The Corpse Bridge

25

Diane Fry had found herself in Taddington, without really knowing where she was. She’d followed Luke Irvine’s advice and taken the Flagg road. It was the sort of back road she would normally avoid, but it seemed to have worked.

Several officers were already in Taddington at the Redfearns’ house and knocking on doors. A family liaison officer was in the house with George Redfearn’s daughter, waiting for the wife to arrive. DC Becky Hurst and DC Gavin Murfin were both here too. They looked unsure what do when they saw Fry arrive.

‘Anything useful so far?’ she said.

Murfin shrugged and grunted. But Hurst seemed to make a different decision.

‘The daughter has no idea what her father might have been doing or who he was meeting,’ she said. ‘But there’s a lady across the road worth speaking to. The house with the blue door. She has an interesting bit of information. Gavin has spoken to her already.’

‘Thank you, Becky.’

Fry walked across the road. The neighbour was agog with curiosity at all the activity. Some people got impatient when they were asked to repeat a story they’d already told, but this lady was only too eager.

‘Yes, we had a man round here asking questions,’ she said. ‘He was a property enquiry agent.’

‘What’s one of those?’ asked Fry.

‘He said he was making enquiries on behalf of a prospective house purchaser. He wanted to know what the neighbourhood was like, whether it was quiet, how many children there were living in the area. That sort of thing.’

‘Did he ask questions about your neighbours?’

She looked a bit embarrassed. ‘Well, I’m not sure he asked questions about them exactly, but I suppose I might have ended up telling him a few things. There’s always a bit of gossip in a village like this.’

‘About the Redfearns, for example.’

‘I didn’t give away any secrets,’ she protested. ‘I only told him things that everyone around here knows.’

‘Of course. Did you happen to get a name for this man?’

‘I’m not daft. I asked him for his identity.’ She put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, he left me a business card. I forgot to tell the other police officer that.’

‘Can I see it, please?’

‘Give me a minute and I’ll find it for you. It’s around here somewhere.’

‘Thank you.’

But she didn’t go straight away to look for the card.

‘Did I do something wrong?’ she asked.

‘Not so far,’ said Fry. ‘But you might be more careful about who you talk to in future.’

When she’d seen the card, Fry called Ben Cooper. She guessed he would still be at Pilsbury trying to sniff out a lead of his own.

‘There’s a job I’d like you to do,’ she said. ‘I think you’d be the best person for it.’

It was one of the most remote farmsteads in the area. Even the narrow back road over the eastern slope of the moor seemed like the back of beyond. Cooper had reached a point on the road where he could see nothing in any direction except vast expanses of exposed moorland and lots more hills in the distance to the north.

And this was the spot where he had to turn off. He found a cattle grid and a muddy entrance to a track, which wandered away over the brow of the moor, apparently leading nowhere. He wouldn’t have known it was the right place, except for a small sign on the fence. Bagshaw Farm.

‘What was this man’s name?’ Cooper had asked Fry.

‘Daniel Grady. Do you know him?’

‘Why on earth should I?’

‘Well, you always seem to know everyone.’

‘Not this one.’

Cooper followed the potholed track between swathes of rough grazing land, where clumps of coarse grass battled with heather and whinberry for survival in a harsh environment. One patch of ground seemed to have been levelled and seeded for some purpose — possibly for use by hang-gliders, given the air currents funnelling in from Axe Edge.

As he crested the rise the track took a wide swing to the left and a view opened out into the valley and across to the Staffordshire hills. Suddenly, right in front of him, he saw the Dragon’s Back, appearing much closer than he’d expected. But still he seemed to be heading nowhere. A scatter of stones on a prominent mound could have been the remains of a wall, an old farm building, or something much more ancient and mysterious.

And there, below him on the western slope, was Bagshaw Farm itself. Two houses surrounded by a sprawling cluster of barns, sheds and outbuildings. The track took another couple of swings before it skirted along a wall past more fertile looking in-bye land and reached the farm entrance.

As Cooper turned in he was surprised by the number of vehicles parked in the yard and in front of one of the biggest sheds. They were mostly pick-up trucks and Land Rovers, but there were a few muddy saloon cars too, parked up between trailers and farm equipment.

He’d seen this sort of thing before — an unnatural amount of activity at an isolated farm like this was sometimes a warning sign. Who knew what kind of activities went on here, where no one would see them? It could be something perfectly innocent, of course. But it would be worthwhile keeping his eyes and ears open while he was at Bagshaw Farm.

He found Daniel Grady in an office in the newer of the two houses. He pretty much matched the description that Fry had obtained from the Redfearns’ neighbour in Taddington. There was nothing outstanding about him. He was average height, with medium brown hair cut short, but not too short. Aged in his mid-thirties, perhaps forty or so — it was difficult to tell. Dressed in an unremarkable suit, he was clean shaven, with a hint of a stoop and a very courteous manner. He could have been purpose-designed for the job of asking questions without attracting suspicion.

Cooper glanced around the office. It was lined with shelves full of colour-coded box files. Two filing cabinets stood behind the door, and Grady had squeezed in a desk with a laptop and printer. More equipment was in the corner. Cooper spotted a desktop scanner and a digital camera with a long lens.

‘You’re a property enquiry agent, sir?’ he said. ‘I’ve never heard of that profession.’

‘It’s a new idea,’ said Grady with a smug smile. ‘An entrepreneurial opportunity. We all know that one of the most important factors in living a peaceful and contented life in a new home is what sort of neighbours you have. Yet there’s no established way of finding anything out about your neighbours before you actually commit yourself to buying a house. That’s where I come in.’

He produced one of his cards and handed it to Cooper. It was headed by a logo showing a rose-covered cottage and the slogan ‘Who will you be living next door to?’

‘When you’re considering a new property, the estate agent won’t tell you anything about the neighbours in the sales details,’ said Grady. ‘They’ll list the local schools, the transport links, the nearest golf course. But they don’t mention what the people next door are like. Among all those checks and searches your solicitors do into planning permissions and rights of way and mining subsidence, there’s no background check on the local residents.’

‘But there’s a questionnaire,’ said Cooper.

Grady switched on a smile. ‘Oh, are you thinking of buying a house?’

‘Not at the moment. Well, not any more.’

For a moment Grady’s smile almost slipped. ‘Ah. Well, yes, you do have a questionnaire filled in by the vendor. “Have you had any disputes with neighbours during the past five years?” But what seller in their right mind would answer “yes” to that and jeopardise their own sale? By the time you’ve completed the purchase, exchanged contracts and moved in, it’s much too late. When you find out the horrible truth, you’re stuck with those neighbours that you knew nothing about.’

‘I see.’

Grady nodded eagerly as he got into the swing of his sales pitch. ‘We’re filling that gap in the market, providing an essential service for prospective house buyers. Come to us and we’ll tell you what your future neighbours are like. We’re totally independent and objective, too.’

Cooper waited until he’d wound down.

‘You’re just a snooper, aren’t you?’ he said.

Now Grady looked disappointed. ‘That’s rather harsh, Detective Sergeant Cooper. Background checks are perfectly common these days in other fields. You can’t get a job in teaching or childcare, or work as a volunteer for some charities, without having to go through a Criminal Records Bureau check.’

‘That’s true.’

‘The Church of England won’t let you do the flower arrangements in your local church without a pass from the CRB. Nobody objects to that. So why shouldn’t we gather some basic information about the people we’re going to be living next door to?’

‘But what sort of information are you collecting? You’re just an ordinary member of the public. You don’t have access to criminal records.’

‘Absolutely. That would be illegal.’

‘So?’

‘I’m sure you don’t expect me to reveal my methods, Detective Sergeant.’

‘Of course, if we should find during our enquiries that anything you’re doing is unlawful…’

Grady held up his hands. ‘My conscience is clear. Look, my hands are clear. Do your worst, Detective Sergeant.’

‘So who were you working for when you were asking questions in Taddington recently?’

Grady smiled again and Cooper knew what the answer would be before he spoke. He’d heard it almost as often as ‘no comment’ in an interview room.

‘Client confidentiality,’ said Grady. ‘I’m sure you understand. We could hardly be giving out that sort of information.’

‘You were specifically asking questions about Mr and Mrs Redfearn of Manor House, Taddington. Mr Redfearn is now the subject of a murder inquiry.’

‘No, I gathered intelligence about a number of residents in that area. If you check, you’ll soon be able to confirm that.’

Cooper had no doubt Grady had covered himself in that respect. Whatever else he was, he seemed to be a professional who knew his job. The team in Taddington would find that he’d visited several properties and made a point of asking about neighbours other than the Redfearns. Once he’d collected a snippet of information from one person, he could give the impression he was enquiring about someone else entirely.

Grady must have a special knack that enabled him to get people to talk freely. Cooper wished he knew what that knack was. It definitely wasn’t working for him. Perhaps being a police officer didn’t help. He ought to suggest to Superintendent Branagh that they might employ Daniel Grady to conduct a training course for detectives in E Division.

‘Will you tell us who your client is?’ he asked. It was a futile attempt, but he had to try. There was no way of forcing the information out of Grady.

‘I have lots of clients,’ said Grady. ‘Fortunately, business is doing very well, though it’s early days. Actually, I hadn’t considered working for the police as a consultant, but we could discuss terms if you’re interested. You do have my card.’

Cooper looked more closely at the small print at the bottom of the business card.

‘EVE,’ he said. ‘You’re working for Eden Valley Enquiries.’

‘I’m an associate,’ said Grady. ‘I’m establishing a separate division under the EVE corporate umbrella.’

Cooper looked out of the window at the activity in the yards around the farm.

‘Would property enquiries be your only business, sir?’ he asked.

‘It’s my most recent enterprise,’ said Grady cautiously. ‘I do have other interests.’

‘So is this a working farm?’

‘Of course.’

‘You seem to have a lot of employees.’

Grady followed his glance. ‘Not mine. I rent this house from the owner of the farm. I think there’s an engineer here to do some repairs on the machinery or something. And I’ve heard they have a rat problem in some of the fields. The farm manager has organised a few men for a vermin control exercise today. I believe that would explain the dogs and the shotguns.’

‘Yes.’

Cooper was used to seeing dogs and shotguns. He was wondering more about what was in the back of the vans. They had no names written on the sides and their rear windows had been painted over. But he had no justification for checking the vehicles and he couldn’t think of a pretext right now. Grady’s explanation was perfectly logical.

Outside, Cooper didn’t head straight back to the car. He was watching a man with a dark, bushy moustache which drooped in the traditional Mexican style. Cooper felt sure he recognised the moustache, if not the face of the owner. But it took him a few minutes before he was able to make the connection. And no wonder, when the context was so different. The last time he’d seen this man, he was a Confederate soldier.

Cooper had been to a country and western night one Saturday in the social club at Sterndale Moor, just a few miles from here. There had been a shoot-out with.22 air rifles, rebel flags round the dance floor and people dressed as cowboys and US marshals. On stage had been Hank T or Monty Montana, or someone like that. Members of the club performed the American Trilogy, folding the flag and singing ‘I Wish I Was in Dixie’ for the South and ‘Glory, Glory’ for the North.

Sterndale Moor was an odd place, nothing like Earl Sterndale or any of the other villages in the area. He wouldn’t be able to remember the name of the man with the Mexican moustache, but he might be able to find him in Sterndale Moor.

Cooper filed the idea away for future reference as he drove back up the track from Bagshaw Farm and on to Axe Edge Moor.