Fall Down Dead

33

Fog returned to the Peak District that evening. As dusk began to fall, it rolled down from the hills and filled the valleys, swallowing villages and turning the roads into treacherous grey funnels where headlights bounced back against a dense wall of murk.

But Ben Cooper and his team were in Manchester, conducting a search of Jonathan Matthew’s flat in Whalley Range. He and Luke Irvine were examining Jonathan’s computer and CD collection.

‘He’s really into horror films,’ said Cooper. ‘Look at all these DVDs: Friday the 13th, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Dawn of the Dead.’

‘And some more recent stuff. Jigsaw. That’s very nasty.’

‘How nasty?’

‘Very. Torture, dismemberment, that sort of thing.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Do you ever think there’s a connection between people watching these things and going on to commit violent crime?’ said Irvine.

‘I think the latest theories are against it.’

‘They do tend to stay in the mind, though. Some of the images...’

Cooper wasn’t convinced by Irvine’s generalisation. But then, he wasn’t au fait with the horror-film genre the way Luke was. The titles Irvine had mentioned were familiar, of course. He might have watched many of them himself. But they’d blurred in his mind, become one long sequence of crazed killers and screaming victims, accompanied by dramatic music. He couldn’t recall the plot of any of them — if they had a plot.

Cooper looked at Irvine’s expression and realised he was afraid of being made fun of. Well, other members of the team would have scoffed. Gavin Murfin certainly. Becky Hurst too, if she was having a bad day.

‘So what are you suggesting, Luke?’ he said. ‘Do you think Jonathan Matthew had some obsession with graphic violence and finally acted it out in real life?’

Irvine looked relieved. ‘Well, it’s possible, isn’t it?’

‘Everything’s possible when it comes to the reasons people commit murder.’

Then Irvine gave a low whistle.

‘There’s an envelope here with a cheque in it,’ he said. ‘A pretty large cheque too. More than my monthly salary, anyway.’

‘Jonathan doesn’t have any money,’ said Cooper. ‘So who was he sending a cheque to?’

‘No, he was receiving the money, not sending it. And take a look who it came from.’

Irvine passed him the cheque. Cooper took it carefully between his gloved fingers. The flamboyant signature might have been enough to give him a clue. But the sender’s name was printed clearly on the bottom of the cheque.

‘Darius A. Roth,’ said Cooper. ‘So that was where Jonathan was getting the money from for his band.’

They met up with Carol Villiers and Gavin Murfin in the hallway of the flat.

‘What are we going to do next, Ben?’ asked Villiers.

‘We’ll wait. Jonathan will come back when he thinks it’s gone quiet.’

‘Why are you so sure?’

‘Look, he’s left his guitar here. But we won’t all wait here. We’ll leave Gavin on surveillance.’

‘You think I’ll look inconspicuous around here,’ said Murfin. ‘As though I might be a devotee of Krishna Consciousness.’

‘No,’ said Cooper, ‘because you’ll recognise Jonathan Matthew when you see him.’

It was an hour later when Gavin Murfin phoned. Ben Cooper was already on his way to Hayfield with Carol Villiers when he took the call.

‘An old Subaru Impreza has arrived,’ said Murfin. ‘Colour, er... unidentifiable.’

‘That’s him. Don’t lose him, Gavin.’

Murfin kept them updated as Jonathan Matthew’s car headed across South Manchester to reach the A6.

‘He’s going out of town,’ said Murfin. ‘I’ve still got him in sight.’

‘Where do you think he’s going?’ Villiers asked Cooper.

‘If he’s southbound on the A6, I’ll bet he’s going to his parents’ house in Stockport.’

‘I thought Jonathan didn’t get on with his parents. He didn’t even want to speak to his mother the day after his sister was killed.’

‘True,’ said Cooper. ‘But where else is he going to go when he knows he’s in trouble? He must be aware that we’re looking for him, but he doesn’t know what to do. He can’t escape, so he’ll head for a sanctuary.’

‘He’ll go home to Mum.’

‘Exactly.’

Murfin reported that the Subaru had left the A6 at the turning for Stockport Crematorium.

‘There he goes,’ said Cooper. ‘His parents live in Heaviley, Gavin. He’ll be home in a few minutes.’

‘Oh, hold on,’ said Murfin. He swore under his breath. ‘Damn, I think he’s spotted me. He must have seen me following him from Whalley Range. It was too obvious when I turned off to the crematorium right behind him.’

‘What’s he doing?’ demanded Cooper.

‘He’s turning round. Heading straight back onto the A6 again.’

‘Still southbound?’

‘Yes. Sorry, Ben.’

‘Don’t worry. Let me know straight away if he turns off again.’

Cooper parked his Toyota in a layby on the A6 and watched for Jonathan Matthew’s Subaru to come by. Then he fell in behind Murfin’s green Skoda a couple of vehicles back. When they hit Hazel Grove, he rang Murfin.

‘You can drop out now, Gavin.’

‘Will do.’

Ten miles later, Jonathan’s car left the A6 at the Blackbrook exit near Chapel-en-le-Frith and turned onto Sheffield Road. Once they were in Derbyshire, the rising altitude was evident from the banks of mist rolling down from the hills. At a few hundred feet above sea level, the climate was completely different. It could be inches deep in snow here while Manchester barely experienced a drizzle.

‘He’s stopped,’ said Villiers after another mile or two.

‘The Chestnut Centre,’ said Cooper. ‘What does he want there?’

But he stopped for only a moment, as if to get his bearings. He set off again, driving up the hill at Slackhall from the Chestnut Centre and taking the back road to Sparrowpit to reach the A623.

‘Do you think he’s lost?’ said Villiers.

‘I don’t know. But if he stays on these roads, we’ll have to call in a Road Traffic unit for a pursuit.’

Cooper knew the narrow back lanes were dangerous at the best of times if you were travelling at speed, but the thickening fog would make anyone think twice. You had no idea what might be coming round the next bend until their headlights were in front of your bonnet and there was no room to pass.

But Jonathan seemed to have ceased to care. Instead of staying on the main road, he swung north again at Peak Forest and followed the winding lanes round the Limestone Way and Hucklow Moor.

The Eden Valley railway line emerged from a tunnel here on its way from Edendale to the junction at Doveholes. Straight ahead was a level crossing on a lane that led from Hucklow and climbed over the moor towards the furthest edges of the town. Visibility was growing worse, the isolated farmsteads on the lower slopes sinking into mist like ships disappearing under the waves.

Then red brake lights flared ahead.

‘He’s slowing down,’ said Villiers. ‘Is he stopping again?’

‘I think the crossing gates are down.’

‘We’ve got him, then.’

But instead of stopping, Jonathan Matthew’s car swung suddenly to the right and the brake lights went out.

‘No. He’s going round the gate,’ said Villiers.

‘Idiot. He can’t see anything in this fog. There could be—’

But it was too late to complete the sentence. The front end of a diesel locomotive emerged from the fog, the beams of its lights briefly catching Jonathan Matthew’s shocked face through the window of his Impreza.

A mournful horn blasted out. But there was no time for the train driver to brake. Cooper heard a smash and a screeching of metal as the locomotive struck the car and pushed it along the track until it lurched sideways and began to slide down the banking. It came to a halt with a loud thump and a shattering of glass.

‘It sounds as though it’s hit a tree.’

‘Let’s see if he’s still alive.’

They got out of the car. As they crossed the line, Cooper saw movement in the fog. Something falling from above. But they were just leaves, wafting slowly down from the trees and settling onto the wet track.