Стивен Бут: Fall Down Dead

He looked down to see what Fry had been examining so closely when he came in. A book lay open on the kitchen table, a bloody thumbprint left clear and distinct on the edge of a page.

‘A recipe book?’ he said.

‘Mary Berry’s Fast Cakes ,’ said Fry.

‘Is this what the argument was over?’

Fry nodded. ‘Maybe they just weren’t fast enough,’ she said.

Cooper leaned a little nearer to peer at the book. Pineapple upside-down cake. It sounded good. But it would never be made now.

A crime scene examiner entered the kitchen and they backed away to allow him to dust for more fingerprints.

‘This should be an easy one anyway,’ said Cooper.

‘Maybe. Most of them are hard going.’

Hard going. That was exactly how he thought of making conversation with Diane Fry. She gave so little, though he knew she had a lot more she could give if she wanted to. But that was the way she was, and she would probably never change. Fry would always be hard work.

‘Your colleagues from St Ann’s have abandoned you, then?’ said Cooper.

‘They aren’t in St Ann’s any more. They’ve moved somewhere else.’

‘Oh yes. Their secret base. The one everybody knows about.’

‘They have other priorities,’ said Fry.

‘Anything I should be aware of?’

Fry didn’t bother to answer this time, and Cooper wasn’t surprised.

The noise going on around them hardly mattered. They had nothing else to say to each other, and it might as well have been silence.

Outside, Cooper looked up and saw the first signs of mist slowly rolling down from the hills above Edendale.

The danger arrived slowly, settling on the higher slopes of Kinder Scout and creeping into the cloughs like tendrils of smoke. A blanket of it had descended from the sky, deadening the Peak District air. The rest of Derbyshire withdrew into the distance, beyond a dank grey wall. Sophie Pullen watched her companions vanish into a tide of invisible menace. They were entering fog.

Sophie said nothing at first. The group had been winding its way across the plateau in single file, trying to stick to the narrow track. She was bringing up the rear, her feet squelching in her boots after she’d stepped onto boggy ground half a mile back. She was tired and uncomfortable, but she didn’t want to be the one who started complaining.

So she followed on behind Liam Sharpe, who looked out of condition and was struggling on the uphill stretches. Sophie could see him panting and wiping a hand round the neck of his lime-green Craghopper as if he was sweating despite the cool breeze.

Only the Warburtons were further back. Sam had trouble with the steep ascent because of his bad knee and had stopped several times with his wife, both of them leaning on their hiking poles.

As usual, Sophie’s partner, Nick, was out at the front with their leader, Darius Roth. She could hear Darius’s voice drifting back to her, though she couldn’t hear what he was saying. Boasting about his knowledge of the moors probably. She saw Nick turn to the two young women immediately behind him as Darius gestured at the horizon. He didn’t look Sophie’s way at all. She scowled at the back of his head, covered in that ridiculous Russian Army cap. He hadn’t even noticed that she’d dropped back.

The ascent of Sandy Heys had been arduous enough for some of the group. Sophie could see them already tiring and stopping to take drinks from their water bottles. Everyone was taking photographs on their mobile phones, except the Warburtons, who’d brought an actual digital camera.

‘Come on, folks, this way,’ said Darius.

He was wearing an oilcloth safari fedora now, which he must have been carrying in one of the vast pockets of his shooting jacket.

‘Are you sure?’ called Sam Warburton.

‘Yes, we’re going to cross the plateau.’

Nick leaned towards Sophie as she drew alongside him.

‘The original mass trespassers didn’t do that,’ he said. ‘Yes, you’ve told us that before. It’s just some obsession of Darius’s.’

‘And we know Darius’s obsessions have to be respected.’

The Gould brothers were striding ahead, looking for signs of the restoration project, Moors for the Future. Dams had been built to hold back water so that the peat wasn’t scoured away. Vegetation was growing back on that part of the plateau, they said. Sphagnum moss returning to the moor.

But there was no vegetation here. Just the wet, black morass of treacherous bog and outcrops of bare rock.

Sophie lowered her eyes to watch her footing on the uneven ground. When she looked up again, she suddenly couldn’t see how many people were walking ahead of her. Nick and Darius had disappeared in the fog, and so had the two young women. The Gould brothers, Duncan and Theo, were about to vanish too, marching shoulder to shoulder like soldiers bent under their backpacks.

For some reason, Faith Matthew and her brother, Jonathan, had strayed off the path and were vague shapes away to the left. Jonathan’s outline was distinctive — very tall and thin, his shoulders slightly hunched, his hair long and untidy. He’d been singing quietly to himself, some song that his band were rehearsing. But his voice was muffled now by the fog.

‘I don’t like this,’ said Sophie.

Liam looked over his shoulder. ‘What?’

She realised he looked quite ill. His expression was distracted, and his forehead creased in puzzlement. He’d been thinking about something else and he hadn’t heard a word she’d said.

‘Haven’t you noticed the weather?’

He stopped and gazed around as if he were seeing the plateau for the first time.

‘There’s a bit of cloud coming down,’ he said.

‘A bit? I can’t even make out Nick and the others now.’

Liam hitched his rucksack up onto his shoulders.

‘We’d better catch up, then.’

They redoubled their pace and within a couple of minutes they could see the leading group again. Jonathan was still wandering several yards away from the path, looking stooped and dejected, kicking irritably at a clump of coarse grass. His sister seemed to have rejoined the lead group. Her red hat bobbed among the figures around Darius.

Darius turned and looked back, ignoring the chattering of the students for a few seconds, as if even he was concerned. But the moment passed and he smiled again, tossing back a lock of hair as he called to Jonathan, or perhaps to Faith. It was hard to tell.

Ahead of them, the murk was getting thicker, swallowing whole rock formations, reducing visibility to no more than a few feet.

‘We ought to warn them,’ said Sophie.

‘They must have seen it for themselves by now,’ said Liam. ‘Darius doesn’t seem too bothered, though.’

‘When is Darius ever bothered about anything? He loves taking risks.’

Sophie jumped in surprise as a motionless crowd of spectators seemed to emerge from the mist on her right. But these weren’t people. They were only the twisted rocks of the Kinder plateau, sculpted by the centuries into the shapes of monsters and demons.

Half of the group might have been miles away but for disjointed fragments of conversation reaching her through a surge of fog.

Sophie shook her head, feeling the moisture slide across her face and drip from her hair, and shivered at the first stab of a damp chill. Even the faintest warmth of the October sun had been left far behind now, blotted out by that dense grey blanket.

It was only later that Sophie heard the noises and saw the lights, and the monstrous figure on the hillside that she would never forget. And then the first cries of pain came out of the fog. And finally, she was there when death reduced their party from thirteen to twelve.