagers at the party identified him positively as the man they’d seen lurking in the bushes at The Cottage. Theoretically, it would be possible for him to have been in both places within a few minutes – they’re close enough together. But why would he hang around after the confrontation with Mr Holland? Why wear a mask at one place and not the other? And there isn’t the remotest suggestion of a motive. No history between him and the Hollands. We never had any hope of a case against him. He got a bit of a scare, though.’

‘A dead end, then.’

‘It seems so.’

Yes, that was an understatement. At the moment, it felt like running into a stone wall. Like running face first into the Devil’s Edge itself.

Cooper found a bottle of water, and passed it to Liz. He looked over his shoulder towards the edges. The closest one was Froggatt Edge, with White Edge forming a higher terrace above it. He could see the outline of White Edge Lodge, standing isolated and sinister like a Gothic castle. Dark clouds were building up in the east, massing over Big Moor.

‘So,’ said Liz slowly, ‘I know why we can’t marry in September or November.’

‘You do?’

‘Since you weren’t available to explain when you said you would, I asked your sister-in-law.’

‘You spoke to Kate?’

‘It seemed preferable to trying to get anything out of you, or your brother.’

‘It’s because of the anniversaries,’ said Cooper. ‘Our mother died in September, and our father in November.’

‘I know.’

‘It might seem a bit unnecessary, but anniversaries like that have always been important in our family.’

‘I understand, really. November was out anyway.’ She shuddered. ‘Just imagine. Rain, wind, mud. A nightmare.’

They were silent for a moment, enjoying the sun. A small group of tourists walked along the track from the road to look at the pole, then walked quietly back again.

‘And… the full works?’ said Cooper hesitantly.

‘Of course.’

‘Right.’

‘Which means we have a lot of planning to do, Ben.’

Cooper knew that he ought to sound enthusiastic. No doubt it was expected of him. But when he looked inside himself, he was forced to admit that what he wanted was to be married to Liz, not to have an actual wedding. Not a wedding with all the fuss – the morning suits and bridesmaids’ dresses, the confetti and cake, the speeches and the endless group photographs. The full works.