Текст книги "The Corpse Bridge"

Автор книги: Stephen Booth

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Текущая страница: 29 (всего у книги 39 страниц)

16

Local people would tell you that Knowle Abbey had never actually been an abbey. Well, so far as anyone was aware – not in the sense that it had housed monks or nuns, ruled over by an abbot. It had always been the home of the Manby family and that was the end of the story.

But Cooper knew from that visit with his mother that the history books said differently. Knowle had originally been the site of a Cistercian abbey. But when the Dissolution of the Monasteries came along, the abbot and his monks had been pensioned off and their abbey confiscated by the state.

In fact, when it first became a country residence, this had been as a home for the Vaudrey family, a declining branch of an old Norman line who’d lost most of their lands by picking the wrong side in a rebellion. A dilapidated Knowle Abbey had later passed to the Manbys by marriage. Unlike the Vaudreys, the first Earl Manby was a new aristocrat on the rise and his descendants had become powerful and wealthy. They’d built the present house some time in the eighteenth century, adding to it in various ways over the years according to the whims of successive earls.

Cooper had called into his office at West Street and found DC Carol Villiers on duty. She wasn’t very surprised to hear from him. Carol was quite used to his ways by now. They’d known each other since they were children, after all. Since she’d left the RAF Police and been recruited into Derbyshire Constabulary. It had made a refreshing change for Cooper to have someone on his team in CID who actually understood him.

‘Carol, can you check if there have been any incidents reported recently at Knowle Abbey, or anywhere on the estate. Anything involving the Manby family or their staff. I’ve a feeling there was something a while ago.’

‘You mean the Manby family?’ said Villiers. ‘The earl himself?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Of course, Ben. No problem.’

Then Cooper phoned ahead to the estate office at Knowle, and was assured that someone would meet him at the abbey.

‘You don’t need to come along,’ he said to Fry.

She shrugged. ‘What else would I do?’

Cooper thought of mentioning that she was supposed to be moving to a new flat this weekend, but it might not be the right subject to raise when he’d abandoned her so suddenly last night.

They drove down into the landscaped parkland that occupied the fertile valley of the River Dove and extended well up into the lower slopes of the hills on either side. For several minutes they seemed to be passing along a perimeter wall around the estate. Dense plantations of trees covered much of the landscape.

‘Are there wild animals in these woods?’ asked Fry.

‘Bound to be.’

‘There’ll be badgers, I suppose?’

‘What?’

‘Badgers. They spread TB.’

Cooper shook his head. ‘Only to cattle, Diane. You’re perfectly safe.’

Badgers were a difficult subject at Bridge End Farm. Matt was likely to explode if anyone mentioned them as being cute, cuddly animals. Unlike the situation in other parts of the country, Derbyshire County Council had banned a badger cull in the county, despite incidents of TB being reported among local cattle. So it was quite likely that somewhere on the Knowle Abbey estate, the badgers would be below ground, waiting for the night.

Further on the abbey itself came into view. From this angle it seemed to be an almost random collection of porticos, balconies, windows and castellated extensions. Its size was impressive, but its architectural design would never have won any awards.

Villiers called Cooper back just as he was driving through the ornate front gates of the abbey.

‘Hi, Carol.’

‘Yes, Ben, you were right. Nothing too serious, but there have been some reports of threats and vandalism. An intruder reported one day in the grounds, that sort of thing.’

‘Threats? Against who?’

‘General abuse, most of it. Though the earl’s name was mentioned, of course. They had some obscene graffiti. There was even an anonymous letter, which is a rather old-fashioned way of doing it. Most people like to write their threats and abuse on Twitter or Facebook these days.’

‘Most young people,’ said Cooper.

‘That’s a point. But wouldn’t you think—’

‘What?’

‘Well, the average middle-aged Derbyshire resident doesn’t resort to writing threats and abuse to people they don’t know.’

‘I suppose it depends whether they have a reason,’ said Cooper.

He followed direction signs to the estate office. Just inside the park they passed a walled topiary garden, with hedges clipped into the shape of an eagle’s head. The Manby family emblem.

The estate offices at Knowle Abbey were housed in part of the old coach house block, next door to the restaurant and craft centre. They were met by a young woman with short red hair and a brisk manner. She was wearing a navy-blue body warmer with her name on a badge. Meredith Burns described herself as an assistant estate manager.

‘Thank you for coming along. You must know about our unfortunate incidents,’ she said.

‘I’m sure your neighbourhood policing team has been to speak to you,’ said Cooper.

‘Yes, they have. But we didn’t expect too much to come from it, to be honest. Not a visit from a detective sergeant anyway.’ She looked at Diane Fry. ‘Or two, in fact?’

‘Yes,’ said Fry.

‘How unusual.’

Cooper could sense an instant animosity developing between Fry and Meredith Burns. It was something that seemed to happen when Diane Fry was involved. She must give off some specific pheromone that he couldn’t detect.

‘I believe you received an anonymous letter,’ said Cooper.

‘Yes, about three weeks ago. We didn’t really think anything of it, until the vandalism.’

‘Oh, yes. Can you show us?’

‘This way.’

Meredith Burns led the way along a gravel path that headed away from the stable block along the east wing of the abbey itself.

‘Apart from a few medieval stone carvings, the only remnant of the abbey’s early history is the former Chapter House, which is now the Manby family’s private chapel,’ she said.

When they turned a corner of the abbey, it was immediately obvious that the arched front of the chapel was suffering from the ravages of time, along with the effects of weather and pollution. Meredith Burns explained that it had been placed on the Buildings at Risk Register ten years previously. Specialist conservation work had been started, but the money ran out. Now lots more cash was needed to save it from complete destruction.

‘We estimate that the necessary work will take around eight years to complete, at a cost of over a million pounds,’ she said. ‘Our immediate priorities are to prevent water penetrating the core of the building and damaging the delicate carvings and statues. Obviously, we also need to conserve and repair the eroded masonry. We’d like to examine the façade for any traces of medieval paintings, before they disappear completely. And the entrance steps to the west front will need repairs too.’

They were approaching the rear of the chapel, where a small mausoleum became visible in its shadow. Burns turned to Cooper.

‘We don’t have many years left to do these things, before some parts of the chapel get beyond repair,’ she said. ‘That’s why we’re seeking donations and sponsorship to help us rescue it. This is a national treasure.’

‘Sponsorship?’

‘We’re trying to get grant aid from the English Heritage Lottery Fund. But there’s a lot of demand for grants and it wouldn’t cover the total cost of conservation anyway. We’re asking visitors to make cash donations for the appeal via donation boxes inside the house and café. We’ve approached several local and national companies to become sponsors of the campaign. But times are hard for everyone.’

A sheet of blue plastic had been secured over the back wall of the chapel, as if repair work was under way. But when Burns lifted a corner of the sheet, they could see that it was concealing the graffiti that had been sprayed on the stone wall in red paint. It was clearly something you wouldn’t want your paying visitors to see.

‘Why is it that people who spray graffiti never know how to spell “Fascists”?’ commented Fry.

Burns dropped the plastic back into place. ‘They always know how to spell that other word, though,’ she said.

‘And the letter?’

‘Come through into the office for a few minutes,’ said Burns.

Inside the abbey every room had huge Georgian sash windows with wooden shutters. Here in the east wing, all the window frames were rotten. Cooper reckoned it wouldn’t take more than a few seconds with a jemmy to remove the panes of glass or wrench out the catch. What on earth did the insurance companies have to say about an arrangement like this?

In places there were bare floorboards and cracked plaster on the ceiling. The heads of various species of antelope and impala mounted on wooden plaques stared at each other from the walls.

One room they passed through was enormous, two storeys high, with furniture including a grand piano and a full-sized billiards table. A large fireplace was dominated by an almost life-sized family portrait and a couple of red sofas had been roped off to keep the public away. Cooper shook his head at the sight. Did the earl and his family sit here of an evening, gathered in this huge, draughty room that must be impossible to heat properly, perched uncomfortably on those ancient sofas, looked down on by mounted antelope heads, staring at the glass cases with their collections of stuffed animals?

‘There are bullet holes in the wall here,’ said Cooper when they reached the offices.

‘Friendly fire,’ said Burns.

‘What?’

‘There was a detachment of American soldiers billeted in this part of the abbey during the Second World War. I gather some of them were a bit trigger happy.’

‘It looks as though they used the impala for target practice.’

‘I think that’s right.’

Cooper recalled visiting Newstead Abbey in Nottinghamshire once and being told by the guide about Lord Byron’s habit of enjoying indoor pistol practice, resulting in bullet holes in the walls and doors. That must have been in the early nineteenth century. Nothing much changed, really.

‘If you leave via the main entrance of the abbey, you should take a look in the old nursery on your way out,’ said Burns. ‘Just follow the signs.’

‘Did you keep the anonymous letter?’ asked Cooper.

Burns reached into a drawer and produced a tattered envelope. ‘Yes. I thought you might want it.’

Cooper winced, thinking of all the fingerprints and extraneous trace substances now contaminating the evidence. Fry produced a pair of gloves and a plastic bag. She extracted the letter and they both read it. Like the address on the envelope, the message was produced on a laser printer, and it was very short.

Our dead are never dead to us, until we’ve forgotten them. Remember: Death will have his day!

‘A quotation, I suppose,’ said Fry. ‘What is it from?’

‘We never really troubled to find out,’ said Burns. ‘It didn’t seem important at the time.’

‘Come on, Ben, you’re the literary one.’

But Cooper was frowning over the message. ‘It sounds like a quotation,’ he said. ‘But I think it’s a bit of a hotch– potch.’

‘“Death will have his day” sounds familiar,’ said Fry. ‘It’s got to be either Shakespeare or the Bible.’

‘Possibly.’

‘Or am I thinking of “Every dog will have his day”?’

Cooper handed her the letter and she slid it back into its envelope. He wondered what she was really doing here, if she was trying to help. She certainly wasn’t helping very much so far.

‘It doesn’t necessarily seem like a threat anyway,’ said Fry. ‘It’s just a quotation. It could mean anything. What do you think, Ben?’

‘Well, it wouldn’t stand up in court,’ he said. ‘Not on its own.’

‘It’s addressed to “Earl Manby and family, Knowle Abbey”. They’ve even used the postcode. First-class stamp, but the postmark is unreadable of course. I can’t remember the last time I was able to read a postmark.’

‘Do you have any idea what it means, Miss Burns?’ asked Cooper.

She shook her head. ‘It’s too vague. We didn’t take the letter seriously – we almost threw it away in the office, but for some reason I left it in a tray and it stayed there.’

‘And that was about three weeks ago?’

‘Yes. The vandalism is more recent. One of the staff found it on Friday morning, fortunately before the first visitors arrived.’

‘I think there was a report of an intruder in the grounds.’

‘Yes, we’ve had a few incidents in the past. They’re usually harmless, of course. Just the curious or drunk. Usually, they get too close to the buildings and trigger a security light, then they disappear as fast as they can. We do get poachers now and then. There’s a herd of roe deer in the park. But this one seemed different. A bit more disturbing. One of the security team spotted him and said he was dressed in dark clothing and just seemed to be watching from a safe distance in the trees, where he was out of range of the sensors. He’d gone when they went to look for him.’

‘Do you know of any reason why the earl or any of the members of his family should be targeted in this way?’ asked Cooper.

Burns shrugged. ‘It’s just general envy, isn’t it? Some people get very bitter.’

Cooper glanced at Fry. ‘I suppose so.’

‘But I’m aware that we have to take a few precautions. In case there’s anybody who decides to take their grievance further.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘You said the graffiti was found on Friday morning,’ said Fry.

‘Yes?’

‘What was going on here at Knowle Abbey on Halloween night?’

‘Ah, take a look for yourself.’

Burns took a leaflet from a pile on her desk. ‘We have to find any opportunity to put on special events and get people in. We’re starting to prepare for our Christmas events now.’

Fry took the leaflet, scanned it quickly and passed it to Cooper. On a spooky background of ghosts and bats flying across the moon, it read:

Knowle at Halloween. Thursday 31 October. Explore Knowle Abbey’s dark and spooky interior. Definitely not for the faint-hearted! Gather in the restaurant for a spooky themed meal or a glass of Dutch courage before departing up to the abbey by timed ticket. The restaurant will be open from 6pm for pre– and post-performance suppers and refreshments. Please note that due to low light levels and time constraints, this event is not suitable for visitors with limited mobility. Tickets £20 per person. Must be booked in advance.

‘Twenty pounds?’ said Fry flatly. ‘How many people did you get coming along for that price?’

‘Oh, a few dozen.’

‘So you had strangers wandering around the abbey in the dark all evening from 7 p.m.?’ said Cooper.

‘Not wandering around exactly, Sergeant. All the groups were accompanied by a guide.’

‘Even so…’

‘I’m afraid it’s not exactly difficult to get into the abbey grounds at night, if you’re determined to do so,’ said Burns. ‘Of course, we have security. And alarms.’

‘But if all you want to do is creep up to the chapel and daub some graffiti on the wall, while the public are trooping in and out of the abbey for some Halloween event…’

‘Yes. Anybody could have managed it.’

‘“Explore Knowle Abbey’s dark and spooky interior”,’ quoted Fry. ‘I take it that means…’

‘Of course. We had all the lights turned off. For atmosphere, you know.’

‘Is the earl himself at home at the moment?’ asked Cooper.

‘Yes, he and the countess are in residence, along with their younger son and their daughter, Lady Imogen.’

‘And do you happen to have a photograph of Lord Manby that we could use?’ asked Cooper.

Burns looked surprised. ‘Why on earth would I have one of those? He’s hardly some kind of rock star handing out signed photographs to his fans.’

‘No, I just thought—’

‘In fact, Walter is a very private man,’ said Burns stiffly. ‘He prefers not to be recognised, even when he’s here around the abbey. And he doesn’t do much in public, if he can avoid it. To be honest, I think he would rather find some other way of paying for the upkeep of the abbey, instead of letting all these visitors in. It’s his home, after all.’

‘I understand.’

When they left the estate office, Cooper and Fry followed the arrows pointing towards the main entrance. But Cooper paused in a passage lined with peeling doors. While Fry fidgeted impatiently, he opened a door marked ‘Nursery’. Even if he hadn’t been told by Meredith Burns, it would have been obvious that the army had been billeted in this part of the house. There were maps and flags scattered among the toys. The wallpaper was filthy, and the doors and skirting boards looked as though they had been kicked repeatedly by heavy boots.

In the Great Hall the walls were lined with enormous Manby family portraits. The present earl was there – Walter, 9th Earl Manby of Knowle Abbey. In previous generations his ancestors seemed to have been christened with wonderful aristocratic names like Algernon, Peregrine and Clotworthy.

The collection of earls and their relatives gazed down with apparent astonishment at the crowds of strangers who must come through this hall every weekend to gawp at the abbey. Walter’s Victorian grandfather, the seventh Lord Manby, looked particularly outraged at the prospect.

When they got back to the car Fry sat and stared at the façade of Knowle Abbey for a while. From her expression she didn’t seem to be impressed by the quality of the architecture. Maybe the pillars and porticos weren’t quite symmetrical enough for her taste.

Or perhaps something else was causing the sour look on her face.

‘What are you thinking, Diane?’ asked Cooper curiously.

‘Have a guess.’

‘You’re wondering whether they used this as a location for filming Downton Abbey?’

‘Idiot.’

‘Thanks. So, what, then?’

Fry was silent for a moment, so Cooper waited. Finally, she started the car and let the engine turn over slowly before putting it into gear.

‘I’ll tell you what I’m thinking,’ she said. ‘I’m asking myself why ordinary people should be expected to cough up millions of pounds to maintain a privately owned pile like this, when there’s no money available for proper policing.’

Cooper nodded. ‘Fair point. But she did say it’s a national treasure. And the earl can’t afford to maintain it himself.’

‘Personally,’ said Fry, ‘I don’t care if his chapel leaks and his statues erode.’

17

In the CID room at West Street, Cooper found a message waiting for him that Detective Superintendent Branagh wanted to see him ASAP. And that meant before the morning briefing took place on the Sandra Blair inquiry.

All of his team had come in for the briefing, except Luke Irvine. Cooper had a couple of jobs he needed doing. First of all he asked Becky Hurst to hunt out a photograph of Walter, 9th Earl Manby.

‘There should be something on the internet,’ he said.

‘Everything is on the internet, Ben.’

‘So I hear.’

‘The ninth Earl,’ said Hurst.

‘Yes, the living one. Walter. If you find something and I’m not back before the briefing, pass it to DI Walker.’

‘Okay.’

Cooper turned to Carol Villiers and asked her to produce a list of residents in Bowden.

‘All of them?’ she said.

‘If possible. The adults anyway.’

‘Okay, Ben.’

Cooper straightened his tie. ‘I won’t be long. I hope.’

Down the corridor the door of the superintendent’s office was standing partly open, but Cooper knocked anyway. Detective Superintendent Hazel Branagh got up from her desk and waved him to a chair.

‘Come in, DS Cooper,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. I just want to catch up. Tell me how things are going generally.’

Cooper sat down, not entirely reassured. Rumours around the station said that Branagh had been on a diet recently, though she would never have admitted it. She seemed to have lost weight around her face, though, and the combination of broad shoulders and lean cheekbones made her even more intimidating. Cooper was actually glad when she sat down again.

‘Fine, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I’m very happy with my team in CID. They’re doing nicely.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Branagh consulted a note on her desk. ‘You have DC Villiers – I’ve heard very good reports of her since she joined us.’

‘She’s a valuable asset,’ said Cooper, conscious that he was immediately falling into management speak, but unable to prevent himself.

‘And DCs Hurst and Irvine. Very promising, would you say?’

‘Absolutely, ma’am.’

She paused, placing a finger on the list in front of her. ‘And I see you still have DC Gavin Murfin at the moment.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, we’ll be giving him a good send-off soon,’ said Branagh. ‘There’s no point in going over his faults now, is there?’

‘I’ve found Gavin’s experience useful,’ said Cooper.

Branagh glanced up at him. ‘Very loyal, DS Cooper. Of course, we’ll look at the possibility of finding you a replacement for Murfin when he goes. But I’m sure you understand, in the present circumstances … The budget cuts…’

‘With respect, ma’am, there should be five detective constables in my team, according to the official establishment. I’m already one down.’

‘I know. But I’m afraid we have to get used to these reductions across the board. It’s the same for all of us.’

Cooper said nothing. He’d heard a lot of officers express the opinion that Derbyshire Constabulary was a victim of its own success. The crime rate in the county had been reduced by about 15 per cent in the past year. And this was despite the fact that all the neighbouring forces had higher rates of crime and larger urban centres of population, with the result that Derbyshire was often a target for travelling criminals from Greater Manchester, Nottinghamshire or South Yorkshire. If your crime rate was falling, even in those circumstances, then clearly you didn’t need so many police officers. It seemed counter-intuitive and very short-term thinking.

But Superintendent Branagh had probably heard that view plenty of times. There was no point in Cooper repeating it now.

Branagh pushed her list to one side. ‘But what about you, DS Cooper? How are you doing yourself?’

That was a question he couldn’t hesitate in answering. Not for even a second.

‘I’m absolutely fine, ma’am,’ said Cooper firmly.

‘Good. Excellent. That’s what I like to hear. But could I suggest, perhaps…’

‘Yes?’

‘That you need to push yourself forward a bit more. You’re in danger of getting overlooked.’

‘Overlooked?’

‘For promotion.’

‘Oh.’

Cooper hadn’t really thought about further promotion yet. There didn’t seem much point. There was already a log-jam in human resources since promotions were frozen by budget cuts.

‘You’ve talked up all the DCs in your team,’ said Branagh. ‘Even DC Murfin, who we all know about. But you don’t talk yourself up at all.’

‘I suppose that’s true,’ admitted Cooper.

Since he’d been promoted to Detective Sergeant, Cooper had concentrated on taking the trouble to bring his DCs on. He wanted to let them take responsibility and get some credit for their work. Not everybody did that. But it was true what Branagh said. The police service had become a competitive business. Like lots of people working in private sector businesses, you had to be able to justify your job these days.

‘You can be too self-effacing, you know,’ emphasised Branagh. ‘In this profession you have to get yourself noticed if you want to get on. Otherwise they’ll just bring somebody in over your head. People who lie down get walked over.’

‘Yes, I do know that,’ said Cooper.

Branagh watched him carefully, then nodded. Her shoulders relaxed slightly.

‘Well, if it does happen, Ben,’ she said, ‘let’s hope it’s a police officer at least, and not someone brought in from managing a supermarket.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Cooper.

He realised the interview was over and got up to leave. Branagh was exaggerating, of course. But only a bit. The government’s new scheme would soon bring in twenty direct-entry police superintendents from other businesses and professions, along with eighty fast-tracked inspectors, graduates on a three-year scheme taking them straight from constable rank to the first rung of the management ladder. Many were already on training courses at the College of Policing.

There were very few police officers who didn’t believe that experience working on the frontline was essential for anyone holding a senior management position on the operational side. How could you expect someone to make high-pressure decisions in an emergency situation when they’d never had to respond to an emergency themselves? Surely they needed first-hand knowledge.

But it was too late to fight the changes. The new scheme would allow outsiders to leap over thousands of officers who’d spent years building experience, working in a variety of roles across the force. One day a chief constable would be appointed who had never made an arrest.

Those new inspectors had to be graduates with good degrees, but would at least have spent a short time as constables and sergeants. But neither of those was a requirement for a direct-entry superintendent, though that was two ranks above inspector. The new batch of supers might be from the armed forces or the intelligence services. They could be prison governors or existing members of civilian staff. But the guidelines said they could equally be ‘people with experience of running private sector operations’.

So Branagh’s half-joking reference wasn’t quite accurate. A newly appointed inspector couldn’t come straight from being a supermarket manager. But a new superintendent could.

It’s time to get out.

Cooper had heard those words said more and more often over the past few months. And it wasn’t just from Gavin Murfin either.

‘By the way,’ said Branagh as Cooper left her office.

‘Yes, ma’am?’

‘Detective Sergeant Fry is with us for the briefing. Representing the Major Crime Unit, of course.’

‘Yes.’

Cooper waited, sensing that Branagh had something else to say. If it was in connection with Diane Fry, it might be something he didn’t want to hear.

‘It would be good,’ said Branagh, ‘if we could manage without the assistance of the MCU on this occasion.’

He nodded, not sure what she expected him to say in response to that.

‘I feel it would be good for the division,’ she said. ‘And especially … Ben, it would be especially good for you. It would be wonderful if we could fill a vacancy at inspector level before those direct entrants start to arrive.’

Cooper swallowed at the enormity of the challenge he was being presented with. Was he ready for this? But Branagh was waiting for an acknowledgement of some kind.

‘Ben, remember what I said, won’t you?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said.