‘Sheep?’
‘Aye. I’m bypassing the grasping farmers and taking animals direct from the wild.’
‘I don’t think there’s such a thing as a wild sheep. Not in Derbyshire, anyway. All the sheep that you see belong to farmers.’
‘Not all of them, surely?
‘Well, yes.’
‘What about the ones wandering loose on the moors? They’re wild, aren’t they?’
‘No, they’re just, er … shafted.’
Cooper sighed. ‘Hefted.’
‘They’re hefted,’ said Fry.
‘I don’t know what you’re on about. They’re not even fenced in, they wander where they like. It looks to me as though they’re there for the taking. Just like the way you might find a pheasant by the side of the road, or the odd rabbit in the woods.’
Fry’s shoulders began to tense, as they did when she was angry. Cooper touched her arm.
‘Diane, he’s winding you up,’ he said.
Just then Fry received a text on her phone. The Crime Scene Manager, Wayne Abbott, had some news for her. She shook Cooper off.
‘Look, if you have anything useful to share, tell it to DC Villiers, will you? Or write it down.’
Cooper pulled a notebook from his pocket and tore off a page.
‘Gibson,’ he said. ‘Ryan and Sean. There, I’ve written it down for you.’
Fry snatched the paper from Cooper’s hand and headed towards the stream bed, covering her nose against the stench of the mud now exposed at her crime scene after the water had been drained away. If she stayed here for too long, she’d have to ask Scenes of Crime for a mask.
‘So. What is it?’ she said.
Wayne Abbott appeared from among the trees and gestured her over to the Scientific Support van, where he had his laptop set up.
‘I’m expecting an SIO to arrive—’ began Abbott.
‘But he’s not here yet.’
‘True.’ He turned over an evidence bag in his hand. ‘Well, we found this in the mud.’
‘A mobile phone,’ said Fry.
‘A Nokia 100, to be exact. In a nice leather case.’
‘It can’t be our victim’s. We found that one, and we’re still waiting for some results.’
Abbott smiled. ‘The leather case is important.’
‘Why?’
‘Well the phone itself is wrecked. It’s been lying in water for four days at least. I doubt even the clever boys at the lab will get anything off the SIM card. But the case protected the casing of the phone well enough for us to lift some prints off it.’
‘That’s excellent news,’ said Fry.
‘Even better, since we now have the new Identification Bureau in Nottinghamshire, we’ve got some real-time forensics at our disposal. We’ve entered the prints and got a hit from the database already. Take a look.’
Fry stared at Abbott, and back at the display on his laptop, where the identity of the fingerprints’ owner was displayed.
‘Damn it,’ she said. ‘Ben Cooper. Where the heck is he again?’
28
Ben Cooper had walked across the field towards the old cottage he could see standing on its own at the end of a muddy track. It really
was
old. Random stone walls, slipped and broken tiles on the roof, an overgrown patch of garden, rank with elder and willowherb. It had probably once been associated with a quarry, or provided accommodation for a farm worker. Its position was too uninviting to be considered suitable for anything else. Well, a holiday cottage, perhaps. Holiday cottages could be situated anywhere these days. But this was no tourist destination. It would never get any AA stars.
Cooper saw a splash of bright red and the outline of a piece of agricultural equipment standing on the edge of a field. A thousand-kilo-sized Portequip bull beef feeder with a rain canopy, positioned close against the stone wall. He passed a long line of individual sheep pens running along the edge of the sweeping pasture below Eagle Rocks, each pen with its own gate and corrugated iron roof, like a sort of sheep motel.
A death wish sheep had hurled itself off the rocks above. Its body lay broken on the track, the flesh on its head and legs already picked clean from the bones. Nothing to do with the floods, or with Spikey Clarke. Sheep were genetically suicidal.
Close up, the cottage barely looked habitable. The dirty curtains in the windows might have been there for decades. But when he knocked on the door, it was answered fairly quickly. An old man looked out at him with weak blue eyes, one skeletal hand clutching the door knob, an old grey cardigan sagging from his emaciated chest.
‘Hicklin? Is it Mr Roger Hicklin?’ asked Cooper.
‘The very same. What can I do for you?’
‘I just want to talk to you for a few minutes.’
‘Are you selling something?’
‘No, sir.’
Hicklin peered at him closely, and seemed to come to a decision.
‘Come in out of the rain.’
‘Thank you.’
Cooper shook some of the rain off his waxed coat on to the flags in the hallway. ‘It doesn’t look as though it’s going to stop,’ he said.
‘Not likely.’ Hicklin laughed wheezily. ‘I’d like to think it’s the Great Flood. You know … the Deluge.’
Cooper could hear the capital letters, and guessed Mr Hicklin was referring to the Old Testament story of Noah and his ark.
The rain was upon the earth forty days and forty nights
. It wasn’t far off the mark this summer.
‘You would, sir?’
‘Well, the world needs a good clean-out, don’t you think?’ said Hicklin. ‘We’ve turned it into a global cesspit over the centuries. It’s time that Mother Nature washed it all away and started again. Surely you must agree?’
‘No comment,’ said Cooper. Even as he said it, he reflected that he must have sat in on too many suspect interviews. ‘
No comment, no comment
’ – he’d heard it so often it had become a mantra, a line he couldn’t get out of his head, like the chorus of a cheesy pop song. It was a phrase that solicitors trained their clients to repeat ad nauseam, in order to avoid committing themselves.
So why had he evaded an answer to Hicklin’s question? Did the world need a good clean-out? Maybe. But not in this way.
He followed Hicklin through the hallway into a small sitting room. The grubby curtains were matched by the damp wallpaper and a few feet of grimy, rubbish-strewn carpet. The old man offered him one of the two armchairs in the room, and settled himself down in the other. Once he was inside the house, Cooper soon became aware of a steady drip, drip, drip. Not a regular pattern, but an irregular sound like a piece of avant-garde music, imaginatively played on plastic bucket and steel saucepan.
‘Aye, the Deluge. Quite a lot of us think that we’re living in depraved and degenerate times,’ said Hicklin with an enigmatic smile. ‘I’ve been waiting decades for a nice, deadly disease to wipe out a large part of the earth’s population. That’s the only answer to the situation the human race has got itself into. It’s the natural solution, the way that Mother Nature deals with chronic overcrowding in the population of any other species. I’m certain it will happen one day.’
Cooper just nodded in acknowledgement, recognising that he was obliged to listen to Hicklin riding this hobby horse if he was to get the chance to ask him any questions. Some people didn’t get many visitors. They stored up things like this, went over and over them in their own minds, and needed to let off steam when they got the opportunity. Cooper guessed he must be the first visitor to this cottage in days, perhaps weeks.
‘What will happen one day?’ he said.
‘Ah, well. These floods and hurricanes and earthquakes are all very well, but disasters are a drop in the ocean. The only thing that can do the job is an outbreak of a new flu strain, like the one back in 1918 that killed five per cent of the world’s population. Do you know it caused more deaths than the Great War did in five years of slaughter? With the enormous increase in air travel and the expansion of global trade, pandemics spread even more quickly now. One of those every month for a while would sort things out nicely.’
‘Oh, nicely,’ said Cooper.
He found it difficult to tell from Mr Hicklin’s enigmatic little smile how far he was joking, and what exactly he was serious about. A lot of Derbyshire people were like that. They could tell you anything with a straight face, and then think you were simple for believing a single word they said.
‘People are always predicting the end of the world. The Apocalypse, the Rapture, the last day of the Mayan calendar. But it never happens, more’s the pity. We live in a strange world. And people are the strangest things in it.’
‘You won’t hear me arguing with that, sir.’
‘So I suppose that’s why we have all these hippies about here,’ said Hicklin.
‘Hippies?’
‘Students, ramblers, campers, motorcyclists. You know.’
Cooper nodded. He’d heard it said, or read it somewhere. As far as some of these old farmers and quarrymen were concerned, a hippy was anyone not wearing a tweed cap and wellies.
As he sat in Hicklin’s armchair, Cooper began to notice that the sounds around him were changing, their pitch rising and becoming more liquid as the buckets gradually filled with water. Drip, drip … ping.
Hicklin noticed his attention straying.
‘Lead,’ he said. ‘You just can’t get it these days. Or at least, not without nicking it off someone’s roof.’
Cooper produced his identification. Mr Hicklin should have asked for it before he let him into the house, of course. But Cooper had felt reluctant to use it, and it might not have got him in any more easily.
‘You probably don’t remember me,’ he said. ‘I’m a police officer.’
‘I thought you were,’ said Hicklin.
‘I dealt with a case some years ago that you were involved in. You were a victim of the Gibson brothers.’
‘They bled me dry,’ said Hicklin. ‘I should have stood up to them, I suppose.’
‘Sometimes it’s not so easy, sir.’
‘Has something happened?’
‘I’m following up on a new inquiry.’
It was a vague enough statement, but he would have a hard job justifying it if he was ever challenged on the truth of it. ‘They were blackmailing you, weren’t they?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Well, you’ll know all about it. Ryan was the one who put the squeeze on me, and enjoyed doing it too. He has a brother, who was just as nasty.’
‘Sean.’
‘Yes, Sean. Ryan and Sean Gibson. Two signs that we’re living in a cesspit, if ever I saw them.’
‘What they were blackmailing you for – it wasn’t very serious, as I recall,’ said Cooper.
‘No. I was only siphoning off a few stores – an air filter, a box of washers, some small electrical items. And farmers have all kinds of uses for a length of conveyor belt. I was just trying to make a bit extra to keep us going. It might seem like nothing to some people now. What’s a bit of thieving these days? But I felt ashamed of what I was doing. And I knew it would have killed Mary if she’d found out where the money came from. She thought I was working overtime.’
‘Mary. Yes, that’s your wife.’
Hicklin followed his gaze as he looked round the old cottage, taking in the damp wallpaper, the dirty curtains, the carpet covered with rubbish.
‘Yes, Mary died anyway,’ said Hicklin quietly. ‘A heart attack. And I lost my job. So it was all for nothing.’
Cooper shifted uncomfortably. ‘Mr Hicklin, I remember you, and I think I know the sort of man you are. You believe in justice, don’t you?’
‘I believe in it,’ said Hicklin. ‘But I don’t expect it. Not any more.’
‘But I think you might have kept track of what happened to the Gibson brothers. Their court cases, the length of their sentences, when they were released. Perhaps where they’re living now?’
With suddenly astute eyes, Hicklin studied him for a long moment. ‘What is this about really?’
‘I can’t tell you exactly, sir.’
Hicklin seemed to come to a decision, just the way he had when he first saw Cooper standing on his doorstep. He heaved himself out of his chair and shuffled off into another room. Cooper heard him opening a drawer. He came back with an old yellow pocket file, well worn around the edges and repaired with a bit of sellotape.
‘This will be what you mean,’ he said.
‘Can I borrow it, please?’
‘Aye,’ said Hicklin. ‘Just bring it back when you can. If the world hasn’t ended by then.’
Cooper stood up and slid the file under his coat, then said, ‘Ryan Gibson worked just over there at A.J. Morton and Sons, didn’t he?’
‘Still does,’ said Hicklin. ‘I see him occasionally. You can imagine how that feels.’
A few minutes later, Cooper left Mr Hicklin in his old house with its leaky roof. Outside, the downpour was torrential. He might even have said biblical. The landscape had disappeared behind dense curtains of rain, and large pools of water had formed in Hicklin’s overgrown garden, almost blocking access to the gate.
‘You’re not in danger of flooding here, are you, sir?’ he asked.
‘I hope not,’ said Hicklin. ‘I can’t afford the insurance.’
Ryan Gibson was on his forklift truck in the huge storage yard at A.J. Morton & Sons. The site was well screened from the nearby roads. Even from the entrance, you would never guess the size of it. Everywhere he looked, Cooper saw stacks of crusher and screening spares, conveyor belt sections and rubber skirting, boxes of bearings and filters.
Cooper stood in front of the forklift and waved him down. Gibson stopped in surprise and turned off the engine.
‘What do you want? You’ll have to go into the office.’
Gibson looked over his shoulder and began to swing the steering wheel to reverse away from him.
‘Ryan?’ said Cooper.
Gibson turned and stared at him. Recognition was a long time coming, but it reached his face eventually. ‘I don’t want to talk to you,’ he said. ‘I never talk to the coppers. And I’m not supposed to stop work to chat anyway. So you might as well be on your way.’
‘How’s your brother?’ asked Cooper. ‘Sean?’
‘No idea,’ said Gibson. ‘I haven’t seen him. He’s gone abroad.’
‘Oh? Where to?’
‘I don’t know. He doesn’t send me postcards.’
Gibson revved up the forklift and headed away across the yard to lift a pallet of rollers.
Cooper watched him working for a moment. He hadn’t expected to get any answers here. Not from the likes of Ryan Gibson – he was too old a hand. All he’d wanted to do was see him, and read whatever he could find in Ryan’s face. And that had been bad enough.