The Devil's Edge (15 page)
‘How are we going to get this situation under control?’ said Villiers.
‘Without a lot more bodies on the ground, we’re not.’
Cooper grabbed a passing youth and held on to him.
‘Hey, who are you?’
‘Police. What’s going on here?’
The young man laughed. He was flushed and pouring with sweat, and his shirt was soaked with beer.
‘Intruder,’ he said. ‘They chased him off.’
‘Which way?’
He stared wildly around. ‘That way. Some of the guys went after him.’
Cooper looked at the PC, who was listening to his radio.
‘The helicopter crew are tracking the heat signature of a single figure running from the scene.’
‘Okay. Come on.’
The three of them had only gone a few yards towards the corner of the Chadwicks’ property, close to The Green, when the officer reported again.
‘The suspect has disappeared from the thermal imager. Gone to ground somewhere, or got inside a house.’
‘Where?’
‘In the vicinity of Chapel Close.’
‘This way, then.’
‘He’s on the move again. The observer on Sierra Yankee 99 is directing us to the second house on the right in Chapel Close.’
Cooper grimaced. ‘Oh God. That’s the Gambles’ house. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’
He could tell from the noises around him that more officers had arrived in Riddings, and were closing in on the location under the direction of the helicopter’s observer. Torch beams flashed towards him and away again. An Alsatian barked excitedly, and he pictured it straining against its handler’s lead.
He grabbed Villiers’ arm and pointed.
‘There he goes,’ he said. ‘Over the wall and running through that orchard. If we cut across the lane, we can catch him at the other side.’
‘I’m ahead of you.’
Villiers sprinted off, and was there first. She caught up with her quarry, grabbed an arm, kicked out a leg and flipped him on to the floor. Coming up behind, Cooper heard the breath go out of his body in a long whoosh.
By the time he arrived, Villiers already had handcuffs on and had patted the suspect down. She sat him up and Cooper gazed down at him, trembling with anger.
‘Mr Gamble. What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Gamble had lost his hat, and his hair was standing out from his head in a wild tangle. For several moments he could do nothing but gasp and wheeze. He stared around him in shock, as if he’d suddenly found himself in the middle of some surreal fantasy. His bushy eyebrows waggled in alarm, and he looked down at the cuffs on his wrists.
‘I wasn’t doing anything,’ he said plaintively.
‘What?’
‘That isn’t true.’ Cooper gestured at the activity – the running officers, the flashing lights, the swinging torch beams, and the helicopter hovering overhead. ‘You were the cause of all this.’
Gamble gazed up at him. His voice was feeble and wretched.
‘I was just watching.’
Straightening up, Cooper took a deep breath to calm himself down.
‘You know what? You do too much watching, sir. Far too much. You should spend more time at home, with your wife.’
They handed Gamble off to a pair of uniformed officers, who escorted him to his house. Other officers were trying to calm the teenagers and shepherd them back to the party. It was unclear what offence Gamble might have committed yet, until they could get a coherent account from someone, a few details about what had happened. Judging from the state of some of the participants, that might not be until morning.
Cooper looked at Villiers. ‘Thanks, Carol.’
‘It’s okay.’ She brushed her hands together. ‘But what’s this
spend more time at home with your wife
? Are you turning into a marriage guidance counsellor now?’
Cooper shook his head.
‘This village is turning me into something, though. And I’m not sure I like it.’
He turned away from Chapel Close and looked across the gardens of The Cottage. Finally, he could tell the direction the burglar alarm was coming from. The sound was much clearer now, screaming high-pitched and urgent across the village, calling endlessly for attention while all these people ran madly around in circles.
He could see it, too – a small red light blinking and blinking high on the corner of a wall, no more than fifty yards from Valley View.
He knew now that the alarm wasn’t at the Chadwicks’, where the party had been taking place. It was sounding at Fourways, the home of the Hollands.
It was already dark when Diane Fry drove into Edendale and turned into Grosvenor Avenue. She found a space at the kerb and parked outside the house.
When she pulled out her key to enter her flat, she noticed that she had streaks of blood on her hands. Strange that she hadn’t see it while she was driving back from Nottinghamshire. Her mind must have been on other things.
She closed the door, shrugged off her jacket and headed for the shower. Blood on her hands. That was something not everyone could cope with. But right now, for her, it felt good. The sight of blood was exactly what she needed.
By the following morning, a scene-of-crime team had moved into the Hollands’ house. SOCOs were checking any items with a smooth surface. Doors, worktops, kitchen utensils, anything the offenders might have touched. If they had, there was a possibility of the items being fingerprinted.
Cooper had managed only a few hours’ sleep before he found himself back in Riddings. Last night already seemed like a strange dream. By the time he returned, much of the circus had been and gone, leaving a team conducting the forensic search and an examination of the garden in daylight.
DI Hitchens was there, marshalling resources, snapping at people on the phone, urging the press office to restrict the amount of information released to the media. If they weren’t careful, there would soon be a danger of panic,.
‘It appears there was an earlier 999 call,’ said Hitchens when he saw Cooper arrive. ‘The call handler told the householder to follow the usual procedure for a burglary report.’
‘Don’t touch anything that the offenders might have touched.’
‘Right.’
Cooper nodded. The instinct of most householders was to tidy up. Clear away the broken glass, close the drawers, mend the damaged door hinges. And wipe away those fingerprints from the windowsill, of course. In retrospect, they realised their mistake. But by then it was often too late.
‘It wasn’t given a high enough priority, obviously.’
‘Obviously.’
Sarah Holland wouldn’t have been thinking logically anyway. Not once her husband had been taken away in the ambulance, with a paramedic frantically working on him all the way to the hospital.
‘People are getting very jumpy, Ben,’ said Hitchens.
‘I know.’
‘At times like this, people start to see crime all around them. And the press – I think they’ve gone mad. They’re just reporting stuff off the internet as if it was fact. Blogs and so on. Some of the rubbish going round takes the breath away.’
Hitchens turned away to take a phone call. When he finished, his face was grim.
‘Any news?’ asked Cooper.
‘Martin Holland has died in hospital.’
‘Damn. What was the cause of death?’
‘There were no visible injuries. It seems likely he had a heart attack. The post-mortem will tell us for sure.’
Cooper remembered Mrs Holland talking about her husband walking on the edge for exercise.
Good for the heart, isn’t it?
He ought to have realised that Martin Holland had a heart condition. He was the right age, and came from a fairly sedentary profession. A classic case. A cardiac arrest just waiting to happen.
‘Did Mrs Holland see anything?’
‘A masked figure. She hasn’t been able to give us any further description. She’s too upset.’
This was the woman who liked the idea of having a criminal as a neighbour. A Mafia lover, Gavin Murfin might have called her. Maybe she’d watched
The Sopranos
too often on Channel 4. It was a middle-class attitude towards crime. He bet she’d never experienced serious crime herself in her life. Not until now.
‘Mr Holland confronted the intruder, then.’
‘That’s the way it seems. But there was no actual physical contact, so far as we can tell.’
‘That’s very different from the attacks on the Barrons, sir.’
‘Probably they were just disturbed sooner. They got scared off and legged it.’
‘The Savages aren’t the type to be scared off,’ said Cooper.
‘We’ll see.’
‘I don’t think it’s all down to the Savages,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t make sense for them to come back to the same area so soon. It doesn’t fit in with their pattern.’
‘So what, then?’
‘I think someone has been exploiting the panic over the Savages. I think the answer lies much closer. Here, in Riddings.’
Hitchens looked at him. ‘Prove it, Ben.’
‘If only I could …’
The DI nodded. ‘Everything comes down to “if only”. By the way, Murf is here somewhere. Make sure he’s not causing a nuisance, will you?’
Hitchens walked away to talk to the crime-scene manager, and Cooper cautiously entered the house. The slate floor in the hallway was scattered with plastic wrappers, the detritus of the paramedics’ attempts to stabilise Martin Holland before his trip in the ambulance.
The spotlights were on in the kitchen, illuminating the Shaker-style units with a harsh, cold light. The cat’s basket by the Aga was empty. Cooper wondered where the Persian was. Probably taken offence at all the strangers in the house, and gone to hide in the garden.
Normally a neighbour would step in to look after any animals in a case like this. He wasn’t sure there was a neighbour in Riddings who would think of it. Next door, Valley View was empty, while Russell Edson and Richard Nowak seemed unlikely sources of support.
‘Cute,’ called Murfin from a doorway.
‘What?’
‘This downstairs bathroom.’
Cooper looked in, and saw a cast-iron rolltop bath with clawed feet, his and hers hand basins.
‘And look at this,’ said Murfin from the hallway a minute later.
‘What now?’
‘Mail. They get mail. Proper letters in envelopes, with their name and address typed on them. Most people only get advertising leaflets through their letterbox these days. That’s what’s been keeping the Royal Mail in business since the internet was invented.’
‘Are you doing anything useful, Gavin?’
‘Yes, keeping everyone’s spirits up.’
Cooper watched the SOCOs dusting the door handles and laying down stepping plates in the hall.
‘We’re not being much use here,’ he said.
They retreated to the garden. Cooper found himself standing near the miniature version of the Devil’s Edge. He noticed that a stone had fallen off the top and lay shattered on the drive.
‘Actually, I got a letter the other day,’ said Murfin.
‘Oh? Good news?’
‘They sent me my pension statement. It was like a first draft of the inscription on my tombstone.’
‘Gavin, you really enjoy being miserable, don’t you?’
‘It’s the only pleasure I get.’
‘That must be why you insist on supporting the Rams, then.’
Murfin sniffed.
‘Why don’t these people have guard dogs?’ he asked.
‘Guard dogs?’ said Cooper.
He’d seen plenty of dogs in Riddings, but none of them looked much use for guard duty. The fashion seemed to be for geriatric golden retrievers and pampered spaniels. Not a German Shepherd or Rottweiler in sight.
‘It’s a good question, Gavin. I don’t know.’
‘Perhaps it’s too common.’
‘I think we’ll be more use back at the office,’ said Cooper.
‘What, no house-to-house, boss?’
‘All the information that could be got out of neighbours was collected last night. Nobody was taking any notice of what was going on at Fourways. Thanks to a bunch of drunken teenagers and Mr Barry Gamble.’
‘Oh, Gamble. The local vigilante nut job?’ said Murfin.
‘I don’t think he’s a total nut job.’
‘He’s a good actor, then. He gets my vote for the Oscar.’
‘I know what you mean. But he’s just eccentric. There used to be one in every village. But he seems particularly out of place in Riddings.’
Murfin shoved his hands in his pockets, considering the property in front of them.
‘No house-to-house, then. I’m devastated. What about my hill?’
‘I’ll find you a mountain of paperwork to climb instead,’ said Cooper.
‘Oh, thanks.’
They went back down the drive to where a long roll of crime-scene tape had been used to cordon off another gateway. Murfin paused, and looked back at Fourways.
‘You know what, Ben? If I lived in Riddings, I’d have my house on the market by now,’ he said. ‘Too many murders bring down the tone of an area. It really ruins the character of a place.’
One of the SOCOs glanced round from the back of the crime-scene van as Murfin walked past. They all tended to look a bit indistinguishable in their shapeless blue scene suits, especially with their hoods up and masks on. But Cooper recognised this SOCO from her size and the way she moved. He didn’t have to wait to see her eyes over the top of her mask.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi, you.’
‘One day we’ll stop meeting like this.’
They both spoke in lowered voices, conscious of the comments they would get if colleagues saw them chatting at a crime scene.
‘So, where were you?’ asked Liz.
‘When?’
‘Last night. You said you were going to explain something. But I never even saw you. Never heard a peep from you all evening.’
‘Look at this,’ said Cooper. ‘This is where I was.’
‘But I heard you were already in the area when it happened.’
‘Yes, I was,’ admitted Cooper.
She came a bit closer.
‘Ben,’ she said, her tone switching from accusation to concern. ‘You’re not …?’
‘What?’ he said, suddenly afraid of what she was going to say.
‘You’re not getting obsessed with the case, are you? I know what you’re like. You’ll be letting it take up every minute of your time if someone doesn’t stop you. And no one will thank you for it, you know.’
‘I don’t think it’s like that.’
‘I hope not. Because I’m the one who’ll have to stop you. I need some of your time for myself.’ She lifted a case of equipment from the van and gave him a wink. ‘Besides, you definitely can’t be like that when we’re married.’
‘Shush.’
‘It’s not going to be a secret for long. We need to talk …’ She broke off as the crime-scene manager came out of the house to look for her. ‘Later.’
Carol Villiers and the rest of the team were already at their desks in West Street, busy with phone calls, following up contacts from residents in Riddings during the night. Most of them were complaints about noise from the party, or the police helicopter frightening their horses. But they all had to be checked out.
‘Well I don’t know about you, but I’ve been busy,’ said Villiers. ‘All the work is done back at the office, like you said.’
‘Yes, it is. Sometimes I think it would be nice to have a desk job.’
She studied him more closely. ‘Actually, you look shattered, Ben. Didn’t you get much sleep?’
‘No, I couldn’t get last night out of my mind.’
‘It wasn’t your fault.’
‘If I’d been able to take control of the situation, instead of letting that chaos go on …’
‘It wouldn’t have made any difference to Mr Holland.’
‘Maybe not. But we might have been pursuing the real suspects instead of letting Barry Gamble and a bunch of drunken kids lead us on a wild goose chase. Damn it.’
‘Well, let’s put that aside. I got the intel you wanted. And a bit more besides.’
Luke Irvine and Becky Hurst came over and joined them, forming a tight-knit group around Cooper’s desk.
‘There was one thing I was thinking about,’ said Cooper. ‘Mr Nowak said they had a break-in at Lane End a while ago.’
‘Yes, I found the incident log.’
‘What was the outcome?’
‘Finalised at source,’ said Villiers.
‘Oh, great.’
‘Finalised at source’ was the current euphemism for a decision not to investigate a crime. A lack of evidence, low priority, a judgement that there was no prospect of a successful outcome. Whatever the reasons, the report could be signed off, provided the victim was notified of the decision within five working days and issued with a Victim of Crime leaflet. That was the Code of Practice, by the letter.
Cooper sighed. When you did things by the book, the results could depend on which book you were using. It was hardly an unusual story, though. At the serious end of crime, money was rarely a major issue. But at the bottom end, forensic resources were considered too expensive to be justified.
‘They did get a visit from Victim Support,’ said Villiers.
‘What about Richard Nowak?’ said Cooper. ‘Any convictions?’
‘Nothing on him.’
‘Really? So much for the Russian mafia theory, then.’
‘Definitely a red herring,’ laughed Villiers. ‘It might almost have been intended to distract us from the real villain in Riddings.’
Detecting a tone of significance in her voice, Cooper looked up and caught the smile on her face. A bit self-satisfied, perhaps. But right now, he was glad to see it. That smile suggested that someone had made some progress. If Carol had discovered a new lead, she was entitled to feel as pleased with herself as she wanted to be.
‘Come on. Spill it.’
Villiers nodded. ‘Mr Kaye.’
‘Wait.’ Cooper located Kaye on the map of Riddings. ‘Tyler Kaye at Moorside House? What about him?’
‘He’s well known.’
Now Cooper was interested. ‘Well known’ in this context meant only one thing – an individual with a substantial criminal record, whose name cropped up frequently in the intelligence system.
‘He’s a Sheffield villain,’ said Villiers. ‘And a major player, by all accounts. I’m just waiting for a return call from the Regional Intelligence Unit.’
‘But he’s a celebrity,’ protested Irvine. ‘He runs a string of clubs across the north of England. He puts on gigs. His company manages some well-known bands.’
‘And your point is?’ said Hurst.
‘Okay,’ said Cooper. ‘I can see he’s likely to have some form from way back. Drugs, I suppose? Links to organised crime? It seems to go with the territory. But it’s not what we’re looking for, is it?’
Villiers looked at him with a frown. ‘Unless the Barrons and the Hollands had both upset him at some time. It sounds as though he’s the only one who might have the right contacts.’
That made Irvine laugh. ‘What, to put a hit on his neighbours?’
‘It’s not what we’re looking for,’ repeated Cooper.
‘Oh, do we actually
know
what we’re looking for?’ asked Villiers.
‘Well … maybe not. But I think I’ll know it when I hear it. What about the others?’
‘There’s nothing on the PNC – none of them has a criminal record.’
‘Shame.’
‘But …’
‘But? Have you found something, Carol?’
‘Yes.’
‘Brilliant.’
‘It’s a county-court hearing.’
‘A civil case, then? Is it relevant?’
