The Corpse Bridge (3 page)

‘Well, as you can see,' said Irvine, ‘we've got a female, aged about thirty-five. Caucasian. She's not been in the water very long, by the looks of it. There's a clear head wound, but other than that—'

‘Found by?'

‘Finder's name is Rob Beresford. Actually, his full name is Robson – as in Robson Green the actor, you know?'

‘Yes.'

‘He's fairly local. Lives in Earl Sterndale. Mr Beresford says he was walking down here and saw the woman in the water. He had to go back up the trackway a hundred yards or so before he could dial 999 on his mobile.'

‘He was on his own?' asked Cooper.

‘It seems so. But—'

‘What, Luke?'

Irvine shrugged. ‘Well, you'll see for yourself when you talk to him, Ben. I know you like to form your own impressions.'

‘Okay.'

‘We've got him up the road there. Will you talk to him now?'

‘In a second.'

The River Dove was the boundary not only between two counties, but between the East Midlands and West Midlands. It was the border between limestone country and sandstone too. In daylight the view across the valley made the contrast obvious, with the hills on the Staffordshire side looking so much more gentle and unimpressive compared to the rugged limestone at his back. As far as Cooper was concerned, there was no doubt about it, whatever some Staffordshire people said. Derbyshire had the best hills.

In between, on the flatter and more fertile land in a loop of the river, stood one of Derbyshire's historic houses, Knowle Abbey – a huge country mansion where the Earls of Manby had lived for generations, surrounded by acres of landscaped parkland. It had always seemed to Cooper like a sort of no man's land, sitting in its own little world halfway between the two counties, but having little connection with either of them.

There was a Staffordshire Police presence here too, Cooper saw. Their vehicles carried a badge with the Staffordshire knot instead of the Derbyshire coat of arms. It was a strange choice of logo, he'd always thought. The triple loop of the Staffordshire knot was supposed to represent the solution devised by a hangman to execute three felons simultaneously. It didn't really fit with the current public image the police tried to present. Looking round, Cooper identified a couple of uniformed constables, an officer from Staffordshire's Major Investigation Department, and a Forensics Investigation van from their station at Leek.

The body of the victim had been tangled in the roots of a tree close to the Derbyshire side. But the River Dove was very narrow here and the county boundary ran right down the middle. He supposed it was possible that part of the body had been lying or floating in Staffordshire's jurisdiction.

But this wasn't a case of territorial dispute. Not yet, anyway. The two forces were cooperating. It was obvious to everyone that the victim or her attacker were just as likely to have approached the scene from the Staffordshire side as from Derbyshire. Boundaries were irrelevant, especially while the scene was being examined for forensic evidence. Footwear marks, DNA or trace evidence were left with complete disregard to jurisdictions.

D
awn was breaking, and the sun would rise by seven. A bird was singing over some abandoned buildings on the eastern bank of the river.

The young man who'd found the body was sitting in the passenger seat of a police car with the door open and his long legs stretched out in front of him. His head was down and he seemed to be gazing at his feet as if they could explain everything. He was no older than twenty, and he was dressed in denim jeans and a grey hooded jacket. The feet he was staring at were encased in white trainers with thick soles. At least, they'd been white once. The mud covering them now left barely a glimpse of the original colour. Perhaps that was why the young man looked at them so morosely. They were probably the most expensive thing he was wearing.

‘Mr Beresford?' said Cooper. ‘Detective Sergeant Cooper, from Edendale Police.'

‘I suppose you want me to go over it all again,' said the man sullenly. ‘I've seen this bit on the telly. Over and over again with the self-same questions that the other lot have asked already.'

‘Perhaps. But quite a few new questions too, I imagine,' said Cooper.

‘Oh, great.'

Cooper settled himself against the stone wall and found a comfortable position, trying to bring himself closer to the young man's level. It was less intimidating than standing over him, and it allowed Cooper to get a closer look at Rob Beresford's face.

‘I do need to ask you again whether you saw anyone else in this area tonight. Now that you've had a bit of time to think about it. You can appreciate it's very important.'

‘I didn't see anyone,' said Beresford without hesitation.

The answer came so quickly that it heightened Cooper's attention to the man's choice of words. Did he detect slightly too much emphasis on the word ‘see'?

‘Perhaps you heard someone?' he said.

Beresford shook his head, still not meeting Cooper's eye. The answer was noticeably slower in coming this time. ‘No. There was no one around.'

‘That's a shame.'

He didn't bother to explain why it was a shame. He could let the young man interpret that for himself. If there really
was
no one else around, that left only one person known to have been at the crime scene, apart from the dead woman herself. Beresford must have realised that, surely. If he'd seen this sort of thing on the telly, he'd know who the first suspect would be. Yet he made no effort to point his questioners in another direction.

For a moment Cooper watched Rob Beresford's expression, which seemed to be set into a look of stubborn resignation. Then he glanced round at the bridge. ‘You told my colleagues you were out for a walk, sir.'

‘That's right.'

‘An early morning walk. Very early. Do you own a dog, Mr Beresford?'

‘We have a Jack Russell terrier.'

‘So where is it?'

‘At home,' said Beresford.

Cooper smiled at his tone. ‘It's just that most early morning walks are accompanied by a dog in my experience. When someone is out before dawn for a walk, it suggests they have to start work early. That, or the dog has a bladder problem.'

Beresford didn't respond. But that was fair enough – Cooper hadn't asked him a question. The young man sat forward on the seat and stared down at his feet. His trainers were soaked.

‘What do you do for a living, sir?' asked Cooper.

‘I'm a student.'

‘Really? Where?'

‘University of Derby. I'm studying.'

‘Buxton campus? The Dome?'

‘That's right.'

‘So you don't have far to go for lectures.'

‘My dad usually takes me into Buxton on his way to work.'

‘And what does he do?'

‘He's a driver. He drives a van for a parcel delivery company.'

‘That
can
involve an early start, I imagine. He'll have to get to the depot in plenty of time, so he can load up and get out on his route.'

‘Yes.'

‘Which company does your dad work for?'

‘ABC Despatch. They have a distribution centre just outside Buxton.'

‘I know it. On the industrial estate at Harpur Hill.'

‘That's it.'

Cooper let a silence develop. Sometimes it was the best way to deal with someone like this. Beresford would be expecting the next question, the one he didn't want to answer. But if he was left waiting long enough, he wouldn't be able to stand the tension. Cooper was patient. Besides, he didn't really have the energy at this time of the morning to try too hard.

The young man began to fidget, and bit his lip.

‘Well, the truth is, I needed to get away from the house for a bit,' he said.

‘Ah.'

‘The parents. You know what it's like.'

‘Yes.'

Cooper didn't really. He'd never had the chance to reach that stage where you didn't want to be in the house with each other a moment longer. But he'd heard people say it often enough, so he'd come to believe it must be true.

‘You had a row?'

‘That's it. Nothing serious. But I had to get out, take in a bit of fresh air.'

‘Why did you come down here?'

‘I don't know. It was just handy.'

Cooper consulted the notes he'd been given. ‘You live in Earl Sterndale, sir. You didn't walk all this way. It must be a couple of miles at least.'

‘My bike is up the hill there.'

‘A motorbike or…'

‘Just an old pushbike. It's all I can afford. Student loans, you know.'

‘I see.'

It was obvious that Rob Beresford wasn't an experienced walker. No one with any sense wore expensive trainers to go hiking in. You needed a pair of boots or good stout shoes on terrain like this, or you risked breaking an ankle, not to mention ruining your footwear. And everyone knew you didn't wear denims to walk in wet weather. They soon became sodden and heavy, and would take hours to dry out. The young man's jeans were a much darker blue below the knee, where they'd got soaking wet from the damp undergrowth.

Beresford looked up. ‘There's one question your mates didn't ask. And you haven't asked me either.'

Cooper stopped. ‘What's that, sir?'

‘Whether I knew the dead woman.'

With a sinking heart, Cooper realised that he'd missed a vital point completely. He could only put it down to tiredness. But it was unacceptable that a witness should have to remind him of an important question he'd overlooked. He'd have to watch himself carefully, or someone else would be keeping an eye on him.

‘And did you, Mr Beresford?' he asked.

Beresford nodded despondently.

‘Of course I did,' he said. ‘Her name is Sandra Blair.'

D
etective Sergeant Diane Fry didn't do early mornings any more. Not if she could avoid it. Since she'd transferred to the Major Crime Unit of the East Midlands Special Operations Unit, her life seemed to be getting back on track. The nights were more peaceful, the days more fulfilling. Apart from a brief setback, when she'd been obliged to return to Derbyshire's E Division to cover for sick leave, she was doing the job she'd always wanted to do. What's more, it meant she was able to move back to a city.

When Fry first came to the Peak District, the culture shock had been pretty traumatic. Compared to her old stamping grounds in Birmingham and the Black Country, this had seemed like, well … not just the backwoods, but a barren wasteland. Those vast, bleak expanses of peat moor they called the Dark Peak were like the back of the moon to a city girl. The first day she drove past a road sign that said ‘Sheep for 10 miles' she'd known she was no longer in civilisation.

Fry drank her coffee and bit into a piece of toast as she sat looking out of her window on to Grosvenor Avenue. She barely noticed the flat itself now. It already felt like a part of her past. She merely drifted in and out, boiled a kettle, ran a shower, lay down to sleep. It was no more her home than any hotel room in any dull town in some far-flung part of the country. She had no more roots in Edendale than the pot plant dying on her window ledge.

For a moment Fry stopped chewing and looked at the plant. She couldn't remember the last time she'd watered it, so there was no wonder it was dying. She peered a bit more closely and poked at a brown leaf, which crumbled at her touch. More dead than dying, then. Somebody had given her the plant, but she couldn't remember who. It hardly mattered now, did it?

She finally had a new place to move into, in a smart apartment building on the outskirts of Nottingham. Fry was looking forward to seeing traffic, theatres, a bit of nightlife. Proper street lights. And no sheep anywhere.

Proper crimes too. The Major Crime Unit investigated all the serious stuff in the region. There would be no dealing with vast amounts of low-level volume crime, the way they did on division.

Fry checked her phone. Reports were coming through this morning of a suspicious death in Derbyshire. Somewhere near Buxton, a few miles to the west of Edendale. If it was in Derbyshire, it was just within the remit of EMSOU.

She called her DCI, Alistair Mackenzie, to see what he wanted her to do.

‘We do need you back here, Diane.'

‘Of course.'

‘You're not still hankering after the country life, are you?'

‘You are joking. Sir.'

Mackenzie laughed. ‘Perhaps.'

‘Can we let Divisional CID run with it for now, then?'

‘Yes, unless they encounter any problems. We'll keep a watching brief.'

Fry ended the call, finished her coffee and got ready to leave. She studied the people moving in Grosvenor Avenue. There weren't many – just a few students from the multi-occupancy Victorian houses like the one her flat was part of, and a Royal Mail van stopped a few doors up, the postman chatting to someone over a wall.

She turned away. That was enough watching for now. Perhaps for ever.

Yes, that would be the best thing. Very soon she would never have to think about Edendale again. Or any of the people in it.

B
en Cooper stood back and let the recovery team do their work. The victim had finally been removed from the water and placed on the Derbyshire bank of the river. Her hands had been bagged, in case evidence from her attacker was trapped under her fingernails. But the rest of her body was bundled up in heavy clothing, which was completely waterlogged, creating a limp, misshapen mound that hardly looked human. Dark hair spread in sodden strands around her face.

And the victim's injuries were obvious now too, with blood still leaking from a head wound. Though the bleeding had seemed so little while she was in the river, now the red stain quickly began to spread across the sheeting and on to the ground. The water had kept the head wound open, while washing away the blood downstream.