Стивен Бут: Fall Down Dead

For one second, she was floating. Sailing out into grey nothingness like a bird released from its cage. Cold, damp air wrapped round her body as she flung out her arms and kicked her feet in a desperate attempt to find solid rock.

She tried to scream, but the breath was torn from her throat as she fell. All she could hear was a faint, distant cry, the mewl of a terrified animal, bouncing back from the muffling curtain, drowned by the crashing of water. Her waterproof rattled against her shoulders like battered wings; her hair blew free and smothered her face. She could see nothing, feel nothing, taste only the bitter tang of fear in her mouth.

It happened so fast that her brain wasn’t quick enough to work out what was going on. The fall was too quick, too short and too sudden. The impact killed her instantly.

As she lay on the rock, with her blood dripping between the gritstone slabs, a bird called from the plateau. It was a long, mournful shriek like the voice of a spirit, a phantom that haunted Kinder Downfall.

Almost before she’d stopped breathing, a swirl of mist snaked across her legs and settled in her hair, clutching her in its chilly embrace, hiding her body from view. It would be hours before she was found, a day before they carried her down.

But hers wasn’t the first death on the mountain. Another woman had lain here, decades before. She’d left the memory of herself on this rock, though not her name. The Downfall had seen more than its share of blood.

And that was why they called this place Dead Woman’s Drop.

Detective Inspector Ben Cooper knew he was in the right place when he saw the tape. The way some officers strung it up at a crime scene made it look so untidy, as if a puppy had run amok with a roll of toilet paper and trailed it all over the street.

At the far end of Haddon Close, he found blue-and-white coils tied in unsightly knots round lamp posts, fluttering in strands from a fence and lying in sodden heaps on the pavement. Someone had managed to get every horizontal length of it upside down too — quite an achievement considering how often it had been twisted. The message POLICE LINE — DO NOT CROSS was illegible to anyone not standing on their head.

But it seemed to have worked its magic. That or the bored scene guard staring into the distance with his arms folded across his chest had special powers of some kind. Inquisitive members of the public were noticeably absent for such an open and vulnerable crime scene.

‘No, Strictly Come Dancing is on the telly,’ said the guard when Cooper stopped to ask him. ‘It’s the start of a new season.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘There were plenty of folk around earlier on, though. And there’ll be a few drunks later, when the pubs shut. I’m due to be relieved by then.’

‘Anyone else on scene?’

‘DC Hurst and the CSIs. And DS Fry is still here from the Major Crime Unit.’

‘OK, thanks.’

The guard noted Cooper’s identity and the time of his arrival on a clipboard and lifted a strand of the tape for him to duck under.

The house was a fairly unremarkable semi-detached property sitting in a quiet corner of an Edendale housing estate. It looked as though it had been built sometime in the last twenty years, with stone cladding to blend in with the traditional building style of the Peak District.

Cooper stopped at the Forensic Investigation van and struggled into a scene suit before he entered the inner cordon. Stepping plates had been laid on the drive, and he could see a trail of splattered blood leading from the open front door.

He already knew some of the story. For once, this murder inquiry was almost cleared up before he arrived. Some cases had no mystery about them at all. The killing of Danielle Atherton required hardly any investigation or the identification of a suspect, just the collection and analysis of evidence, and the building of a watertight case for the Crown Prosecution Service.

Because there hardly seemed any doubt, did there? Not only had Danielle’s husband still been standing over her body when the first response officers arrived, but he was also the person who made the 999 call. Most people who committed murder had no idea what to do next. For many, their first instinct was to phone the police, or call for an ambulance.

So that was what Gary Atherton had done. On the recording of the emergency call Cooper had listened to, Atherton could be heard saying, ‘You’d better come. I think I’ve just killed my wife.’

Case closed? Well, almost.

Unfortunately, people had been known to make false confessions, to pick up a knife and say they’d done it, perhaps to protect someone else. Or they might even convince themselves they had done it. A confession wasn’t enough on its own. The evidence had to support it, and be convincing.

In the hallway, Cooper found Detective Constable Becky Hurst on duty, taking charge of the evidence. She’d been in his team at Edendale CID for a while now, and was one of his most valuable assets. She was efficient and cool under pressure, and she didn’t suffer fools, as DC Luke Irvine and his civilian investigator, Gavin Murfin, had often found out.

‘What do we know so far, Becky?’ Cooper asked her.

‘It’s pretty straightforward,’ she said. ‘The victim was stabbed several times in the neck and shoulder, and once in the palm of the hand.’

‘A defensive wound?’

‘Just the one,’ said Hurst.

‘Have we a confirmed time of death?’

‘An emergency call was made from a mobile phone located at this address at ten thirty-two a.m. The caller identified himself as Gary Atherton, and he told the call handler that he’d killed his wife.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard it.’

‘Well, the first response officers arrived at ten forty-four a.m. and confirmed the victim showed no signs of life. Paramedics were on scene shortly afterwards and verified death.’

‘It looks as though she lost a substantial amount of blood.’

‘And it seems Mr Atherton had made no attempt to control the bleeding either.’

‘What about the phone?’

‘Bagged up. It had bloodstains on it and some nice clear prints.’

Cooper nodded. ‘And Mr Atherton himself?’

‘He went quietly. He’s in custody now being processed.’

‘Good.’

‘Dev Sharma has only just left,’ said Hurst.

‘I’m sure everything is being done according to the book,’ said Cooper. ‘I’ll catch up with DS Sharma when I get back to West Street.’

‘And Luke has talked to some of the neighbours. They say they heard shouting from the Athertons’ property. A violent argument. By all accounts, Mr and Mrs Atherton had been having some problems recently.’

‘Nothing out of the ordinary, then.’

‘Not so far, boss. Oh, and there’s a teenage son, Bradley. He’s no more than fourteen. Social Services are looking after him.’

‘Where is DS Fry?’

Hurst pointed towards the kitchen.

‘I’ll go and speak to her,’ said Cooper.

Most of the Major Crime Unit from the East Midlands Special Operations had been and gone from Haddon Close, leaving only Detective Sergeant Diane Fry on liaison. The task of putting the evidence together would be left to Divisional CID.

For a few moments Cooper watched the crime scene examiners working in the sitting room of the Athertons’ home. Then he turned towards the kitchen, where he saw the murder weapon.