The Devil’s Edge

22

Sunday

The light of dawn came slowly to Bridge End Farm. The hills to the east hid the morning sun and kept the farm in shadow, even while the valley below it was already bathed in light. Ben Cooper shivered in the chill of the paddock behind the house. Within the next hour or so, the dew would begin to evaporate, forming a mist between the dry-stone walls, leaving him floating in space, half in sun and half lost in a haze.

He’d just finished helping Kate to pack up the car and drive away from the farm with the girls, still dazed and tearful with incomprehension. She was taking them to her sister’s, who lived over the hills near Holmfirth.

After a mad race from Edendale, Ben had arrived at Bridge End just as the ambulance departed. He had been in time to see Matt, too, handcuffed and being guided into the back of a police car. His brother had looked pale and dishevelled, unshaven and somehow smaller and older than he had ever appeared before.

In the darkness of the early hours, the lights of emergency vehicles filling the farmyard had turned the scene into a stage set. Bridge End had looked alien, an artificial setting for a TV melodrama. For the first time, the farmhouse he’d grown up in looked totally unfamiliar, a mere facade under flickering stage lights. At that time of night, the blinding flicker and glare had emphasised the depths of blackness beyond the farmyard, reinforcing the impression that all these people were simply actors. Somewhere out there in the darkness was the real world, where this kind of thing didn’t happen.

No wonder he found it impossible to believe the official account of the night’s events. Somebody must have made it all up. It was one more incredible story released on the world, with the inevitable tragic outcome.

It was only when Kate had told him the tale herself that he was forced to accept the truth. His sister-in-law was a real, living person, a victim dragged into the drama against her will.

‘It was about midnight,’ she’d said. ‘We were in bed, asleep. Well, I’m not sure Matt was asleep. He’s been sleeping very badly recently, you know?’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Anyway, he got up, without me noticing. I woke a few minute later, and realised he wasn’t there. I thought he’d just gone to the bathroom. But then I heard noises…’

‘Outside? Or in the house?’

‘No, outside in the yard. I knew there were people out there. And suddenly I was frightened. I jumped out of bed to go to the girls’ rooms, to see they were all right. But then…’

‘Then?’

‘I heard the shots.’

As he watched the sun come up over the hill, Ben realised finally how exhausted he was. His skin felt dry and gritty, as if he’d been wading through sand. His eyes burned, and a dull ache throbbed deep in his skull. The exhaustion wasn’t just physical, though. It was emotional, too.

Ben had always sensed the police service being blamed by members of his family for the death of his father. Now the police were taking the blame for the arrest of his brother. And he had become part of the police. As far as his family and their friends were concerned, he was the police.

The one thing he couldn’t do – couldn’t possibly do, in any circumstances – was let his brother get sent to prison. The prospect was unimaginable. He couldn’t be seen to stand by as that happened, let alone appear to be helping the process along. He would have to resign from the force before that happened. Yes, his job was important to him. But family came first.

Bridge End Farm inextricably tied the Cooper family together. It had played that role for generations. For Ben, these trees and slopes were as familiar as family photographs. Barns where he’d played as a child, fields where he’d lain in the sun through his school holidays.

But tonight, standing in the yard at Bridge End had been like finding himself marooned on an island while the whole world rushed around him on important business that he had no part in. For the first time he became aware of how the family could be ignored in situations like this. The SOCOs and uniformed officers were inclined to treat them as if they didn’t exist. They seemed embarrassed to be spoken to, even avoiding eye contact, as if they were visiting a leper colony.

Dealing with the family was the worst job in a murder case. Worse than handling a dead body, more difficult than seeing the blood or sifting through the mess for evidence. Raw emotions from living people were much harder to cope with. Everyone said it. He’d said it himself. He’d never realised that it might be so obvious to the family that no one wanted to have anything to do with them, and didn’t want the trouble of explaining what was going on to people who might be in an emotionally fragile state. From this point of view, it was much more convenient to pretend the family didn’t exist, to walk around them without acknowledging them and tell yourself it was a question of professional detachment. The danger of getting too involved. That was what officers shied away from. But how did you judge where the fine line lay between detachment and insensitivity?

‘They’re only doing their job, I suppose,’ Kate had said, as if reading his thoughts.

Ben could tell she was trying to rationalise her own feelings. She didn’t want to make a scene, but could feel herself right on the edge.

She had rested against his shoulder, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. She looked terrible.

Guiltily, Ben remembered what he’d said to Carol Villiers just a couple of days before. When people get as jumpy as this, something bad is likely to happen. You’ll see, there’ll be an idiot who decides to take the law into his own hands, and a random passer-by will get hurt. It’s inevitable, the way things are going.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ said Kate. ‘I just can’t see what there is I can do. How do I support Matt right now? How do I support him and the girls at the same time? Ben?’

He didn’t really know how to answer her. What were you supposed to say in these situations?

‘What are they saying happened exactly?’ he asked.

She wiped her eyes again, and took a ragged breath.

‘It seems Matt saw these two men coming across the paddock towards the house. They say he took the shotgun from the cabinet, loaded it and went out to challenge them. Then he fired at one of them, and hit him. But, Ben, they’re saying he shot the man when he was already running away. Shot him in the back.’

‘Matt wouldn’t do that,’ said Ben. ‘He wouldn’t shoot someone unless he had to, unless he was driven to defend himself or protect his family. He wouldn’t have shot a burglar who was running away. He’s my brother. I know he wouldn’t do that. So I’m with you, Kate. I’m on your side.’

Kate had looked at him then through red, swollen eyes.

‘That’s the trouble,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I hate to say it. It… it sounds so disloyal. But with the state of mind he’s been in recently, I think Matt actually could have done it.’

Even now, hours later, Ben still recoiled at the shock of that tentative confession from his sister-in-law. He was very fond of Kate. In fact, he’d always liked her, ever since the time he first met her, his older brother’s new girlfriend, brought home to meet the parents. She had always seemed so balanced, so supportive. He’d often envied his brother, felt Matt had found exactly the right partner. He’d wondered many times if he would ever find someone like Kate.

But for her to tell him that… It showed what a degree of trust she had in him. He had a suspicion that she would never dare say it to anyone else. She probably shouldn’t have said it to him, in the circumstances. And wasn’t it ironic that she seemed to trust him more than his own brother did?

He wondered how Matt was coping right now. Not well, that was certain. He could barely imagine his brother in a police cell. It was a picture that just didn’t make any sense, an impossible optical illusion, like one of those paintings by Escher, where stairs ran upside down. It did not compute. Of all people, Matt was made to be outdoors, not to be locked up away from the daylight.

There were some choices you made that you could never go back on. A split-second decision that changed your life. That moment for Matt had come when his finger tensed on the trigger of the shotgun. Once the hammer had begun its acceleration towards the firing pin, there had been no going back.

Some time early in the morning, Superintendent Branagh had made an appearance at the farm, looking grim-faced.

‘You can’t be involved, Ben,’ she said. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

Cooper couldn’t remember her ever calling him Ben before.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said.

‘We’re bringing in a DCI from Derby to head the inquiry. It will all be handled properly.’

‘He’ll need local liaison.’

Branagh shook her head. ‘Not you, anyway.’

A bit later, when he saw Diane Fry walk into his field of vision, Cooper blinked and looked at her wearily. Perhaps he ought to be surprised to see her here at the farm. But nothing made any impact on him any more, after the night he’d just gone through.

‘Ben,’ she said.

‘What are you doing, Diane? Aren’t you off back to the working group?’

She hesitated. Cooper had hardly ever seen Fry hesitant about giving a reply. She was always ready with a sharp comeback, or a quick put-down. Why should she hesitate? What was it that she was reluctant to tell him?

‘I’ve been given another assignment,’ she said.

‘Oh?’

Cooper was staring at her, trying to get her to meet his eye. But she looked deliberately away from him.

‘You can guess what it is,’ she said finally.

His eyes seemed to have trouble focusing on her now. She seemed even more unreal than any of the other individuals coming and going in the farmyard. For a moment he wondered if he might actually be hallucinating and had imagined her.

But then he nodded.

‘Local liaison,’ he said, ‘for the DCI from Derby.’

‘Right first time.’

Fry had been told to meet the team from Derby at the entrance to Bridge End Farm. She had visited this farm just once before. Not that she remembered a great deal about it. One farm was pretty much like another, wasn’t it? Mud, more mud, and all those pervasive animal smells that seemed to cling to your clothes for weeks.

When she’d come here previously, Ben Cooper had actually been living at the farm. His mother had been alive then, too. With Matt Cooper’s two daughters, that had meant three generations of the Cooper family making their home together. For Fry, it had seemed strange to see people doing that willingly. In her experience, it was something a family did only when it was forced on them by necessity.

But the Coopers had always been a type of person beyond her experience. Who knew what went on in a close-knit family group like that, with their own peculiar ways of doing things? Especially out here in these remote farmsteads, where no outsider could have any idea what was going on, and shotguns were so readily available. Perhaps it shouldn’t be too surprising that a man like Matt Cooper had ended up shooting somebody. Maybe the real surprise was that it didn’t happen more often.

A couple of cars pulled into the gateway of the farm. The team were arriving from Derby. She’d been told to expect a DCI Mackenzie, and it looked as though he’d brought a couple of bag carriers for moral support.

As he walked into the yard, the DCI skidded on a wet cowpat and twisted his body awkwardly, grimacing in pain as he tried to keep his footing. He was wearing the wrong kind of footwear for this job. Fry had remembered to pack her boots in the car before she left.

Fry introduced herself, and Mackenzie shook hands. He was a big man, over six feet tall and wide across the shoulders. A bit top-heavy, perhaps, carrying too much weight above the belt to be fast on his feet. He gave her a shrewd stare, weighing her up in that way an experienced officer did, even with a colleague.

‘You’ve familiarised yourself with the reports, DS Fry,’ he said.

‘Of course. I’ve read everything. The entire file, such as it is at this stage.’

‘So what’s your initial assessment?’ he said. ‘What would have been the scenario?’

‘Well, first of all, there’s a context of aggravated burglaries in this area, as I’m sure you know. A whole series of them, including serious assaults and one homeowner left dead.’

‘Yes. So it’s likely we have a member of the public who is on edge. He’s been made anxious by reports of incidents in the area.’

‘Exactly.’

‘The suspect is…?’

‘Matthew Cooper, aged forty. A farmer.’

‘Family in the house?’

‘A wife and two young daughters. So he would be protective.’

‘Naturally.’

Fry waited for the next question.

‘And the circumstances at the time of the incident…?’

‘It was dark, of course,’ she said.

Mackenzie turned round slowly, did a full three hundred and sixty degrees as if searching for something on the horizon.

‘And no street lights out here,’ he said.

‘Obviously.’

Fry looked at the city DCI, irritated to find herself having to explain the obvious facts about the countryside. No, there are no street lights. Yes, if you’ve noticed, there are fields, and cows and sheep. It’s a farm. What a surprise.

Mackenzie tilted his head slightly to one side to look at her.

‘We have to get this one right,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you know that, DS Fry. Our task is to balance the requirements of justice and the rights of the individual. It’s going to be a fine line we’re walking together.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Fry, regretting how stiff she sounded.

He nodded. ‘All right, then.’

‘The National Farmers’ Union say that people living in isolated rural properties face particular problems when it comes to crime.’

Mackenzie smiled. ‘You might want to try telling that to people on my patch in the city.’

‘It’s true, though. All those CCTV cameras have been having an effect on crime prevention and prosecution rates in the towns and cities. Thieves are looking at rural areas for softer targets. Well-planned and opportunist thefts are increasing.’

‘I’ve seen the statistics.’

Fry gestured at the farmhouse. ‘If you live in a place like this, in the countryside, you have to be aware that you’re a potential target. Especially if there are portable things like power tools and generators lying around in outbuildings.’

Within the past few months, E Division had taken part in Operation Solstice, aimed at tackling the theft of high-end four-wheel-drive vehicles from farm premises. A total of twenty Land Rover Defenders alone had been reported stolen in the High Peak and the Derbyshire dales in the first six months of the year. A professional gang had been stealing the vehicles to order, with willing foreign purchasers just waiting for delivery.

Some of this stuff was big business. Organised crime. Not just the kind of petty theft that officers from D Division might imagine.

‘These farmers, they have some kind of Neighbourhood Watch scheme, don’t they?’ said Mackenzie.

‘Farm Watch.’

‘That’s it. Still, this isn’t about crime prevention, not any more. We’re dealing with a point of law here. Did you happen to read that up while you were looking through the reports?’

Fry bristled at the insinuation that she wasn’t familiar with the law.

‘The Criminal Law Act 1967 provides that a person may use such force as is reasonable in the circumstances in the prevention of crime,’ she said.

‘Almost word perfect. But it’s up to the courts to decide what can be considered reasonable force. Not us. Right?’

She didn’t reply, and Mackenzie looked at her sharply.

‘Right?’

‘Of course, sir.’

Fry knew that the Court of Appeal had set precedents that governed the modern law on belief: A person may use such force as is reasonable in the circumstances as he believes them to be. To gain an acquittal, the defendant must have believed, rightly or wrongly, that an attack was imminent. A man about to be attacked didn’t have to wait for his assailant to strike the first blow or fire the first shot. Circumstances might justify a preemptive strike. Even if you sought out the confrontation that provoked the aggression. The crucial factor was that you were defending yourself.

But in this case, the victim had been shot in the back. An open-and-shut case? Or was it more complicated than that?

‘And then we have the IP,’ said Mackenzie.

‘The injured party is Graham Smith, from Chesterfield. Previous convictions for burglary and theft.’

‘We got a call from the hospital a few minutes ago. I’m told Mr Smith has just come out of theatre from five hours of surgery to have pellets removed.’

‘He hasn’t been interviewed yet,’ said Fry.

‘No, but FOAs spoke to his son, who was with him at the time.’

‘Craig Smith, aged seventeen. He has a slight leg wound, but is otherwise uninjured.’

Mackenzie nodded. ‘Craig claims that he and his father were hunting rabbits on the farm.’

‘They didn’t have guns with them, did they?’

‘No.’

‘Or dogs?’

‘No.’

‘They weren’t hunting rabbits, then.’

‘You sound very sure of that, DS Fry.’

‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’

Mackenzie smiled. ‘Let’s see what the evidence tells us, shall we?’

Although there was a suspect in custody and not much doubt about his involvement, the standard forensic procedures were being put into place. Shotgun pellets were being collected, tweezered out of wooden fence posts where necessary. Unburned powder was being sought, so that chemical analysis could indicate the manufacturer of the ammunition and possibly match the box of shells found in the gun cabinet in the farmhouse.

Scenes-of-crime had already observed from an initial examination that there were no discarded cartridge cases, nor any sign of a wad, the plastic insert that sat on top of the powder charge and contained the lead pellets. The wad was fired from the gun and cushioned the pellets as they went up the barrel, keeping them in a tight, uniform mass until they left the muzzle. As the shot pattern expanded, the wad peeled back and fell to the ground.

‘Our ballistics expert says the wad usually falls within a radius of fifteen to twenty-five feet of the muzzle,’ said Mackenzie, surveying the farmyard. ‘So the discovery of a wad would have given a general indication of the position of the shooter. If a shooter isn’t familiar with shotgun shells, they might pick up a discarded shell casing but not realise they should also look for the wad.’

He looked at Fry for a response.

‘Yes?’

‘It seems this shooter has left neither.’

Fry didn’t bother to point out that some of the ballistics information was unnecessary. It wasn’t the first incident she’d dealt with involving the use of a shotgun. She knew that spent plastic casings were printed with the name of the manufacturer, along with details of pellet size and load, powder charge and gauge. Also, when a firing pin hit the metal primer to detonate a charge, the impression it left was unique. It could be used to identify the specific weapon, like matching a fingerprint.

All of this scouring for evidence at the scene might seem unnecessary in the circumstances. But nothing would be missed in this case. Every t would be crossed, every forensic detail covered.

Fry looked round. At least Ben Cooper had gone. Someone had finally managed to persuade him to leave. That was a relief. Cooper had the irritating habit of seeing a good side in everyone. It was a weakness when you were part of the criminal justice system. In this situation, it was a positive liability.

Ben Cooper had showered, shaved and changed at his flat in Edendale. He fed the cat, took two paracetamols, and drank three cups of coffee. It didn’t make him feel much better.

When he climbed into his car, he looked slowly around Welbeck Street for a few minutes before turning the ignition key. He still felt dazed, and strangely detached from reality. The feeling was a bit like waking up with a hangover. His head ached and his thoughts were fuzzy. He couldn’t quite be sure whether what he’d been doing last night was real, or part of some awful nightmare.

His car radio was tuned to Peak FM. When he switched it on, he was just in time to hear the local news bulletin.

A man is under arrest after two people suffered shotgun wounds at isolated farm premises near Edendale.

The incident happened at just after midnight today. A forty-two-year-old man and a seventeen-year-old youth received injuries and both were taken to hospital. The youth was discharged after treatment to a leg wound, but the man is detained with injuries to his back and shoulder.

A local man is in custody and will be questioned by the police during the day. Inquiries are ongoing to determine the circumstances around the incident, and anyone who has any information that would help the police…

Cooper switched off the radio. He didn’t want to hear any more. Please, no interviews with the victims’ family, the nosy neighbours, or the spurious pundits who were always dragged out to discuss a subject they knew nothing about.

He turned things over and over in his head. What should he do? Who could he turn to? He knew he needed to talk to someone about Matt, and tell them things they might not know, before the situation went too far. Before there was no going back.

Obviously, Diane Fry was the last person he wanted to speak to, especially about a situation like this. He shouldn’t actually speak to any officer involved in the inquiry. He ought to go through his own DI, and hope that information would filter through.

Meanwhile, there was still the family to consider. Kate was still at her sister’s with the girls. So at least he wouldn’t have to face that prospect yet – the accusing stares and the even more unnerving silences. Because he was completely sure that Amy and Josie would blame him for what had happened to Matt. After all, it was the police who had taken their father away. And Uncle Ben was the police. Simple.

The trouble was, he could sympathise with that view. At times like these, it was helpful to choose simple logic when deciding who to blame. Everyone would be taking sides, one way or another. All convinced they were right, and refusing to accept any contrary argument – even if they knew nothing about the case. A simple black or white. If only everything in life was so clear-cut.

A couple of neighbours had agreed to look after the livestock at Bridge End for the time being. There were plenty of farmers who owed Matt a favour. And there was no doubt which side of the argument they fell on. Any one of them would have done the same, they said. Simple.

Cooper pictured Bridge End Farm full of strangers, picking over the lives of his family. He imagined Diane Fry, who knew more about him and his family than was really good in the circumstances. He tried to remember what he might have told her over the past few years, whether he’d been too honest.

Yes, Diane Fry was the last person he wanted to speak to.

Cooper picked up his phone and dialled.

‘Diane? It’s me. Yes, I know. But don’t hang up, please.’

Fry was standing by the back door of the farmhouse when Cooper rang. Even without his name coming up on her screen, she would have recognised his mobile number straight away. They had called each so often when they worked together.

She hesitated with her finger over the reject call button. He shouldn’t be phoning her, not now. He shouldn’t be trying to influence the inquiry. Proper procedures had to be followed, a complete forensic examination of the scene and interviews with witnesses. She mustn’t let Cooper try to put preconceptions in her mind.

Fry looked up to see where the DCI was. She felt sure he was somewhere in the house, perhaps upstairs checking the view from the bedroom window where Kate Cooper had been. One of his DCs was in the yard, watching the forensic team at work.

She pressed a button. ‘Ben, you shouldn’t be calling. Give me one good reason why I should talk to you.’

‘You won’t understand the evidence,’ he said.

‘Won’t understand? Who do you think you’re talking to?’ Fry saw the DC glance towards her. With an effort, she lowered her voice. ‘Ben, this is wrong.’

Cooper heard the warning tone, but wasn’t deterred. He tried to get the words out as quickly as possible while he had the chance.

‘Did they find any cartridge cases or wads at the scene?’ he said.

‘Not so far.’

‘Foxes were Matt’s main worry. They’re getting overconfident these days since the hunting ban, so he often gets close to them. He would have gone for cartridges with a big load, and big pellets. Something like Express Super Game firing number one shot. It makes for a humane kill.’

‘Express Super Game? Yes, they found an opened box of those in his gun cabinet.’

‘You see? He was never planning to shoot a person. It wouldn’t have crossed his mind.’

‘But if he’s disposed of the cases and the wad…’

‘The only people who leave their cartridge cases on the floor are those who can afford to employ someone else to pick them up. And plastic wads can be lethal to livestock if they fall on grazing land. So Matt would automatically pick up the cartridge case and the wad. I don’t care what else happened, he would have picked them up. Didn’t he tell you that?’

‘He’s been telling his interviewers that he can’t remember. He doesn’t seem to be able to remember much at all, if he’s telling the truth.’

Cooper bit his lip, holding back the automatic response. There was no point in saying that of course his brother was telling the truth. Matt was a man incapable of lying. He wouldn’t know how to start, even to save himself. But the inquiry team had to find that out for themselves. Hearing it from his brother would only prejudice them against the idea. It was all about balance and fairness.

His emotions told him it wasn’t fair at all. But his training told him this was the way it had to be.

‘I’m telling you, Diane, he picked up the cartridge case and the wad. He wouldn’t even have been thinking about it. He would do it instinctively. You’ll find them in his pocket. And another thing…’

‘No, stop.’

‘Matt had been called away to deal with some stray sheep last night, and he hadn’t finished washing the yard. He would have left the job until morning. No choice, really.’

‘It doesn’t…’

‘Think about it, Diane. Just think about it. That’s all I ask.’ As he ended the call, Cooper heard the echo of desperation in his own voice, and wondered what Fry had made of it. Probably she would treat his call with nothing but contempt. But he had to try.

DI Hitchens met him at the top of the stairs in West Street, no doubt having been alerted by someone that Cooper was on his way up.

‘Ben, I know how difficult this must be for you,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to take some time off. Go home and support your family. Everybody will understand.’

Cooper hesitated only for a moment.

‘Thank you, sir. But no. The division is too short-staffed as it is, with everything that’s happening right now.’

‘We’d cope without you for a while. Seriously, Ben.’

‘No, it’s fine. I’ll stick with the job.’

Hitchens frowned a little now. ‘Okay. Well, it’s your decision. If you’ve got work to clear up, do it. But stay away from your brother’s case.’

‘I-’

The DI held up a hand. ‘I know – you’ll tell me that goes without saying. But I have to say it anyway. It’s important, Ben. Important for everyone concerned, I mean. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, I understand. There is one thing I’d like to ask, sir.’

‘What do you have in mind?’

‘I’d like permission to interview Sarah Holland again.’

Hitchens opened his mouth to refuse, but hesitated. Cooper knew that if he’d asked Superintendent Branagh, the refusal would have been immediate. But the DI was a different matter. They’d worked together for a long time, and Hitchens had surely learned by now that Cooper’s instincts could often be trusted.

Nevertheless, Cooper kept his fingers crossed out of sight until Hitchens answered.

‘Okay, Ben. In a day or two, yes? And do it sensitively. Who will you take with you?’

‘Carol Villiers.’

The DI nodded. ‘Are you happy with her?’

‘Perfectly.’

Some of the team were at their desks in the CID room when he walked in. Becky Hurst, Gavin Murfin. He could sense their embarrassment, their difficulty at not knowing what to say to him. For once, Murfin was without a wisecrack or a cynical comment.

They were all good people. But who could he actually rely on for help? At one time he might have gone to Diane Fry. Despite their ups and down over the last few years, Fry had come through when he needed someone to believe in him. Now, she had pretty much written him out of her life.

In the end, he couldn’t stand it any longer. He picked up his jacket and went down to the car park. Back out in the open air, he stopped to take some deep breaths. He heard a footstep behind him, and turned to see Carol Villiers.

‘Ben, you look dreadful,’ she said. ‘Oh, thanks.’

‘Is there anything…?’

Cooper kicked at a loose stone, turned, and walked away a few feet. He stared unseeing at the rooftops of Edendale spread out in front of him, then walked back again. He was feeling lost.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ he said. ‘What do other people do at a time like this?’

‘Focus,’ said Villiers. ‘Focus on something useful, a practical objective. Think about how you can help your brother and his family.’

‘The family. Yes, Amy and Josie. Oh God.’

‘Ben…’

‘Okay, yes. Focus on something. But what?’

‘Well, how about this? There was another incident on Tuesday night, somewhere on the outskirts of Sheffield. Dore, I think. The MO fits the Savages exactly. Word is that South Yorkshire have made some more arrests.’

‘Tuesday night? Close to the time of the attack on the Barrons?’

‘Close enough to make it impossible for the same offenders to be responsible for both. Even Robin Hood and his Merry Men couldn’t be in two places at the same time.’

‘No.’

She patted him on the shoulder. ‘So it looks as though you were right. Your feelings were spot on. Congratulations.’

‘Thanks,’ he said.

Villiers was looking at him as though she expected jubilation. And he supposed he should be pleased, ought to be experiencing a sense of vindication right now. But the feeling didn’t come. Inside, he just felt dead. Being right no longer gave him any pleasure.