The Devil’s Edge

13

Today there had been a cool atmosphere in the conference room at Nottinghamshire Police headquarters. Fry had noticed that the facilitator’s expression was stony as they arrived. They were even made to turn off their mobile phones before the session started. Somebody had been naughty in class. But who?

During the coffee break, word went round. It turned out that the youth from the IT department had been using Twitter on his iPhone during yesterday’s session, sending out disparaging tweets about the working group at regular intervals. Everyone knew the hierarchy didn’t like communication with the public. Look at all those police officers with anonymous blogs who’d been tracked down and eliminated. Deblogged, anyway. Too much honesty was contrary to official policy. Even civilians couldn’t get away with it.

Fry looked at the IT guy with new respect. She was starting to feel warmer towards her colleagues.

It might have been that feeling that made her accept the invitation from Mick or Rick, the Leicestershire inspector who sat next to her in the session. Lunch with him yesterday had been pleasant enough, a relief from the tedium of the conference room. Besides, anything seemed preferable now to the drive back over to Edendale and her empty flat.

‘We can’t risk lunch again today,’ he’d said. ‘But how about when we finish the session tonight? When they give us our freedom back.’

She’d nodded without much thought of the consequences.

‘Okay.’

Fry knew she mustn’t drink and drive, so only one glass of wine would be acceptable. God forbid that she should get breathalysed by her colleagues on her way back to Derbyshire.

When they got to the pub, it was her turn to buy the drinks.

‘There you go, Mick,’ she said.

‘Rick,’ he said. ‘My name’s Rick.’

‘Oh, right. Rick…?’

‘Shepherd. I’m stationed in Leicester.’

‘Of course. I remember.’

He smiled, apparently unaffected by her lapse. Fry wondered if she could say anything she liked to him and he would just keep on smiling. He looked to be that sort of man.

‘So, tell me about yourself,’ he said.

‘What’s to tell? Right now, I’m based in Derbyshire E Division. Edendale.’

‘In the middle of the Peak District.’

‘You know it?’ said Fry in surprise. In her head, Edendale was such a backwater that she didn’t expect anyone outside Derbyshire to have heard of it.

‘Everyone must have visited the Peak District at some time. Don’t they say that half the population of England lives within an hour’s drive?’

‘If they do, I don’t know why they’re all driving in that direction. There must be more interesting places to go.’

‘You think so? Don’t you like it?’

‘It’s a desert,’ said Fry. ‘No culture, no shops, no proper transport facilities. It takes forever to get to a motorway. And the nearest airport is way down past Nottingham. So you can’t even escape the place easily.’

‘I often go walking in the Peaks,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a little hiking group together in my section. We head out towards Kinder Scout or somewhere at the weekends.’

‘Walking,’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘Just walking?’

‘What else? It’s great to get out of the office, away from work for a while. To feel the wind in your hair. Physical exercise, a few hours in the open air. It helps me to relax.’

He was starting to sound like Ben Cooper. Besides, he didn’t actually have much hair for the wind to blow through.

‘There must be other ways to relax,’ she said.

He smirked at her, fondling his beer bottle. ‘I’m sure I could think of a few.’

A burst of laughter from a nearby table gave Fry an excuse to look away. A group of office workers were having a drink on the way home. They might even be civilian staff from across the road at Sherwood Lodge. She didn’t recognise any of them. But then, a civilian was a civilian.

She looked back at Rick Shepherd. It was Rick, wasn’t it? Not Mick, or Dick. He was smiling at her again, one eyebrow raised. Some unspoken message was being conveyed. Fry knew what the message was. She ought to respond, knew deep down what she should do. She ought to act now, before it went any further.

And yet a great weariness had come over her. None of this really mattered, did it? Perhaps there might be a moment when she felt something, a brief response that was more than the deadly worthlessness she’d been feeling for the past few weeks. Rick Shepherd wasn’t the greatest thing she’d ever met. But he was there, he was available, and she had his attention.

He took another drink, laid a hand on the table, toying with a coaster. He frowned, seemed to search for a line of conversation. Perhaps he was as unaccustomed to this as she was. He didn’t wear a wedding ring, but that meant nothing. People slipped them on and off like raincoats these days. And many couples chose to live together for years without bothering to marry. He could have a partner back in Leicester. Would he tell her, if she asked? Did she want to know?

‘We’ll be merging soon anyway, I guess,’ he said.

‘Will we?’

‘Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire, Leicestershire, maybe a couple of others. It’s inevitable, sooner or later.’ He shook his head. ‘I know it would save millions of pounds on headquarters costs and all that. But I’m starting to think it would create too big an organisation.’

‘Really?’

Fry thought of West Midlands Police, the force she’d moved from when she came to Derbyshire. With almost thirteen thousand officers and staff, it was bigger than Notts, Derbyshire and Leicestershire combined.

‘Maybe some people don’t know what big is.’

‘You know, the East Midlands region is growing faster than elsewhere in the country,’ he said.

Okay. Now she had her ID. He’d been wearing a different tie today. In fact, he’d taken it off altogether when they came to the pub. But the words were identical, and the tone of voice was the same. The exact tenor of complacency and laziness, a lack of concern about accuracy and rigour. Just the sort of qualities she hated.

Fry finished her drink and stood up. Her companion hastily drained his beer, picked up his jacket and his phone, suddenly eager to leave. They walked back towards the pub car park together, and stopped when they reached her Peugeot. Rick leaned casually on the roof.

‘I’m sure we could work closely together, you and me,’ he said. ‘Don’t you think? A bit of mutual assistance, Diane? I know a nice quiet spot in Sherwood Forest where we could explore our personal merger options. I can promise you I always come up to my performance targets.’

He was standing a bit too close now. Well inside her personal space. Fry felt herself tense. It was that instinctive reaction she couldn’t control, an automatic response of her muscles triggered by a suppressed memory. She always knew it would happen. But she couldn’t explain the reason for it, not to someone like Rick Shepherd.

He was close enough now for her to smell the beer on his breath, the deodorant clinging to his shirt. She was frozen, her limbs so stiff that they hurt. A long moment passed, when neither of them spoke or breathed. Just when it seemed that nothing would happen, he made his move. And Fry felt his hand touching the base of her spine.

The shriek went on and on. In Cooper’s mind it was a despairing wail, the scream of a dying victim. A call for help he was unable to respond to.

‘Oh God. Which house is it?’ he said. ‘Can you see?’

‘It might be nothing. A false alarm.’

‘Do you really think so?’

You couldn’t easily pin down the direction of a burglar alarm. It was one of those elusive noises. Its high-pitched shriek bounced off everything – the houses, the trees, the rock faces of the edge. Cooper stared apprehensively down at the village. He was looking for the telltale red flash of the light on an alarm box. He felt an anxious sweat breaking out on his forehead despite the cold wind.

‘Can you see it? Carol, can you see where it’s coming from?’

‘No.’

‘Nor me. Damn.’

With shaking fingers, he used his phone to alert the control room – though there were units in the immediate area who ought to be responding even as he began to make the call. Thank goodness he was on top of the edge, and within signal range.

‘There are people running,’ said Villiers when he finished the call.

‘Where?’

She pointed. ‘Over there, behind the trees.’

‘That’s on the other side of Curbar Lane. Yes, it must be The Cottage. It’s the teenagers’ party at the Chadwicks.’

Voices drifted clear on the air now from the village. Screams, shouts, a smashed glass, bodies crashing through undergrowth. Distantly a siren started – the two-tone wail of a police vehicle. Too distant, though. Why weren’t they in the village already?

‘How do we get down?’ said Villiers.

‘There’s only the old packhorse route. But for God’s sake be careful.’

‘You go first then. I’m right behind you.’

Their progress down the slope from the edge was frustratingly slow. The stone was uneven and dangerous, worn smooth and slippery in places by centuries of passing feet. Cooper cursed under his breath many times as he stumbled, or felt his feet begin to slide on the rock. He wished he could have gone faster, but there was no point in breaking an ankle or hurtling head first down the slope. An injured police officer was no use to anyone.

‘Be careful,’ he called at every corner or steeper section. ‘Carol, be careful.’

‘I’m being careful,’ she shouted back. ‘Would we have been better going back to the car?’

‘Too late now,’ said Cooper. ‘Too late.’

Finally the slope grew less steep, the ground levelled out, the track became more grass than rock. They were on the outskirts of the village, covering the rough terrain between the edge and the boundaries of the first properties.

But now they could see almost nothing – a dark wedge of trees directly in front of them, indistinct shapes further away in the dusk, a brief glimpse of a light from a window, appearing and disappearing among the trees.

Cooper was breathless now, his lungs burning and his legs tiring. He glanced over his shoulder to see Villiers still close behind him.

‘I’m not sure where this track comes out,’ he said.

‘Oh, great. I thought you knew where we were going.’

‘You know what?’ gasped Cooper. ‘I think I must be mad.’

‘No argument from me.’

Over a stile, they found themselves running through a field, passing a large property to their right.

‘This is Moorside House,’ said Cooper. ‘Tyler Kaye.’

A horse snorted in the dusk, and Villiers skidded sideways in surprise.

And then they were on Curbar Lane at last, emerging on to tarmac and stumbling to a halt. Cooper stared around, trying to regain his breath, clutching his phone in his hand but not knowing now which way to go. He could still hear the burglar alarm, but the sound was lost in the trees, less shrill and distinct than it had been from the edge. There was music too, loud and pounding, a background to many voices still screaming and shouting.

‘How many kids are at that party?’ said Cooper. ‘Has she invited the whole school?’

‘Maybe it’s on Facebook,’ said Villiers.

But at least there was a police vehicle, a marked response car at the end of the lane, with its blue lights flashing.

‘We’re responding to a call about an intruder,’ said one of the uniformed officers when he saw Cooper. ‘It’s a high-priority response in this area. They called out the cavalry.’

‘Which house?’ asked Cooper.

‘The Cottage, Curbar Lane. Name of Chadwick. But we can’t find it.’

‘It’s right there. You’ve probably got it as Nether Croft on the database.’

‘Okay, I see it.’

The officer’s radio crackled, and he acknowledged.

‘Air support is on scene,’ he said.

‘What? They were quick.’

‘It’s the South Yorkshire air support unit, Sierra Yankee 99. It was already in the air, and a lot closer than the unit in Ripley.’

Cooper could hear the helicopter now. If it had been deployed for a suspect search, it would already be using its thermal-imaging camera to sweep the ground along the edge of the village.

‘Are you in contact with them?’

The officer from the response unit had an Airwave radio, while Cooper had only his phone.

‘Yes, the observer is in direct communication. He can give us a commentary.’

The officer joined Cooper and Villiers on the lane. Nearby somebody, or something, had bulldozed a way through the undergrowth, leaving a trail like the charge of a rhinoceros.

‘What the heck has been going on here?’ said Cooper.

The noise of the helicopter overhead drowned out everything else. Cooper felt the downdraught of the blades stirring the bushes along the edge of the lane. Then a powerful light burst from the sky and dazzled him, lighting up the area for yards around.

‘Please tell Sierra Yankee there are police officers on the ground – and to get their damn light off us!’

‘They’re reporting multiple individuals going through the gardens at The Cottage,’ said the officer.

‘Multiple? How many?’

‘A dozen, at least.’

Cooper could still hear music thumping from the house. If the speakers were inside, they must have all the doors and windows open.

‘It’s the party. Can’t someone tell those kids to stop running around like maniacs and get back in the house? They’re only confusing the situation. They’re creating far too many heat signatures for the thermal imager.’

‘We spoke to them earlier, when we had complaints from their neighbours. They’ve been drinking all evening.’

‘So?’

‘Well, they’re not taking any advice from us. No doubt they think all this is a great laugh.’

‘Idiots.’

Villiers had pushed her way through the undergrowth and found a gate standing open.

‘Whoever they are, I think they went this way.’

They could see figures milling around now, many of them simply running round in circles. Solar lights had been set up in the Chadwicks’ garden, and teenagers were charging backwards and forwards, in and out of the lights, creating a chaos of shadows. Some were shaking bottles of beer and spraying liquid into the air.

‘How are we going to get this situation under control?’ said Villiers.

‘Without a lot more bodies on the ground, we’re not.’

Cooper grabbed a passing youth and held on to him.

‘Hey, who are you?’

‘Police. What’s going on here?’

The young man laughed. He was flushed and pouring with sweat, and his shirt was soaked with beer.

‘Intruder,’ he said. ‘They chased him off.’

‘Which way?’

He stared wildly around. ‘That way. Some of the guys went after him.’

Cooper looked at the PC, who was listening to his radio.

‘The helicopter crew are tracking the heat signature of a single figure running from the scene.’

‘Okay. Come on.’

The three of them had only gone a few yards towards the corner of the Chadwicks’ property, close to The Green, when the officer reported again.

‘The suspect has disappeared from the thermal imager. Gone to ground somewhere, or got inside a house.’

‘Where?’

‘In the vicinity of Chapel Close.’

‘This way, then.’

‘He’s on the move again. The observer on Sierra Yankee 99 is directing us to the second house on the right in Chapel Close.’

Cooper grimaced. ‘Oh God. That’s the Gambles’ house. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’

He could tell from the noises around him that more officers had arrived in Riddings, and were closing in on the location under the direction of the helicopter’s observer. Torch beams flashed towards him and away again. An Alsatian barked excitedly, and he pictured it straining against its handler’s lead.

He grabbed Villiers’ arm and pointed.

‘There he goes,’ he said. ‘Over the wall and running through that orchard. If we cut across the lane, we can catch him at the other side.’

‘I’m ahead of you.’

Villiers sprinted off, and was there first. She caught up with her quarry, grabbed an arm, kicked out a leg and flipped him on to the floor. Coming up behind, Cooper heard the breath go out of his body in a long whoosh.

By the time he arrived, Villiers already had handcuffs on and had patted the suspect down. She sat him up and Cooper gazed down at him, trembling with anger.

‘Mr Gamble. What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

Gamble had lost his hat, and his hair was standing out from his head in a wild tangle. For several moments he could do nothing but gasp and wheeze. He stared around him in shock, as if he’d suddenly found himself in the middle of some surreal fantasy. His bushy eyebrows waggled in alarm, and he looked down at the cuffs on his wrists.

‘I wasn’t doing anything,’ he said plaintively.

‘What?’

‘That isn’t true.’ Cooper gestured at the activity – the running officers, the flashing lights, the swinging torch beams, and the helicopter hovering overhead. ‘You were the cause of all this.’

Gamble gazed up at him. His voice was feeble and wretched.

‘I was just watching.’

Straightening up, Cooper took a deep breath to calm himself down.

‘You know what? You do too much watching, sir. Far too much. You should spend more time at home, with your wife.’

They handed Gamble off to a pair of uniformed officers, who escorted him to his house. Other officers were trying to calm the teenagers and shepherd them back to the party. It was unclear what offence Gamble might have committed yet, until they could get a coherent account from someone, a few details about what had happened. Judging from the state of some of the participants, that might not be until morning.

Cooper looked at Villiers. ‘Thanks, Carol.’

‘It’s okay.’ She brushed her hands together. ‘But what’s this spend more time at home with your wife? Are you turning into a marriage guidance counsellor now?’

Cooper shook his head.

‘This village is turning me into something, though. And I’m not sure I like it.’

He turned away from Chapel Close and looked across the gardens of The Cottage. Finally, he could tell the direction the burglar alarm was coming from. The sound was much clearer now, screaming high-pitched and urgent across the village, calling endlessly for attention while all these people ran madly around in circles.

He could see it, too – a small red light blinking and blinking high on the corner of a wall, no more than fifty yards from Valley View.

He knew now that the alarm wasn’t at the Chadwicks’, where the party had been taking place. It was sounding at Fourways, the home of the Hollands.

It was already dark when Diane Fry drove into Edendale and turned into Grosvenor Avenue. She found a space at the kerb and parked outside the house.

When she pulled out her key to enter her flat, she noticed that she had streaks of blood on her hands. Strange that she hadn’t see it while she was driving back from Nottinghamshire. Her mind must have been on other things.

She closed the door, shrugged off her jacket and headed for the shower. Blood on her hands. That was something not everyone could cope with. But right now, for her, it felt good. The sight of blood was exactly what she needed.