The Corpse Bridge (18 page)

‘Look, it says here. If every adult in the area spends five pounds a week in their local independent shops instead of online or in the big supermarkets, it would mean an extra one million pounds a year going into the local economy. More jobs, better facilities, a nicer place to live.'

Matt nodded vigorously at the sign. Claire had certainly found an enthusiastic supporter for that one.

‘Well, it makes sense, doesn't it?' said Matt.

‘Yes, it does. Will it work?'

‘Have faith.'

They both worked in silence for a while, apart from the occasional curse from Matt. After a few minutes he seemed to remember his brother was there.

‘Are you okay with that, Ben?'

‘Of course. I've got the easy job.'

‘Yes, you have.'

‘It makes a change, though.'

‘Oh, yeah. Right.'

There was another pause. Ben finished one panel and shifted position to start the next.

‘So how's it going, then?' said Matt. ‘Have you been assigned your own police tractor yet?'

Matt laughed uproariously at his own joke. It wasn't one of his most appealing characteristics. It had been a regular jest of Matt's ever since June, when a tractor liveried in police colours had been used to encourage members of the public to sign up for the Farm Watch scheme. Matt had come across the tractor on display at the cattle market in Bakewell, where it had been loaned by the manufacturer, New Holland. Of course, the tractor had then continued to turn up at markets and shows right through the summer, prompting another burst of hilarity from Matt every time he saw it.

It was a bit frustrating. Thieves had been targeting farms across the county and making off with a huge range of items, from livestock to fuel. They'd taken numerous quad bikes, muck spreaders and generators, and six incidents of sheep rustling had been recorded. Many farmers had signed up for Farm Watch, including Matt. But it didn't stop him making jokes about the police tractor. Well, at least it kept the scheme in his mind.

Ben didn't bother to answer. It hardly seemed worth it. But Matt tried again.

‘So where have you been today? Anywhere interesting?'

‘I've been over at Knowle Abbey and Bowden village.'

‘Oh,' said Matt, immediately losing interest. ‘Staffordshire people.'

‘No, actually.'

It was odd how Matt's interest in the affairs of his neighbours ended at the border. No one who lived west of the River Dove was of any concern to him.

‘Not Staffordshire?' he said.

‘Don't you know where your own county ends?'

‘Not really. Why would it matter to me? As long as my ewes don't wander that far.'

‘Talk about parochialism,' said Ben. ‘You're the living, breathing embodiment of it.'

‘Cheers.'

‘Well, it's true. If it doesn't happen on your patch, it doesn't exist.'

Matt was right, though. Why should it matter to him? He hardly needed a passport to get in and out of Derbyshire, so he would never notice where the border was. The dry stone walls around his farm were the only boundaries he cared about.

Ben watched his brother line up the shelves on one of the walls. He was frowning in concentration, with a couple of screws sticking out of his mouth. He would do a good job of it. His unrelenting practicality made Ben feel almost useless.

Sensing his brother watching him, Matt looked round.

‘I suppose it's this woman who was killed at the bridge,' he said, speaking indistinctly round his mouthful of screws.

‘That's right.'

‘They call it the Corpse Bridge, don't they?'

‘You've heard of it, then? And the coffin roads?'

‘Yes, I remember all that stuff vaguely. Old stories.'

‘I had the Reverend Latham out there this morning,' said Ben.

‘Old Bill Latham? Is he still alive?'

‘Definitely.'

‘Good for him. He must be as old as I feel.'

Matt used a spirit level to check that his shelf was exactly at the right angle. Nothing would be falling off this display.

‘And there's a connection to Knowle Abbey, is there?' he said.

‘There may be.'

‘That's another old story.'

‘What is?'

‘You don't remember the tale?'

‘Which one, Matt?'

‘The Revenge of the Poacher's Widow.'

Ben laughed. ‘Oh,
that
story. Yes, Granddad Cooper told it to us when we were children. In fact, I think he probably told it several times over the years.'

‘Yes, he did.'

‘And he got all his folk tales from some book he was given by
his
parents. Though he embellished the details a bit more every time he told them, of course.'

‘We loved them as kids,' said Matt. ‘The more gruesome the better, too.'

‘Right.' Ben shook his head. ‘I don't quite remember, though.'

‘You don't?' Matt stopped working for a moment and crinkled his forehead in an effort of memory. ‘There was some old duke at Knowle Abbey…'

‘An earl,' said Ben.

‘Whatever. Well, he caught a poacher on his land, nicking his deer or something. And instead of just handing him over to the cops, he turned the poacher loose in the woods and let his aristocratic mates hunt him down like an animal. He reckoned he could get away with doing things like that, because he was so rich and important.'

‘When was this exactly?'

‘Oh, a couple of months ago.'

‘Right.'

Matt laughed again. Ben found it a bit unsettling to hear his brother being so jolly.

‘Anyway,' said Matt, ‘the poacher got shot and killed. And nobody did anything about it, of course. So the poacher's widow vowed revenge and put a curse on the duke.'

‘The earl.'

This time Matt ignored his interruption. He finished driving a screw in with his electric screwdriver and brushed some wood shavings off the finished shelf. Then he stood back to admire his handiwork with a smile of satisfaction. Ben found himself beginning to get impatient.

‘So what happened to the duke?' he said. ‘I mean, the earl.'

‘Oh, he died,' said Matt airily.

‘Everyone dies eventually.'

‘Ah, but he died a
horrible
death. I can't remember exactly how. But I know it was horrible.'

Ben sighed. ‘You're not a born storyteller, are you?'

‘Not like Granddad Cooper,' admitted Matt.

Outside, the centre of town was getting noisy again as the pubs filled up.

‘It's time to knock off here, I think,' said Matt, ‘before they let the animals loose from the zoo.'

They put out the lights and Matt set the alarm and locked the door. He turned to Ben.

‘Do you want to come back to the farm for a bit?' he said. ‘Have you had something to eat? I dare say Kate can—'

Ben shook his head. ‘No, I'm okay. Thanks anyway.'

‘Suit yourself.'

Matt couldn't resist casting another sideways glance at him from the corner of his eye as they turned towards the market square.

‘I'm fine, Matt, really.'

‘Good. But if ever…'

‘I know.'

‘Well. Think on, then.'

When Matt had gone, Ben felt oddly reassured by the conversation they'd just had, standing here on the corner of Edendale market square. There had hardly been any words involved, but what had been said meant a lot. That was exactly the way he and his brother had always communicated with one another when they were boys at Bridge End Farm. Their mother would have said they just grunted at each other. But they'd been so close that they had an understanding beyond words.

Ben smiled. It had felt so good to have that back again, just for a few minutes. At least some things stayed re- assuringly the same in this world. And his brother was one of them.

W
ith a heave, Diane Fry dragged her overnight bag off the back seat of her car and slammed the door. The Audi was streaked with mud and its windscreen was filthy. Its black paintwork always showed the dirt at the best of times. But right now the wheel arches seemed to have accumulated half the topsoil of the Peak District. If she had that mud analysed, no doubt she would find a high percentage of sheep muck too.

She sighed and turned towards the lit-up entrance. The A38 Aston Expressway was only a hundred yards away and the buzz of evening traffic was loud and continuous. It was a noise she had grown up with, but which she rarely heard in Derbyshire. Its presence was like the return of the cuckoo in spring. Tuneless, but reassuring.

Fry checked in and found her room. It was like any other budget hotel, anonymous and without character. There were few staff to be seen and her fellow guests took no notice of her as she passed, some of them even turning their heads away as if they didn't want to be recognised. It suited her down to the ground.

In her room the first thing she did was turn off the TV. She hung her clothes in the tiny wardrobe, though she was only staying overnight. She checked her phone, saw the text she'd been expecting. Just enough time to shower and get changed.

They'd arranged to meet in a pub near Aston University. Fry set off to walk along the canal towpath from the back of the hotel, passing under Dartmouth Middleway, with its set of lock gates beneath a grim concrete bridge. From the edge of the Corporation Street dual carriageway, she turned down Holt Street towards the campus.

It was an old pub with leaded windows and wooden floors, and pictures on the walls depicting the history of Birmingham. Naturally, it was full of students, but they seemed to be drinking rather than eating. Fry crossed the bar to a far corner and found her sister already there.

‘Hi, sis,' she said.

Angie stood up to give her an uncomfortable hug. ‘Di. How are you doing?'

‘I'm fine.'

Diane sat down and looked at her older sister. Every time she saw her it was like meeting a new person. Angie had run away from their foster home in the Black Country when they were both teenagers. They didn't see each other until one memorable day in the Peak District, when the two of them had been brought together by Ben Cooper, of all people.

That day Angie had seemed like a complete stranger. But Diane had been setting eyes on her for the first time since she was fourteen. Her teenage illusions were easily shattered.

They'd spent a lot of time together since then and Angie had even stayed with her for a while in her flat in Edendale. Yet it was odd to look at her now and notice that she was starting to look middle-aged. Her eyes were tired and the lines around her temples, formed by years of pain, seemed more deeply etched.

And surely Angie had put on weight too? It was something Diane herself had never been able to do. Food just didn't hold the same attraction for her that it did for other people. It was necessary fuel, but not a subject for lengthy conversation, let alone something to write stacks of books or produce endless TV shows about. So she eyed Angie's outline with interest and examined her arms, no longer so thin that they looked as though they would snap. Her sister had always been slim. Since Diane had tried to emulate her in every way when they were teenagers, it seemed wrong that Angie could now so easily abandon her function as a role model.

They ordered straight away, because Angie was keen to eat. Diane chose a pasta pomodoro, a penne pasta with tomato sauce, sun-dried tomatoes and basil.

‘I suppose that's the lowest calorie dish on the menu,' said Angie.

‘It might be,' said Diane, though she knew perfectly well it was.

Angie laughed. She seemed much more relaxed than her sister had ever seen her before. It was odd and she didn't quite know what to make of it.

Their food came quickly. Diane watched her sister eating skewered chicken breast pieces with peppers and barbecue sauce.

‘Things are going well, then?' she said.

‘Great.' Angie looked up from her chicken skewers. ‘I told you I've got a new bloke, didn't I?'

‘I believe you mentioned it in your texts. Several times.'

‘We've been an item for a few months now.'

‘I'm happy for you.'

Angie smiled. It was a curiously smug expression, more like a smirk. Diane immediately became suspicious.

‘What's going on?' she said.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Come off it. I know you too well.'

But Angie shrugged. ‘Stop being a copper.'

‘Mmm.'

They ate silently for a moment, allowing the background noise of the students to wash over them.

‘Speaking of which,' said Angie, ‘how's the lovely Ben?'

‘What?'

‘Don't pretend you don't know who I mean.'

‘Ben Cooper?'

‘Of course.'

‘He's all right, I suppose.'

Angie nodded. ‘He's got over all that business with the fire and his fiancée being killed? I mean, it's a while ago now, isn't it? People do get over these things and move on with their lives.'

‘Obviously.'

Diane didn't like the way the conversation was going. Angie had always shown an inexplicable interest in Ben Cooper. But she had her own bloke now. They'd been an item for months and it sounded serious. Why was she still talking about Cooper?

‘So,' said Angie, ‘he's, you know … available again.'

‘Well, I guess so. But I thought you were happy with your new bloke.'

Angie gaped at her and dropped her fork on to her plate with a clatter. She threw her head back and laughed. She had a peculiar, hiccuping laugh that always made heads turn in astonishment. Diane cringed with embarrassment and tried to turn away from the gawping faces in the bar.

‘Diane, you idiot,' said Angie, when she'd taken a drink to stop herself choking.

‘What on earth is the matter with you?' said Diane.