Текст книги "The Corpse Bridge"

Автор книги: Stephen Booth

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Текущая страница: 36 (всего у книги 39 страниц)

32

Villiers and Irvine had left Jason Shaw’s cottage in Bowden and were driving back towards Edendale.

‘Did you hear that?’ said Villiers. ‘He offered us a suspect in Sally Naden, then said himself how ridiculous an idea it was.’

‘Not very helpful.’

‘Deliberately unhelpful.’

When they got back to West Street, Ben Cooper was out of the office. He’d disappeared, taking Becky Hurst and Gavin Murfin along with him.

‘What do we do now?’ said Irvine, turning to Villiers.

Villiers grimaced and nodded across the office. ‘You know there’s only one thing we can do, Luke,’ she said. ‘We have to report to DS Fry.’

Molly Redfearn had returned from Paris that morning. Diane Fry had taken over the interviews with the victim’s wife and was writing up her report when Irvine and Villiers came in.

Mrs Redfearn had been just the sort of woman Fry disliked most – cold, middle class and materialistic. Exactly the kind of woman she was afraid of turning into herself, in fact.

The perfume Molly Redfearn was wearing had been almost overpowering. Fry had been glad that they weren’t talking to each other in one of the interview rooms at West Street, with their archaic lack of ventilation. They would all have been stifled and found dead in their chairs an hour or two later.

But the results of her interview were disappointing. Mrs Redfearn had been out of contact with her husband throughout the whole of her trip to Paris with her girlfriends.

When she saw Irvine and Villiers approaching she willingly put her half-finished report aside to listen to what they had to say.

‘So that’s his story,’ said Irvine when they’d finished. ‘He basically put the blame on everyone else.’

‘And there was no one on the bridge with Mrs Blair that night?’

‘Not according to Shaw. He admits taking her there with the effigy and all that stuff, but then he left her to it.’

‘And what do you think of that, Luke?’ asked Fry.

‘I think he’s telling only half the truth again.’

Fry looked at Villiers, who agreed.

‘His attempt to blame Sally Naden looks a bit weak, but you can never tell.’

‘No.’

Fry was interested in Jason Shaw’s job as a gamekeeper. She would have to get a check done on the firearms register.

She looked up at Irvine and Villiers.

‘By the way,’ she said. ‘Do you know where DS Cooper is?’

On the far side of the Harpur Hill testing grounds Cooper realised how close he was to Buxton Raceway. There was no race meeting today, but he could see the circuit and the stand where he’d talked to Brendan Kilner. It was Kilner who pointed him in the direction of the graveyard, yet here he was coming full circle within thirty-six hours.

He’d left Becky Hurst and Gavin Murfin checking their way through the old buildings, the former RAF bunkers that had been abandoned or even demolished. They would be grumbling to each other by now. They might not appear to get on, but they’d developed an understanding. Hurst respected Murfin’s experience, though she would never have said so, and Gavin wouldn’t have wanted her to.

Cooper parked the Toyota by a structure of rotting timbers like the skeleton of a beached ship. From the number of old car tyres lying around, he guessed it was the remains of a long-disused silage clamp.

Across the road a small group of ponies with long manes trotted eagerly to greet him as he climbed over the stile into their field. From here he had a view down a shallow valley to the HSE laboratories, with one building shaped like a flour mill gleaming a startling white in the sun. Beyond the buildings the little tower that people called Solomon’s Temple stood on the crest of a hill, overlooking the town of Buxton.

Further on a gate was fastened with a series of lengths of baler twine. It was probably a subtle deterrent for walkers, without quite making the path inaccessible.

A farmer appeared on a quad bike and entered the fields where sheep grazed on the fringes of the HSE testing grounds. When Cooper got closer the white building turned out to be a mysterious structure of scaffolding and pipes shrouded in white plastic sheeting, with a large tank standing next to it.

A few employees from the laboratories had taken the opportunity during their lunch break to stroll or jog along the roadway where a disused railway line had once run. They were still wearing their yellow high-vis jackets, as befitted employees of the Health and Safety Executive.

A few minutes ago he’d driven past a nursery in Harpur Hill village, where the children were out playing. They’d been wearing high-vis jackets identical to those the workers wore at the HSL. Health and safety got everywhere. Cooper could hear Gavin Murfin’s voice in his head. Elf ’n’ safety. You can’t argue with that. It was one of Murfin’s favourite sayings.

Just out of sight of the path a dead sheep had been dismembered on the hillside. He found severed leg bones, an almost intact spine and ribcage, a bloodied fleece and part of the skull. It could have been scavengers, arriving after the carcase had begun to soften and disarticulate. A fox perhaps, or a pair of crows. But you could never be sure.

Cooper passed a large concrete-lined watering hole for the cattle and sheep, formed into ledges to provide a safe footing for the animals when the water was low. And it was certainly low now. There were only a few inches lying below the final ledge. He could see glimpses of the muddy bottom, though most of the water was choked by weeds. A few chunks of limestone had fallen in, along with a rotting timber or two, and a rusted iron feeding trough.

And something else caught his eye. No more than a slight, flapping movement in the wind. It was a white plastic bag, one corner protruding above the muddy surface. If the water had been a fraction deeper, he would never have seen it.

Becky Hurst appeared at the top of the slope. Cooper signalled to her to join him and waited until she scrambled down.

‘What have you found?’ she said.

‘I’m not sure. Probably nothing.’ He looked up the slope. ‘Where’s Gavin?’

‘Having a quick sulk.’

‘And a snack?’

‘Probably. I didn’t wait to see. There’s only so much I can take.’

Cooper found a length of wood, hooked a handle of the plastic bag and fished it out of the water. When he prised it open he discovered some sodden clothing inside. Thrown away instead of being taken to a charity shop or disposed of properly?

He teased the clothing out and spread it on the ground. A crumpled shape turned out to be a woollen hat, with ear flaps and a Scandinavian design. He’d been right about the reindeer.

Something metallic rolled out of the hat on to the ground. It was a small LED torch. A tiny thing, but it would have provided a bright light, if its batteries hadn’t been submerged in water for the past four days.

‘Sandra Blair’s possessions,’ said Cooper.

‘Wow,’ said Hurst. ‘Why would someone take the trouble to dump them here? Why not leave them with the body?’

‘They probably handled them.’

‘So they were worried about fingerprints or DNA?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Do you reckon we’ll be able get anything from them?’

Cooper slipped the items into separate evidence bags. ‘Let’s hope so. It’s about our only break so far.’

‘You really think there’ll be another victim, Ben?’ asked Hurst.

He straightened up and looked out over the Harpur Hill testing grounds, with the remaining route of the old coffin road heading away across Axe Edge Moor. The breeze fluttered a scrap of wool on the dismembered body of the sheep. It seemed inevitable. As if there had to be a death before anyone could cross the Corpse Bridge.

‘I’m certain of it,’ he said.

Chris Thornton was shift supervisor at Deeplow Quarry that day, when the crusher jammed. He was standing outside the office, checking the time sheets and cursing one of the dump truck drivers who’d failed to turn up for work. As far as he was concerned the first sign of trouble was the screech of metal. It shrieked across the quarry above the rumble of engines and the crash of broken stone. Then an alarm sounded for a few seconds before somebody hit the button and stopped the motor.

‘What the hell was that?’

Thornton began to run up the roadway towards the quarry face, kicking up limestone dust and veering aside to avoid a truck manoeuvring to deposit its load in the bottom hopper. He could see a group of men in orange overalls and hard hats, who were slowly gathering around the crusher. Someone had climbed on to the inspection plate and was staring down into the belt mechanism. Then the worker straightened up and said something to the other men below, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

As Thornton covered the last hundred yards, the entire group turned to look at him. He read a mixture of shock and relief on their faces. He knew the reason for the relief – they’d just set eyes on the man who was going to take responsibility from their shoulders. He didn’t yet understand why they were looking so shocked.

In a moment, though, Chris Thornton would find out. Within the next few hours the whole of Derbyshire would know.

33

The road to Deeplow Quarry ran steeply down through neighbouring villages, carrying the telltale signs of quarrying. The unnaturally white surface of the carriageway and the crash barriers on every bend were the clues.

Ben Cooper knew that limestone lorries ground their way down this hill every day. No matter how well they were sheeted or how often their wheels were washed, they left their traces on the roads in the neighbourhood and reminded everyone of the quarry’s existence. The barriers were there to protect residents living directly in the path of the lorries. If the brakes failed as one of them descended the hill, it would turn into an uncontrollable twelve-ton missile capable of demolishing a house. It had happened only once in living memory. But that was once too often for the people whose properties had been damaged.

Most of the quarries in this area were run by large multinational companies now. The name on the sign at the entrance would usually be that of Tarmac, or Omya, or Lhoist. But Deeplow was one of the few that had survived the spread of the conglomerates. It remained a locally owned operation, thanks to a source of good quality limestone which enabled it to produce pure lime, and kept it productive and profitable.

It was also thanks, perhaps, to the existence of a loyal workforce – local people who’d worked at the quarry for generations and relied on its existence for their livelihood, much as the workers on the Knowle estate did. Those quarrymen didn’t want to see Deeplow swallowed up by a multinational with its headquarters in Switzerland or Mexico.

Cooper turned his Toyota into the quarry entrance. The crusher, where the stone was ground to a powder, was one of the most prominent buildings on the site.

There had been a quarry at the Deeplow site for over a hundred years. The present plant extracted and processed calcium carbonate, a carboniferous limestone more than a hundred and eighty million years old, formed from the compressed skeletons of millions of prehistoric animals and sea creatures.

There were four bigger quarries nearby – Hindlow, Hillhead, Brierlow and Dowlow, all lying close to the A515. A public footpath had crossed the site between the main road and a green lane on the west. Though it had been a public right of way for many years, the footpath had been diverted by the county council under the Highways Act.

So the old coffin road that once ran across this part of the countryside had gone, the ground ripped up and excavated, the route switched to the south.

‘It’s mad,’ said Chris Thornton, taking them into the Portakabin he used as an office. ‘I mean, why would anyone do something like this?’

‘We don’t know, sir.’

‘Although I suppose it could have been worse. There have been a couple of bodies—’

‘Yes. But nothing for you to worry about.’

‘There was one at Pilsbury, which isn’t very far away from here. Do you know who it was yet?’

‘We haven’t released the victim’s identity at this stage.’

Thornton removed his hard hat and ran a hand across the top of his head, making his hair stand up as if he’d just received an electric shock.

‘Well, someone obviously got on to the site and did this. It scared some of the blokes to death. They thought it was real at first. The older ones can be a bit superstitious, you know.’

‘I understand.’

‘Anyway, it’s in here,’ said Thornton. ‘I suppose you’ll want it.’

He opened the door of a storeroom for Cooper to look in. The object had been ripped to shreds by the machinery. One of the legs was missing and the head hung from the neck by a few threads. Rips ran right up the plump torso. It was covered in white dust and Cooper coughed as he brushed some of it from the face.

There was no mistaking it, though. He could even take a good guess at who had made it. It was almost an exact copy of the Corpse Bridge dummy. But this time the effigy of Earl Manby had been through the crusher.

‘Could it have been one of your own employees who did this?’ asked Cooper.

‘I’d be surprised,’ said Thornton. ‘About a hundred people work here at Deeplow. But they’re like a family. Some of their jobs have been passed down from father to son, the way it’s always been.’

A siren went off – the first blast a long one, giving a two-minute warning of firing. Outside, near the quarry face, the blasting engineer had his det-line and detonator with two buttons like a simplified TV remote. The blasts followed each other within milliseconds. That vibration would be felt down in the valley.

‘What do you use for your explosives, Mr Thornton?’ asked Cooper.

‘It’s a coarse mixture of ammonium nitrate pellets and diesel fuel.’

Cooper nodded. ‘Do you happen to have any missing?’

Thornton went pale and dropped his hard hat on the desk with a thud. ‘We haven’t reported it yet,’ he said. ‘How did you know?’

When Cooper went to report to Detective Superintendent Branagh at West Street, they were joined in Branagh’s office by DI Walker. The superintendent was clearly unhappy with the new development.

‘We’re waiting for one more,’ said Branagh. ‘But you can give us the outline, Cooper.’

But Cooper had no sooner begun to tell his story, than the door opened after a brief knock, and Diane Fry came in.

‘Sorry I’m late, ma’am,’ said Fry.

The superintendent just waved a hand. ‘Take a seat,’ she said. ‘Carry on, Cooper.’

Fry seemed to listen impatiently. Out of the corner of his eye, Cooper was aware of her fidgeting and leaning forward as if about to interrupt. It didn’t help his temper. When Cooper had finished, Fry was the first to react.

‘Explosives?’ she said. ‘And what do you think their target might be?’

Cooper turned to her. ‘Well, what do you think? An effigy of Earl Manby is found hanging from a noose, curses are packed into a witch ball with the Manbys’ eagle’s head emblem, an anonymous letter is received about death, and acts of vandalism are committed at the family chapel. Then we find a note arranging a meeting at the Grandfather Oak at one o’clock in the morning.’

‘You mean the target could be Knowle Abbey itself?’ said Branagh, calmly intervening.

‘Yes, ma’am, that’s exactly what I mean.’

‘That would be a pretty dramatic statement.’

‘I’ll say.’

Yes, dramatic hardly covered it. According to what Mr Thornton had told him at the quarry, in the brief instant of an explosive detonation, the pressure could reach more than three million pounds per square inch. The detonation front travelled at twenty thousand miles per hour, with temperatures of up to five thousand degrees Celsius. The shockwave shattered rock by exceeding its compressive strength.

Cooper tried to imagine what kind of damage that would cause to the crumbling façades and sagging walls of Knowle Abbey, with its wooden floors and rooms packed full of antique furniture and dusty specimen cases. He tried, but failed. The devastation was beyond imagining.

Even worse was the possible fate of the earl and his family, not to mention the scores of staff and any visitors who happened to be enjoying the tour at the time of an attack.

‘It would be impossible to do an efficient job, of course,’ he said.

‘Oh, that’s good news?’

‘In a quarry, blasting is only carried out after laser equipment is used to survey the rock face. The surveyor has a computer program to calculate the most effective blasting plan, drill positions, the firing sequence. They might not cause much damage at Knowle Abbey. Unless someone knows what he’s doing.’

‘We won’t be able to keep this one quiet,’ said Branagh. ‘Too many of the workers at Deeplow Quarry know about it. It will be all around the area by now. All over the county.’

‘Agreed, ma’am.’

‘Well, one thing is obvious,’ she said. ‘We’d better make sure extra security precautions are being taken at Knowle Abbey. If some disaster happens that we had warning of, then it would be all of us being fed through the crusher.’

That was all very well. But how did you ensure the security of a place like Knowle Abbey? It seemed an unanswerable question as Ben Cooper and Diane Fry drove once again through the ornate gates and into the sprawling parkland towards the abbey.

There were hundreds of acres to cover, much of the landscape hidden by plantations of trees. There were so many buildings ancillary to the abbey – the restaurant, the craft centre, the gift shop, all the offices in the coach-house block. And then the abbey itself, vast and rambling, at least three storeys high, with attic rooms in the roof space and probably cellars under the servants’ quarters. How many rooms would that be? Cooper hardly dared to think.

There was only one practical solution, the one he’d come away with from the meeting.

‘Your friend Ms Burns isn’t going to like this at all,’ said Fry as they pulled on to the gravel by the estate office.

‘I know,’ said Cooper. Then he added: ‘But she’s not my friend.’

‘Everyone is your friend. Or, at least, you think they are.’

Cooper shook his head at her jibe, but didn’t feel resentment. Over the years he’d concluded that Fry did this as naturally as breathing. She didn’t mean any personal animosity. In fact, she might regard it as a normal form of small talk.

‘Let’s see if we can get a look at their overall set-up anyway,’ he said.

‘I can’t wait.’

34

The more eccentric members of the Manby family had amassed a vast collection of hidden treasures at Knowle Abbey. Dozens of rooms contained an eclectic accumulation of exotic artefacts and souvenirs of foreign expeditions, as well as antique objects. Some of them might have been fashionable or interesting at the time, supposed Cooper. There were stuffed marmosets and narwhal horns, mechanical toys and African tribal masks, not to mention a host of other mysterious, dusty objects whose purpose had long since been forgotten.

He remembered that a few years ago the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire had cleared out their attics at Chatsworth House. They raised almost six and a half million pounds from the sale of valuable antiques and curiosities like the 6th Duke’s Russian sleigh and alabaster Borghese table. But no one would pay a fiver for this lot at Knowle Abbey. Even the seediest antique shop in Edendale would give it a pass. There were cases of crumbling butterflies and semi-precious stones, toy soldiers and porcelain dolls, stuffed antelope heads and sporting prints.

Cooper made a mental note to check on the earl’s gun licence. He felt sure there would be one. He imagined a cabinet full of shotguns somewhere in the house, perhaps even a few ancient blunderbusses and an elephant gun. Some poor licensing officer would have had the job of checking whether they were functional firearms or purely ornamental.

‘Yes, some of the Manby ancestors were avid collectors,’ said Meredith Burns. ‘The Victorians went in for natural history, and the eighteenth-century earls for religious texts. Of course, more than a few of them were army officers too.’

‘It’s amazing how much stuff they came back from Africa and India with,’ said Fry. ‘They must have used soldiers like packhorses to cart all their loot.’

There was a virtual tour of the state rooms on the first floor, an idea Cooper suspected had been copied from the National Trust, which had used them in its historic properties for years. He supposed it was an attempt to deter visitors from wandering around parts of the abbey where they shouldn’t go. But did it work? Well, it would take more than a glossy video and a bit of velvet rope across the doorway.

Cooper felt sure a determined and experienced snooper would have no trouble getting into any of the state rooms. There wasn’t exactly a high level of security. This was just someone’s home, after all. If an intruder could get into Buckingham Palace and chat to the Queen in her bedroom, there wasn’t much hope for an amateur set-up like this. The earl and his family would be sitting ducks, if someone had seriously decided to make them a target.

‘The private family apartments are in the west wing,’ said Burns. ‘Walter has an office of his own up there on the first floor, in the library. But many of the rooms in the north wing are now staff flats, offices, workshops and storerooms. Then we have these areas, which are accessible to the public. The visitor route alone is half a mile long. And it all gets vacuumed and dusted every day.’

They found themselves in the final doorway of a long corridor, gazing into apparent chaos. It was such a cluttered room. Every inch of floor space seemed to be crammed with furniture, and every available surface covered in ornaments and trinkets of no discernible use. How would you live in a room like this? He would hardly dare to move.

‘You can’t be serious about this threat?’ said Burns.

‘We do have good reason to be concerned. You should step up your security as much as possible, both in the abbey and around the park. We’ll have officers here to advise on additional security measures you can take. Also a dog unit will be arriving, in case there are already explosives on the premises.’

‘Our visitors aren’t going to like that,’ said Burns.

‘Visitors? Didn’t we say? We’re recommending that you close the abbey to the public for the time being, until we’re sure the threat has passed.’

‘That’s ludicrous. Have you any idea how much revenue we would lose? All our Christmas bookings would be cancelled, for a start. Walter would never agree to it.’

‘Could we speak to the earl himself perhaps and explain the situation?’

‘I don’t think so, Sergeant,’ said Burns stiffly. ‘Perhaps a more senior officer…’

Cooper nodded. He didn’t feel offended. Well, not as offended as Fry looked, anyway.

‘I’ll have a word with my superintendent,’ he said.

‘Yes, do that.’

Fry was staring with baffled revulsion at a huge glass cabinet full of stuffed birds. And it was full. There had been no half measures for this particularly fervent collector among the Manbys. Against a painted background of a seashore, he’d crammed in a heron, a couple of bitterns, a whole flock of curlews, turnstones and lapwings who crowded against each other in the foreground. A shelduck and a trio of plovers dangled from the top of the case in simulated flight. There was hardly an inch to spare between one set of feathers and the next.

And it was just one of many cases full of birds in this room. They were stacked right up to the ceiling on every wall. Some former earl must have been going for a complete collection of British bird species, thought Cooper, as he surveyed the room. Well, except for that pelican, resplendent in a case of its own, just about to swallow an equally stuffed fish.

‘What is your energy supply here?’ asked Cooper.

‘There’s a wood pellet-fuelled biomass heating system installed in a former agricultural building. It was one of Walter’s first projects when he inherited the estate. The system is fully automated and provides heating to various properties on the estate.’

‘Underground piping?’

‘Of course. About five hundred metres of it.’

‘Very vulnerable.’

‘Well, oil and electric storage heaters were the wrong sort of system to be using on such a big house, so investing in a green energy system seemed to be important. It lowers fuel costs and significantly reduces the estate’s carbon footprint. It even produces a financial payback through the government’s incentive scheme.’

‘One of his lordship’s most productive ideas, then.’

‘Precisely.’

They examined the main entrance with its wide steps and pillars, and a smaller side door where visitors paid their entrance fee. The locks were adequate, the alarm system modern. The earl would never have been able to get insurance for his historic mansion without those precautions.

‘I’ve been told the burial ground will be tarmacked over and become a car park for the holiday accommodation,’ said Cooper.

Burns shook her head. ‘That’s nonsense. We would never be allowed to do that, even if we wanted to. Most of it will remain an area of open space, with a bit of landscaping.’

‘I can’t emphasise enough how important it is to step up your security measures. There’s a good private security company based in Buxton. You should contact them.’

‘I’ll note your advice.’

Outside the main entrance, Cooper heard voices above him and looked up in astonishment.

‘Who are those people on the roof?’ he asked.

‘Oh, they’re a group of historic house enthusiasts,’ said Burns.

‘Members of the public?’

‘They paid twenty-five pounds each for a behind-the-scenes tour of the abbey today.’

The party had been led up a flight of narrow stairs from the top floor, through the attic, and out on to the roof, where they were able to gaze over the stone parapets at a mist-shrouded view of the Dove Valley. Directly below them was the crumbling Lady Chapel. They would have a good view of the missing tiles and the cracks in the walls. They would probably glimpse the corroded face of a stone angel. Or, if they were really lucky, they might witness an entire section shearing off the façade, like a calving glacier.

Cooper shook his head. Was there any point in wasting his breath urging extra security precautions when there was a crowd of complete strangers being allowed on to the roof?

They arranged to leave the park through the north entrance, taking a winding route through sheep pastures on the lower slopes of the hill, backed by more woodland. A member of outdoor staff was on hand to unlock the barrier and let them through.

Outside the north gate they were forced to slow to a crawl. A group of about twenty people were milling around with placards. Cooper stopped to speak to one of the two uniformed officers keeping a discreet eye on the demonstration.

‘What are those people doing?’ he asked.

‘Oh, them? They’re environmentalists. They’re protesting against the quarry plan.’

‘Quarry plan?’

The officer gestured to the hillside behind Knowle Abbey. The white scar of the limestone face was visible above the trees of the parkland.

‘For Alderhill,’ she said. ‘There’s a plan to bring it back into operation.’

‘And that looks like the earl himself talking to them.’

‘Yes, it is.’

Walter Manby was an ordinary-looking man in many ways. Yet somehow he gave off an aura of money, a peculiar glow that made him stand out from those around him. He stood casually among the protestors, chatting amiably to their dreadlocked leaders, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, yet unable to resist the occasional supercilious smile.

Cooper tapped his fingers on the steering wheel of the car as they drove back towards Edendale.

‘Who did we ask to look into Eden Valley Mineral Products?’ he said out loud.

‘We?’ said Fry.

He’d almost forgotten she was there. She was becoming his conscience, haunting him like all the guilt he’d ever felt, all the uncomfortable doubts over his own competence.

‘Me, then,’ he said. ‘I asked somebody to look into Eden Valley Mineral Products.’

‘Luke Irvine,’ said Fry. ‘I believe he was tasked with following that up.’

And she was right, as usual. Cooper got hold of Irvine as they were climbing the hill on the other side of the valley.

‘Yes,’ said Irvine. ‘Did you know that Deeplow Quarry is owned by Eden Valley Mineral Products?’

‘The company where George Redfearn was a director?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Well, it’s a link,’ said Cooper.

‘Of a kind. But what does it mean?’

‘I have no idea. Anything else we should know about the company?’

‘They’ve been doing okay. In fact, they’re planning to expand into a new site soon. They won a bidding war to get the contract. It’s a big deal.’

‘Where is the new site?’

‘Alderhill Quarry,’ said Irvine. ‘Have you ever heard of it?’

Cooper turned and gazed towards Knowle Abbey, sitting down there by the river in its parkland – a perfect picture, but for the white scar on the hillside behind it.

‘Alderhill Quarry?’ he said. ‘I’m looking at it right now.’

‘Seriously?’

‘And what about the protests?’

‘I don’t know anything about any protests,’ said Irvine.

‘Well, make sure you do by the time we get back to West Street,’ said Cooper as he ended the call.

He sensed Fry smiling. But when he turned to look at her, she was staring out of the window. And he’d never been able to read her mind.

Luke Irvine was waiting eagerly when Ben Cooper and Diane Fry arrived in the CID room. Cooper didn’t even bother to take off his jacket.

‘Those protestors,’ he said. ‘The quarry plan. What do we know about it?’

‘It seems the environmentalist crowd are protesting against the destruction of a protected area through opencast quarrying,’ said Irvine. ‘The site of Alderhill Quarry is on land owned by the Knowle estate and the contract has been signed by Lord Manby himself. As part of the lease agreement, the landowner will receive thirty pounds for each ton of rock extracted from the site.’

‘It doesn’t sound that much.’

‘Well, the quarry has vast potential apparently. The reserves of limestone go right back into the hillside. In fact, it sounds as though there won’t be much of the hill left by the time they’ve finished digging. They’ll be quarrying out there for decades to come.’ Irvine looked up from his notes. ‘That’s a hell of a lot of rock, Ben.’