The Corpse Bridge (8 page)

‘Oh?'

‘Her husband's death didn't leave her very well off, from what I gather. She was able to buy her little cottage at Crowdecote. But even that wasn't cheap. I'm sure you know what property prices are like in this area.'

‘Yes, I do,' said Cooper.

The unexpected jolt of memory made him gulp. He'd spent many months looking at properties with Liz, when they were planning their future. He could probably have put an accurate asking price on anything on the market below two hundred thousand pounds. And he knew there were many houses to be found at that price.

‘I think it was thanks to a life insurance policy that she was able to do that,' said Miss Grindey. ‘Otherwise she would have been stuck in rented accommodation.'

‘Didn't she have a house to sell when her husband died?'

Miss Grindey shook her head. ‘Oh, no. Until he died they lived at Bowden.'

‘Of course.'

Cooper mentally kicked himself for his naive question. Bowden was one of the estate villages for Knowle Abbey and its residents were all tenants. Their landlord was the owner of the Knowle estate, Lord Manby himself. He owned Bowden.

‘We urgently need to track down Sandra Blair's family,' said Cooper.

‘She has a sister in Scotland.'

‘So I understand. Do you have any idea of the sister's name or where she lives?'

‘No, I'm sorry.'

He looked across at Irvine, who seemed to have finished with young Kimberley.

‘You could try Mr Naden,' said Miss Grindey, finally volunteering information now that she sensed the police were about leave her tea rooms.

Cooper turned back to her. ‘Who?'

‘Mr Naden. He and his wife come in here for afternoon tea sometimes. I always had the impression that they knew Sandra quite well. Not that they chatted or anything. But just the way they spoke to each other, you know.'

‘I know,' said Cooper, glad that his instinct about her had been correct. ‘Thank you for your time, Miss Grindey.'

‘I don't know their address, but Geoff Naden looks after the churchyard,' she said. ‘You might find him there.'

O
utside, the centre of Hartington village was gradually getting busier. Some of the people he could see were probably local, calling at the post office or filling up their cars at the little petrol station in Mill Lane. But there were visitors too. There were always folk looking for somewhere to spend their time at the weekend, as long as the weather wasn't too bad. And even then some hardy individuals would venture out in the snow.

Near the village stores they passed a row of eighteenth-century cottages. The door of one stood partly open, with a sign offering free range eggs and pure Hartington honey straight from the hive.

‘The part-time girl, Kimberley, hardly ever saw Sandra Blair,' said Irvine. ‘She knew a lot more about the old dear she works for.'

‘Miss Grindey? Anything interesting?'

‘Not really.

They turned into Hyde Lane, where the village hall stood. This end of the building still showed traces of its original sign, which had been painted on the wall. Hartington Amusement Hall. Cooper wondered if the amusements in those days had been the same as those enjoyed by Hartington residents now.

He opened a small gate and they climbed a set of steps into the graveyard of St Giles' Church. According to a plaque, the bench at the top of the steps was a gift from His Grace the Duke of Devonshire in 1978. That must have been the old duke, father of the present incumbent at Chatsworth. From somewhere in his memory, Cooper dredged the fact that the eldest son of the duke held the title of Marquis of Hartington, at least until he succeeded to the dukedom.

As in many English villages the signs of the ancient landowners were everywhere, even if they no longer owned any of the properties. That part of English history would take a long time to disappear. It would still be evident while the pubs existed and while some of these houses remained standing.

Cooper turned at the bench and looked back at the village. The organisers of events held at the amusement hall would probably have been obliged to get approval from the duke for their entertainments. He must have had the final say in pretty much everything else.

In the graveyard they found a thickset, middle-aged man vigorously raking leaves off the paths into a big heap. He was wearing a baseball cap and he had receding grey hair sticking out in untidy clumps. He didn't see them coming at first and Cooper was struck by his grimly determined expression as he lashed out with the rake. He was digging out the last of the dead leaves from cracks between the stones, but his mind appeared to be dwelling on something entirely different that made him angry.

‘Mr Naden?' called Cooper when they got closer.

The man looked up, startled. Almost frightened. For a moment Cooper wondered if he was deaf, or listening to an iPod while he worked. But it appeared he'd just been so deeply engrossed in his thoughts that he was noticing nothing around him. That took quite a bit of concentration.

‘Yes? Can I help you?' he said, with the rake poised in mid-air. ‘I can't show you the church. I don't have the keys.'

‘We're not visitors, sir.'

Cooper produced his warrant card and introduced himself and Irvine.

Naden looked around him and hefted the rake in his hand. For a second Cooper thought he was going to do a runner or lash out at the two police officers. He almost took a step backwards to put himself out of reach of a weapon, but stopped himself. He was surely just imagining things. Everybody was starting to look suspicious.

‘What can I do for you, Sergeant?' asked Naden finally.

‘We're making enquiries about a lady called Sandra Blair,' said Cooper.

‘She works at the tea rooms.'

‘That's the lady.'

Naden began to poke at some more leaves, but in a desultory fashion. There was no longer the passion he'd been showing with the rake when Cooper first set eyes on him.

‘We're trying to contact her family. Would you know—'

‘There's a sister in Scotland, I think.'

‘We're aware of that.'

‘But that's all I know.'

Cooper sighed. He was beginning to wonder if this sibling north of the border actually existed. Could she be a figment of Sandra Blair's imagination, casually mentioned to everyone she met in order to give the impression that she had a family like everyone else? If the sister in Scotland couldn't be tracked down, he might have to turn his attention to finding the family of the deceased husband. For some reason he couldn't explain to himself, he had no faith in the existence of a grandfather who'd arranged a meeting at one o'clock in the morning.

‘Are you the churchwarden or something?' asked Cooper.

‘No, I just help out,' said Naden. ‘We all have to do our bit.'

‘And how did you first meet Mrs Blair?'

Naden shrugged. ‘I'm not sure, really. I suppose she's always been working at the tea rooms.'

‘I don't think so.'

‘Well, that's where we always saw her. She doesn't live in Hartington.'

‘No, you're right there.'

Out of the corner of his eye, Cooper noticed Irvine had walked a few yards away and was kicking at a pile of leaves. He was getting bored.

But Cooper waited a little longer. Naden raised his head, sensing from the silence that he was supposed to say something else.

‘What's happened to Sandra Blair, then?' he said. ‘Has she had an accident?'

I thought you'd never ask
, thought Cooper.

‘Something like that, sir,' he said.

‘W
ell, he was a washout,' said Irvine as they returned to the car. ‘Mr Grumpy with the rake. What was his name?'

‘Mr Naden,' said Cooper.

‘He didn't tell us anything.'

‘He might do, though. Given time.'

Irvine laughed. ‘I don't know how you can have so much patience with people like that, Ben.'

‘Sometimes it's the only way,' said Cooper.

‘Are we going back to West Street now?' asked Irvine.

‘Yes.'

‘What next, then?'

‘That address book has to be gone through,' said Cooper. ‘Sandra Blair's remaining relatives must be in there somewhere. The sister in Scotland…'

‘And her grandfather,' said Irvine.

‘Yes. Well, possibly. And perhaps someone who knew her a bit better than her employer and her neighbours. Gavin should be in the office. You can do the job between you. But let me know if you think you've traced the sister. We'll need her to come down for a formal identification and start going through all the formalities.'

‘Couldn't someone else do the identification? Someone who knew Mrs Blair well?'

‘Yes, of course, if we really needed it,' said Cooper. ‘We could get Miss Grindey to do it. But it's a sensitive issue for the family of a murder victim. They feel it's their job, to make that official confirmation of the death of their family member. They don't understand when it's been left to some person they didn't even know, and they can get very upset about it. It just doesn't feel right to them. They should be the first to know about the death, too. But in this case…'

‘Understood.'

Cooper took a last look around the centre of the village. His route back to Edendale would be up through Hartington Dale and north on the A515 to the turning for Tideswell.

Despite the visitors, Hartington was actually quieter than he remembered it. That was due to the closure of the cheese factory, he supposed. There were no delivery vehicles coming and going to the empty factory in Stonewell Lane. There was no major employer in the village now. And he didn't have time to buy that piece of cheese either.

‘After that you can call it a day, Luke,' he said. ‘It's not as if there are any house-to-house enquiries to do near the crime scene.'

‘There are no houses there,' said Irvine.

‘Exactly. I'm going to get the press office to start putting out some public appeals as soon as possible. Tomorrow we'll see what forensics have come up with. Then we ought to have some leads to follow up.'

‘Suits me,' said Irvine. ‘I've got a date tonight anyway.'

Cooper looked at him as he started the Toyota. He couldn't help a twinge of envy. He'd been Luke Irvine's age once and it wasn't all that long ago either. But he couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to say those words to a colleague: ‘I've got a date tonight.' It sounded so innocent. The sentence seemed to hang in the air inside the car, oozing with freedom and hope for the future.

With a jerk, Cooper put the car into gear and drove away from Hartington.

‘Good luck with that then, Luke,' he said.

T
he first appeals for witnesses were broadcast on the local TV news early that evening. They appeared on Twitter feeds for the police and BBC Radio Derby, and were soon all over the internet. Detectives wanted to hear from anyone who'd been in an area of the Upper Dove Valley last night near a location known as Hollins Bridge.

When Cooper heard the appeal, he realised the press office had decided against using the familiar colloquial name for the bridge. Instead they had chosen the official name, which featured on Ordnance Survey maps of the White Peak but was never used by ordinary people. At least, it wasn't used by local people – only by visitors who relied entirely on maps.

That was a pity. The individuals they were hoping to hear from would surely be local. Too often people didn't have enough knowledge about their own locality. Not accurate, factual knowledge. They just knew the stories and legends, and the vernacular names.

So he just had to hope that someone with useful information would make the proper connection. But wasn't that the whole principle behind solving crime?

Cooper tidied the paperwork on his desk, pulled on his jacket and left the office. He drove out through the barrier from the police compound and headed down West Street towards the town.

Dusk was long past and it was dark over Edendale. Below him street lights sparkled in the cold air and windows of houses glowed in their pale colours. It would only need the first heavy frost to arrive and the town would start to look quite Christmassy.

The thought reminded him that he had some shopping to do. Instead of continuing all the way to Fargate, he turned off into Hollowgate and found a parking place in the market square near the war memorial.

When he got out of the car, Cooper listened for a few moments, enjoying the sound of the River Eden running below him in the darkness. At night its sound had a mysterious quality, as if thousands of tiny, invisible creatures were out there, whispering and murmuring until daylight came again. He could picture the mallard ducks that lived on this stretch of the river through the centre of town. They would be bobbing gently on the surface as they slept with their heads towards the weir. The flow of water didn't seem to bother them. He'd always admired the ability of the mallards to float calmly in whatever torrent of water came their way.

He turned towards the town. The high street was only a few yards away and some of the shops were still open. Even at the beginning of November, there were groups of young people sitting out in the beer gardens of the pubs. The smoking ban had made some of them quite hardy.

Cooper thought he might even walk down to the Hanging Gate for a drink before he went home to Welbeck Street. It was certainly a tempting thought.

S
ally Naden was having a bad day with the pain. Sometimes the tablets weren't enough to keep its excruciating surges suppressed all day long. By the middle of the afternoon the pain could break through its anaesthetic restraints like a deranged killer ripping out of a straitjacket. Once loose, the agony swept through her body in uncontrolled waves and left her exhausted and helpless.