Lane had disappeared round a bend at the top of the slope. Cooper put on a bit more speed. He still didn’t cope well with hills. His lungs burned whenever his breathing became hard. But it was appropriate, in a way. It was a constant physical reminder of the reasons why he was here.
At the top, he emerged in an old quarry. There were six of them within the site of the National Stone Centre, so he’d probably reached his destination. Limestone quarrying had created an amphitheatre here, with an almost level floor and sheer rock faces on three sides. Dozens of jackdaws circled overhead, or perched in the trees struggling to maintain a foothold on the upper ledges.
Cooper had been here on a school outing not long after the centre opened. Groups were allowed to go gem panning, sifting through buckets of wet sand to find interesting semi-precious stones, which they were allowed to take home. A lot of kids loved that. But the young Ben Cooper couldn’t help being disappointed by how obvious it was that the bits of stone had been planted for children to find. He found the genuine bits of geology on the site far more interesting.
There were so many fossils underfoot in the rocks as he walked along the paths that he’d been aware of walking on history here, more than anywhere else he knew. In his imagination, he was moving through exotic sea creatures, touching a coral reef, paddling on the floor of an ancient lagoon. He was just three hundred million years too late for his tropical holiday.
He could see Josh Lane clearly now. He was dressed in a black anorak and blue denims, and his head was bare, showing a gleam of gelled hair. At least his boots must be practical. Cooper noticed that he’d come to a halt by a picnic area. It had been built by young people serving community sentences, part of a system called restorative justice. It was supposed to be based on the the concept of ‘closing the circle’, a North American Indian belief that a circle was broken when a crime was committed in a community. Restoration could only be achieved when the offender made amends to the community and closed the circle.
Here, the amends to the community consisted of a circle of stone seats, with relief carvings depicting the prehistoric sea creatures which had once lived here. The reef they’d lived on was just behind him, exposed by centuries of quarrying.
Cooper looked round, and stepped behind a stretch of stone wall. In fact, it wasn’t just any wall, but the Millennium Wall, a series of dry-stone sections representing a range of styles from all over the UK. Round boulders from Galloway, tight wedges from Caithness, a stone-faced earth wall from Wales that looked like a length snipped from Offa’s Dyke.
From Lane’s stance, it looked almost as though he was aware of being watched. His interest in the restorative justice project seemed to Cooper to be an act of defiance, a provocative gesture. Lane was symbolically putting two fingers up, just as he had been all these months. Could that really just be in his imagination?
Right in front of Cooper’s face as he ducked down was the Derbyshire section, built in two contrasting styles – the irregular fractures of limestone and the regular coursing of gritstone. Even in the construction of its walls, the Peak District was divided: rolling farmland and bleak peat moor, picturesque villages and the empty black wastes. The White Peak and the Dark Peak. Good and evil. Their presence in the landscape had never been so obvious to Cooper as he crouched behind that wall.
The frustration was beginning to get difficult to tolerate.
‘Move on, move on,’ he muttered to himself.
As if he’d heard from this distance, Lane began to walk up the slope again. Through the trees above, Cooper glimpsed the blue glass of the Discovery Centre. In front of the entrance was a set of wide steps, where he’d once walked up through the different eras of stone, right up to the final step made of Antrim basalt, a mere sixty million years old. He assumed that Josh Lane was going into the café at the Discovery Centre. He would probably sit and have a coffee, maybe a sandwich.
Cooper sat down to wait. The High Peak Trail ran over the bridge just before the car park and he could hear people chatting as they passed overhead. Just beyond a small lime kiln there had once been a small settlement of half a dozen cottages. The Coal Hills hamlet. With that kiln smoking all day and all night, it must have been a nightmarish place to live in. But the hamlet had been abandoned and demolished in the 1930s – not because of the smoke, but when the water supply in this limestone area became unreliable. All that remained now were a few heaps of tumbled stones covered in moss.
Nearer to the road was the Derbyshire Eco Centre, where even the bike shed had solar panels. He saw more and more solar panels these days. Wind turbines too – sometimes just the odd one running a small-scale rural enterprise, but in other locations an entire wind farm, the turbine blades turning slowly, some even stopped.
There was no wind this summer, let alone any sun. Soon there’d be talk of harnessing water power to plug the gap in the country’s energy supply. Cooper had heard there was already a water turbine operating down in Alport, a derelict watermill converted to harness the flow of the River Bradford. Surely that was a better idea? It reused an existing site, and a water turbine was always hidden away in a valley. Not like these giant structures on the hillsides, visible for miles. They made him think of Don Quixote, famous for his futile tilting at windmills in the cause of justice. But at least he’d never given up.
A Royal Mail van pulled into the car park and an employee in his orange reflective jacket got out carrying a parcel of fish and chips for his lunch. The smell as he passed reminded Cooper that he was likely to miss lunch himself. But it was good that he was thinking about food with enthusiasm, even if he wasn’t actually eating.
‘What is it you’re after? You must want something?’
Cooper turned at the sound of the voice, and found Josh Lane looking down at him, his hands thrust into the pockets of his anorak. The defiant expression was certainly deliberate now. He stood just out of reach, his boots firmly planted on the limestone, dirt from the path crumbling on to the embedded fossils.
It took Cooper a moment to recover from the shock.
‘Perhaps just to talk,’ he said.
Lane laughed. ‘I don’t believe that.’
‘It’s true.’
‘Look, I’m on bail. I’ve already been charged. So you can’t ask me any questions. You shouldn’t even be talking to me. My brief says once I’ve been charged and appeared in court, that’s it.’
‘You probably have a good defence lawyer.’
‘No, he’s just some duty solicitor they gave me.’
‘He’ll be all right,’ said Cooper. ‘Most of them are. But I’ve had the training. I know the way it has to be done.’
‘There are regulations. The Police and Criminal Evidence Act.’
‘That’s right, as a rule. But in fact there’s a paragraph in Code C of PACE. I don’t suppose you read it? It allows an interview after charge, if it’s necessary to prevent harm to another person or to clear up ambiguity in a previous statement.’
‘That’s an anti-terrorism measure, surely.’
Cooper shrugged. ‘It’s open to interpretation.’
‘So where’s the caution? What about “You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence”? Why aren’t you taking me down to the station? Where’s the interview room and the tape recorder? And why are you here on your own? Do you think I’m stupid?’
‘No, not that,’ said Cooper.
‘You’re going to be in big trouble, my friend. And we both know it.’
‘I want to hear from you if you understand what you did.’
Lane looked at him more closely. ‘You look like shit. You’re sick.’
Cooper nodded. ‘I’ve been better.’
‘What is this? Do you want me to say I’m sorry or something? It’s not going to happen.’
But there was nothing else to say now, nothing that was worthwhile, nothing that could help him or Liz. His fists clenched inside his waxed coat, Cooper continued to watch Lane, oblivious to the rain that was beginning to fall.
Lane shook his head, exasperated at his silence.
‘Come on, come on,’ he said. ‘Do something. What is it? Do you want to take a swing at me? Do it, then. That would finish your career for good. But maybe you don’t care.’
Cooper still said nothing.
‘Suit yourself, then. I’m out of here. But if you don’t stop following me— Well, if you come near me again, I’ll report you for harassment.’
He began to walk away, then turned as Cooper remained standing on the path.
‘You know, you’re sick,’ he said. ‘Sick.’
Cooper watched him go. How had he managed to let Josh Lane spot him so easily? Was he so out of practice? Or could it be that he’d deliberately revealed his presence? Had he intended that Lane should see him?
It was confusing, not knowing his own intentions. Right now, his emotions seemed to be leading him, instead of his brains or his professional instincts.
Lane probably thought Cooper would back off and give up after their confrontation at the National Stone Centre. But that would have defeated the whole object.
Cooper got back in his Toyota and kept Lane’s Honda in view as it drove back into Wirksworth. He followed it all the way through the town and into the Market Place, where Lane turned past Crown Yard and the Blacks Head pub and climbed the hill called West End. They passed through the Yokecliffe area and were soon out into the country heading towards Hopton.
By the time they reached the wetlands at the northern end of Carsington Water, Cooper’s mind had begun to stray towards the Knockerdown Inn again. Lane certainly had a tendency to be drawn to pubs. But instead he indicated right on the Carsington bypass and drove into the village past the little Gothic-style church, where the open grave had been filled in and marked with a brand new headstone.
Was he heading to the Miners Arms for a pint of Marston’s Pedigree? No, he was stopping just past it. Cooper didn’t slow down, but drove on towards the gardens of Hopton Hall.
There was no need for Prospectus Assurance flexitime. It was Saturday morning, and Ralph Edge was at home. Cooper had seen his Mercedes standing on the drive.
27
Sunday
Diane Fry had been expecting to be pushed out of the way at any moment. She knew better than anyone how these things worked. The Major Crime Unit would arrive, DCI Alistair Mackenzie and an entire team to take charge of the inquiry, including whoever had replaced her as a DS at St Ann’s in Nottingham. So far it hadn’t happened. The MCU had been too busy with ongoing operations, their resources stretched too far. There must have been discussions at a higher level, but no one had bothered to fill her in yet. She’d been quite happy to leave it that way. She’d been enjoying the freedom of action.
But on Sunday morning, all that changed. An email came through, informing her that DCI Mackenzie would be assuming the role of Senior Investigating Officer and setting up an incident room. And that was it – an email. Was that all she was worth now?
Fry felt her determination harden. Before the MCU arrived, she ought to get everything done that she could. It would be perfect if she could make some positive progress on the Glen Turner murder inquiry. She hadn’t been back to the scene at Sparrow Wood since Thursday. There was time to put that right today. Already she was putting her coat on when the call came in. There had been an incident at Sparrow Wood. Time to get on the road.
The
B5056. It was probably the quietest stretch of road that Ben Cooper had ever driven on in the Peak District. Its route parted from the busy A515 just north of Ashbourne and snaked its way northwards, heading vaguely in the direction of Bakewell some twenty miles away. A substantial length of the B5056 formed the eastern boundary of the national park. But that seemed to be almost its only purpose. The road successfully managed to avoid villages, except for the tiny settlements of Longcliffe and Grangemill, each of them more of a glorified crossroads than a village.
Further north, it nearly reached Winster, but shied away from it at the last minute, as if it had the plague. The road continued to meander between Harthill and Stanton Moors, more at home among the ancient stone circles and rocky tors than human habitation, until it finally hit a T-junction on the A6 near Haddon Hall and couldn’t go any further.
Cooper had driven along this road at night, and during the day, and he could barely remember passing any traffic. Everyone seemed intent on cramming their cars into Dovedale or Ashbourne at one end, and Bakewell at the other. It was the perfect road to drive on, if all you wanted to see was the occasional rabbit or pheasant, and nothing to remind you of other people.
He’d parked in a gateway near Eagle Rocks, one of the outcrops on the high ridge around Brassington, their jagged outlines looked eerie and mysterious in foggy conditions.
A dilapidated complex of barns and farm buildings stood near the junction of Pasture Lane and the B5056. They were a complete hotch-potch of brick, random stone, and corrugated iron roofs, all tumbled into ruins and overgrown with weeds, dank and sodden in the rain. Layers of rotting leaf mould lay in the mud.
Just over the fields at Ballidon an abandoned twelfth-century church stood alone in the middle of a field, its deteriorating structure left in the care of an organisation called the Friends of Friendless Churches. The village of Ballidon had shrunk to a point where its single road was no more than a rat run for the quarry lorries that rumbled backwards and forwards from the limestone works at the end of the dale. In the driest months, grey dust covered walls and doorways, including a Victorian postbox set into the stones of a farm, still carrying the VR initials. Just now, he supposed Ballidon would look better than usual, thanks to the rain washing off the accumulated dust.
Sparrow Wood spread down the slopes of the hill, dank and dark. The trees were heavy with foliage, which dripped water on the ground, creating an irregular pattering sound as if hundreds of small animals were moving invisibly around him.
Cooper had always thought late autumn was the best time to commit a murder. There were so many places like this to conceal a body – lots of secluded little hillsides close enough to the road, but where no one ever went. Later in the year they were knee deep in freshly fallen leaves. You could cover a corpse in a blanket of foliage several inches thick, yet leave no sign of disturbance. The body would decompose with the leaves as winter came on, kept warm under its covering even if the surface frosted over. There would be no visible trace of human remains, until the first heavy rain of spring washed the top layer of debris away, or the first dog came foraging in the woods for rabbits.