Stephen Booth - The Devil’s Edge

Some of the attendees had brought their own sandwiches. Packed lunches, like schoolchildren. There was a civilian, a techy type from an IT department somewhere in the region, who was drinking Coke through a straw while he listened to an iPod and scrolled through messages on his iPhone.

You would have thought they’d supply lunch, at least. But this was the age of austerity. No such thing as a free lunch. Whoever said that had got it dead right.

Fry wondered what the others had done wrong to be sent here. When she stood up, her body ached. Not just from the ordeal of sitting still for so long. She physically craved action.

Somewhere in the world, something must be happening. There must be people who needed her. Mustn’t there?

The village of Riddings had no pubs, and no shops. Not a sign of a cafe or a craft shop, or even a farmhouse selling fruit at the side of the road.

Yet Cooper could see that the place still attracted tourists. Perhaps they saw some quaintness in its narrow lanes and stone houses, or enjoyed the smell of horse manure. But the people who lived here clearly had no interest in tourism. Unlike other villages in the Peak District, they made no effort to encourage visitors. They provided no facilities, not even anywhere to park a car.

Driving through the centre of the village, he noticed a few smaller cottages standing on The Green, where a hand-written sign advertised horse manure at a pound per bag. But the only people he saw anywhere were women walking their dogs.

The lanes really were very narrow. Where cars were left parked at the side of the road, their offside wing mirrors had been folded in to avoid getting knocked off by passing vehicles. A lesson learned from experience, he supposed.

The property neighbouring Valley View was called Fourways. This one was probably worth barely a million. Through more black wrought-iron gates, a drive ran straight up to a double garage, and the house was below it, approached by a set of steps. It was much smaller than Valley View, maybe no more than three bedrooms. But the views alone would add a lot of value to the property.

On the way to the front door, he passed a window and saw a woman emerging from the kitchen and walking towards a split-level dining room. Through the kitchen door, Cooper glimpsed Shaker-style units, lit by a dozen spotlights. A cream Persian cat sat in a basket by the Aga. When it saw him, it gave him a look of pure contempt.

He thought of his own moggy back at home in his flat in Welbeck Street, a rescue from the local animal sanctuary and happy just to have a back yard to sit in when it was sunny. There were cats and cats, just like there were different people.

When he rang the bell, the same woman answered.

‘Mrs Holland?’

‘Yes.’

‘Police. I’d like to have a few words about your neighbours. Have you heard what happened?’

‘Oh, the Barrons, yes. Terrible.’

Inside the house, the entrance hall was floored with slate, which Cooper had always liked the look of. Wherever it was used, it seemed to bring a bit of the natural world into a home. The feel of it underfoot was so different from synthetic flooring. He liked the way it changed colour in different light, and even the smell of it when it got wet. One day he would own a house with slate floors. One day.

The Hollands were a couple in their late sixties. Comfortable-looking was the expression that came into his mind. Well settled into retirement, but fit enough to be active. The husband was a bit overweight. Perhaps he ought to play more golf, and eat fewer good dinners. Compared to him, his wife was like a slender bird, forever moving here and there, steel-grey hair cut straight around her face.

‘I feel so sorry for the children,’ said Mrs Holland. ‘At their age, it must be terrible. At any age, I suppose. You know what I mean.’

‘Yes.’

‘I wouldn’t wish a thing like this on anyone, no matter what I might think of them personally.’

‘How do you get on with the Barrons, then?’

‘Oh. Fine, you know. We don’t see all that much of them. It’s not as if we’re right on top of each other.’

‘We hear them more than see them, I suppose you’d say,’ said Mr Holland.

His wife gave him a look, but Cooper couldn’t quite interpret the message.

‘The children play in their garden, of course,’ she said. ‘What children wouldn’t love to have a garden like that to play in?’

Cooper gazed out of the window, trying to orientate himself in relation to the Barrons’ property.

‘Those trees there. They must be on your neighbours’ side.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘I think I noticed a tree house when I was at Valley View.’

‘Oh, you saw it.’

‘The most expensive tree house ever built,’ said Mr Holland. ‘When I was a child, my dad built us one out of bits of spare timber, and we loved it. Not Jake Barron. He brought in a tree house designer. Can you believe it?’

‘I don’t think Sergeant Cooper wants to hear about tree houses,’ said Mrs Holland firmly.

Her husband shrugged and wandered away a few feet, making a show of examining the rose bush outside the window.

‘Actually, I was wondering if you might have seen anything last night,’ said Cooper.

‘Oh, anything suspicious? That’s what you say, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Any unusual activity, strangers hanging around, vehicles you didn’t recognise?’

She looked disappointed. ‘No. We would have told someone already if we’d seen anything like that.’

‘How long have you lived here in Riddings?’

‘About five years,’ she said. ‘Martin was a very successful commercial lawyer. He still does a certain amount of consultancy work, but at least I get to spend time with him now. And there’s the house. It’s lovely, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, yes. Very nice. It must be a wonderful place to live.’

‘All this business is very worrying, though. Nowhere is safe, is it? Not these days. We thought a place like this, in the country…’

‘Unfortunately, it’s not the case.’

‘I suppose it’s the times we live in. People need money badly. And they look at houses like ours and think we have more than our share. That must be what makes them do things like this, don’t you think? It’s envy, isn’t it? Envy, pure and simple. It’s an emotion that can really eat into people.’

She sounded as though she was speaking from experience. Cooper was about to ask her why, when his phone buzzed. There was a text message from Becky Hurst, asking to speak to him when he was free.

‘I’ll have to go,’ he said. ‘But if you do happen to think of anything, here’s my card.’

Mr Holland had turned to look at him again with a glower, his hands thrust into the pockets of his corduroy trousers. Cooper handed his card to Mrs Holland, simply on the basis that she seemed to be the one who was most interested.

‘Well, you ought to check on the people who go up on the edge at night,’ she said.

‘Which people?’ asked Cooper.

‘You’ll see them. There are always cars parked up at the gap, no matter what time of night you go past. Goodness knows what they do up there. I wouldn’t care to think.’

‘We’ll be checking on everything.’

‘Be sure that you do.’

Cooper thought he was probably going to have to get used to people telling him what to do. Here, everyone would think it was their right.

On his way out on to Curbar Lane, Cooper had to squeeze past a gardener’s van drawn up in the gateway with a trailer full of freshly sawn branches. There must be plenty of work for gardeners in this area. Maintenance of all these lawns and flower borders had to be an endless task, like painting the Forth Bridge.