Villiers laughed. ‘What? Tourists right on his own doorstep? I don’t think so. Not Mr Roth.’
‘What, then?’
‘What I’m thinking,’ said Cooper, ‘is that the old Methodist chapel might have become the clubhouse for the New Trespassers Walking Club.’
Cooper noticed that a public footpath was marked on the plan. It came off Valley Road and skirted the woodland towards the edge of Kinder. He wondered if it was possible to slip down from the path through the trees to reach the old chapel, if you knew the way. There seemed to be no other direct access, so probably the Primitive Methodists had come that way themselves, going to and from the church on foot. It looked ideal for a private location to meet in.
Diane Fry was recalling that rainy Monday morning when she’d found Detective Inspector Gareth Blake standing in her boss’s office at E Division headquarters in Edendale. She hadn’t recognised Blake at first, as she automatically held out her hand, seeing a man who wasn’t much above her own age, his hair just starting to recede a little from his forehead, grey eyes observing her sharply from behind tiny, frameless glasses.
‘Diane,’ he said.
And then she’d remembered him. It was the voice that did it. She and Gareth Blake had worked together years ago, on the same uniformed shift in the West Midlands. But he’d been ambitious and got himself noticed, earning an early promotion. He was more mature now, better dressed, with a sharper hairstyle. The reek of ambition still hung in the air around him.
So what was Blake’s specialty now?
Cold-case rape inquiries. Well, of course.
And then there had been Rachel Murchison, smartly dressed in a black suit and a white blouse, dark hair tied neatly back, businesslike and self-confident, but with a guarded watchfulness. A specialist counsellor, there to judge her psychological state.
Some of the phrases leaped out at her from the conversation that had followed.
‘Obviously we don’t want to put any pressure on you, Diane.’
That was Blake, pouring a meaningless noise in her ear.
‘It’s understandable that you feel a need to be in control. Perfectly normal, in the circumstances.’
Murchison’s contribution. Well, Fry hadn’t wanted this woman telling her whether she was behaving normally or not. She didn’t want to hear it from anyone else, for that matter.
Just the sound of her name from Blake’s lips had brought back the memories she’d been trying to suppress, but which would now for ever bubble up in her mind. She remembered how both of them, Blake and Murchison, had watched her carefully, trying to assess her reaction.
In the days that followed, others had seemed to be watching her in that same careful manner. But they could never comprehend the painful attempt to balance two powerful urges. The need to keep her most terrible memories safely buried now had to be set against this urge she’d suddenly discovered growing inside — the burning desire for vengeance and justice. No one could understand that.
Blake and Murchison had brought the news of a DNA hit that would enable them to reopen the inquiry in which she was the victim. All they needed was her decision, whether she wanted to go ahead with a fresh inquiry or close the book and put the whole thing behind her.
Blake’s words still echoed in her mind.
‘When we get a cold-case hit, we consult the CPS before we consider intruding into a victim’s life. We have to take a close look at how strong a case we’ve got, and whether we can do something to strengthen it.’
‘With the help of the victim.’
‘Of course. And in this case...’
‘This is personal. Don’t try to pretend it isn’t.’
But she’d said yes to a fresh inquiry. Perhaps that was it. That was her mistake. She should have closed the book on it. Instead, she’d reopened too many difficult chapters that didn’t make comfortable reading.
She’d never been one to do what was expected of her. And here were the consequences, coming back to catch up with her with a vengeance.
25
Ben Cooper stood in a small clearing in the woods with Carol Villiers. The trees had encroached onto the site of the old Primitive Methodist chapel since it was abandoned, but the area immediately around it had been kept reasonably clear of weeds. Perhaps another job for the Roths’ gardener?
Cooper realised he had no idea who that was. He made a mental note to find out the man’s name and speak to him. Like servants, gardeners were often the people who observed small details and knew most about their employers. There was just a chance he might have noticed something useful.
In front of him stood a plain stone building. It had no fancy carvings or stained-glass windows. And certainly no spire or steeple. There was no reaching up towards God with ambitious building projects for these worshippers. At this church, each man must have had to find God within himself.
The main door of the chapel had been secured with deadbolts, and Cooper could see that some work had been done on the roof to make it watertight. Missing lead was still one of the biggest threats for old churches in rural areas, even those that were still in use. Thieves could strip a roof in a single night, leaving the interior awash with rain by the next day.
Villiers was walking round the walls of the building.
‘Can you see anything through those windows?’ called Cooper.
‘No, they’re too high.’
‘Same on this side.’
The windows were small too. Not much light had penetrated this church.
‘It’s handy, isn’t it?’ said Villiers. ‘Anything could be going on in there. Unless there was some reason for an official inspection, no one would know about it.’
‘Can you see a water supply, or electricity?’
‘No.’
‘Then the last official visit might have been by a planning officer when the approval for conversion was given. It’s clear there’s been no attempt to convert it to residential use, anyway. The building inspectors probably lost interest after a while. They have better things to do with their time.’
‘Lucky for Darius Roth, do you think?’
‘I don’t think anything comes to Mr Roth by luck, Carol.’
Cooper decided to call Darius Roth’s mobile number.
‘Mr Roth,’ he said, ‘we’re here at the old chapel next to your property. I’d like to take a look inside, with your permission.’
‘Why?’
‘As part of our inquiries.’
‘I don’t see what relevance the old chapel can have.’
‘Is there some reason you don’t want us to see inside, sir?’
‘Don’t you need a warrant?’
‘Not if we have your permission.’
Roth had sounded anxious, his voice a few notches higher than normal. But he paused, seemed to gather himself together, and his voice was back to its usual smoothness when he spoke again.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll send Will up with the key.’
‘Will?’
‘Will Sankey. My gardener.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
When he arrived, Will Sankey wasn’t as old as Cooper had imagined. For some reason, he pictured professional gardeners as middle-aged men with weathered faces and tweed jackets. Stereotypes. They always caught you out.
Sankey was dressed in a quilted body warmer and wore a baseball cap with his company logo on it. He was quietly spoken and polite, the sort of man who’d you like to come and do your gardening, who’d arrive and do the work without any fuss.
Cooper could imagine this man going practically unnoticed by the Roths as he went about his business. But if there were secrets being hidden at Trespass Lodge, Sankey might also be the man to know about them.