‘This latest attack,’ said Liz. ‘Mr and Mrs Holland?’
‘Yes. You were there, at their house. Fourways.’
‘We found very little in the way of forensic evidence, you know.’
‘I heard.’
‘So unless the lady can provide any information about the intruder
…?’
Cooper hadn’t been present at the interviews with Mrs Holland, but he’d read the transcripts. She’d told her interviewers that she had caught sight of a single figure in the garden of their home, no more than a glimpse of the intruder through a window. She couldn’t say whether he had been heading towards the house, or away from it. She couldn’t even say for certain that it was a he. When pressed, though, she swore that the intruder was wearing a dark mask. Otherwise she would have been able to see a face, wouldn’t she?
‘Nothing of any use so far,’ said Cooper.
‘Perhaps she’ll remember something later.’
‘She thinks the intruder she saw wore a mask.’
‘Like the Savages do.’
‘But there was only one intruder at Fourways, so far as we can tell. The Savages always operate in a group, two or three of them at least.’
‘I see.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t make me call them the Savages,’ he said.
‘Oh, sorry.’
‘Besides…’
‘What?’
‘There’s really no evidence that anyone was trying to break in at the Hollands’ place.’
Liz nodded. ‘No, that’s what we found, from a forensic point of view. No tool marks on the doors, no broken windows, nothing. The intruder was outside. And even then, he was careful not to leave footprints on soft ground.’
‘Careful, or lucky.’
‘The result is the same.’
‘Apparently the Hollands even set off their own burglar alarm,’ said Cooper. ‘They activated the motion sensors and didn’t turn the alarm off.’
‘Well, it would be the last thing on your mind, with your husband breathing his last on the doorstep.’
‘Oh, yes. If Mr Holland hadn’t rushed out to confront the intruder, the outcome would have been quite different,’ he said. ‘A 999 call would have been far better. Well – on most nights, it would.’
Cooper stared across the valley, not seeing the trees or the hills, but trying to picture the scene at Fourways that chaotic night. Had someone taken advantage of the noise and disturbance in the village to undertake a risky mission of his own?
‘What about the suspect you pursued on the night?’ asked Liz.
‘Barry Gamble? He was questioned, of course, but there was nothing to place him at the Hollands’. We found no mask on him, or anything else incriminating. Besides, some of the teenagers at the party identified him positively as the man they’d seen lurking in the bushes at The Cottage. Theoretically, it would be possible for him to have been in both places within a few minutes – they’re close enough together. But why would he hang around after the confrontation with Mr Holland? Why wear a mask at one place and not the other? And there isn’t the remotest suggestion of a motive. No history between him and the Hollands. We never had any hope of a case against him. He got a bit of a scare, though.’
‘A dead end, then.’
‘It seems so.’
Yes, that was an understatement. At the moment, it felt like running into a stone wall. Like running face first into the Devil’s Edge itself.
Cooper found a bottle of water, and passed it to Liz. He looked over his shoulder towards the edges. The closest one was Froggatt Edge, with White Edge forming a higher terrace above it. He could see the outline of White Edge Lodge, standing isolated and sinister like a Gothic castle. Dark clouds were building up in the east, massing over Big Moor.
‘So,’ said Liz slowly, ‘I know why we can’t marry in September or November.’
‘You do?’
‘Since you weren’t available to explain when you said you would, I asked your sister-in-law.’
‘You spoke to Kate?’
‘It seemed preferable to trying to get anything out of you, or your brother.’
‘It’s because of the anniversaries,’ said Cooper. ‘Our mother died in September, and our father in November.’
‘I know.’
‘It might seem a bit unnecessary, but anniversaries like that have always been important in our family.’
‘I understand, really. November was out anyway.’ She shuddered. ‘Just imagine. Rain, wind, mud. A nightmare.’
They were silent for a moment, enjoying the sun. A small group of tourists walked along the track from the road to look at the pole, then walked quietly back again.
‘And… the full works?’ said Cooper hesitantly.
‘Of course.’
‘Right.’
‘Which means we have a lot of planning to do, Ben.’
Cooper knew that he ought to sound enthusiastic. No doubt it was expected of him. But when he looked inside himself, he was forced to admit that what he wanted was to be married to Liz, not to have an actual wedding. Not a wedding with all the fuss – the morning suits and bridesmaids’ dresses, the confetti and cake, the speeches and the endless group photographs. The full works.
He felt Liz take his hand in hers.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I know it’s not your kind of thing. My parents are just itching to organise it all. What we do is let them have their day, then we can sneak off somewhere nice and be ourselves. That’s what we both want, isn’t it?’
Cooper’s phone buzzed in his pocket.
‘Sorry, Liz.’
She sat up. ‘Oh, Ben…’
He looked at the screen. Letter arrived this a.m. from sheff rd man. U want to see it? ‘
‘Work?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Saturday.’
‘I know, but… you understand.’
She sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose I do.’
Erin Byrne lived in a two-bedroom apartment in Calver Mill, with rooms on three levels connected by an original stone staircase.
At the top of the stairs, Cooper found a small office space, with a desk and a computer, and a few bookshelves along the wall, all brightly lit by a generous expanse of skylight. This felt like a real eyrie, almost an ivory tower, a sanctuary raised clear of any neighbours, with a distant glimpse across the Derwent Valley towards the hills on the other side. Cooper could imagine working here if he was an artist or writer, or some kind of creative person. It felt a long way from the real world out there on the streets.
‘Thanks for coming. I thought we might pop across the road to the Bridge Inn, if you’ve got the time,’ said Byrne.
‘I can spare half an hour or so.’
‘No urgent incidents to attend?’
‘Not today.’
At the end of August, the leaves of the Virginia creeper on the walls of the Bridge Inn were just starting to turn a deep red. Inside the bar, they stood among a display of antique firefighting equipment and hundreds of foreign bank notes stuck on to the oak beams.
‘Outside, I think?’ said Byrne. ‘Less chance of being overheard.’
‘We’re not in a spy film, you know.’
She looked around at the locals in the public bar. ‘I’d feel more comfortable.’
‘All right.’
The riverside garden at the Bridge was big enough to accommodate a couple of hundred people, all under blue and gold Hardy and Hanson parasols. So although it was a Saturday lunchtime, there were plenty of tables free. Byrne chose a spot as far as possible from the pub, overlooking the Derwent and the older of the two bridges. For a few minutes they said nothing, but sat watching the ducks on the river and listening to the sound of the weir as they sipped their drinks.
Byrne fished into her bag. It was one of the most capacious bags Cooper had ever seen. He guessed it must contain her notebook, digital recorder, camera, phone, and whatever else the modern newspaper journalist needed.
‘I brought you a copy of this week’s Eden Valley Times,’ she said. ‘Just out. Hot off the press.’
‘Oh, thanks. I suppose…?’
‘We led with a story on the Savages, yes.’
‘We don’t call them that.’
‘Don’t blame me. It’s what everyone is talking about. We just reflect the interests of our readers.’