Текст книги "The Corpse Bridge"

Автор книги: Stephen Booth

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 39 страниц)

7

The interior of Pilsbury Cottage was cramped and dark. The windows in these old cottages were always too small and the ceilings too low. It reminded Cooper that his ancestors must have been people of short stature who spent their time crouched in candlelight huddled against the cold.

‘We need the lights on,’ he said.

‘Here.’

Irvine found the switches and the sitting room sprang into focus. It was still cramped, but the furniture and wallpaper were decorated in a series of bright chintzy patterns that made the light suddenly painful on his tired eyes.

‘Check upstairs for any signs that anyone else has been here,’ said Cooper. ‘Then see if you can find a diary and an address book.’

‘Anyone else? Oh, you mean like a boyfriend?’ said Irvine. ‘Shaver in the bathroom, slippers under the bed?’

‘Possibly.’

While Irvine disappeared upstairs, Cooper stood in the middle of the sitting room and turned through three hundred and sixty degrees to perform a quick survey. The objects scattered around were a little out of the ordinary. They reminded him of the sort of thing his sister Claire collected. Abstract pottery, ethnic art, bowls full of crystals and stacks of scented candles. A Native American dreamcatcher hung from the ceiling and a pack of Tarot cards stood on a bookshelf. One wall was covered with a rug woven in vibrant colours with tribal African figures.

He noticed a large wicker basket next to one of the armchairs by the fireplace. When he lifted the lid, he found balls of wool, scraps of material, knitting needles, a case full of pins and cotton thread, another of buttons and small glass beads.

Cooper saw a phone on a table by the window. He pressed the answering machine button to play back the messages. But a recorded voice told him there weren’t any. Even the old messages had been deleted. There was a calls list function too, but the only recent numbers it showed were listed as unavailable.

That was odd. It was almost like someone was trying to hide their contact history. It certainly wasn’t a normal thing for the victim of a crime to do. People didn’t expect to meet their death when they left the house.

Cooper walked through into the tiny kitchen and found a laptop computer sitting on the table. He looked out of the back door, where there was only a tiny square of garden tucked under the hillside. He could see over a stone wall into a few acres of sheep pasture.

‘Can you see an address book or anything with phone numbers in?’ he called, when he heard Irvine come back downstairs.

Irvine had begun opening and closing drawers in a pine dresser in the sitting room. ‘Not yet. But come and have a look – I’ve found a diary.’

‘Is it a big one?’

‘No, tiny. A little pocket diary.’

‘She didn’t record every detail of her life, then.’

‘No such luck.’

Irvine passed him the diary. The cover was plastic, but textured to make it look like leather, and it had little brass corners to protect it from getting dog-eared from use by the end of the year. Cooper riffled through and saw the information it provided would be sparse. There were four days to a page and Sandra Blair had used the space mostly to record dates when she was working, the times of WI meetings, dental appointments, an eye test.

He turned to Thursday 31 October. But the section was blank. To Cooper’s eye, it looked suspiciously blank. After the absence of messages on the answering machine, it looked as though Sandra had deliberately failed to mention where she was going last night. Not even to her own diary.

But what about tonight? Well, here was an entry at last. So Sandra hadn’t planned to die last night. For Friday 1 November, she’d written: ‘Meet Grandfather, 1am.’

‘What does it say?’ asked Irvine.

‘“Meet Grandfather, 1am.” What do you think that means?’

‘Well, someone was meeting their grandfather, I guess.’

‘Grandfather?’ said Cooper. ‘How old was Sandra Blair, Luke?’

‘We think she was around thirty-five. But that’s an estimate from Mrs Beresford.’

Cooper did a quick mental calculation. ‘It’s possible, I suppose. But her grandfather would be approaching eighty, at least.’

‘My grandfather wouldn’t be out meeting anyone at one o’clock in the morning,’ said Irvine. ‘He’s in bed with his hot chocolate by ten at the latest.’

‘There are grandfathers and grandfathers, though.’

Cooper was remembering his Granddad Frank, his mother’s father. He’d been a tough old bird, who’d spent most of his life working on the roads as a foreman in the county council’s highways department. That was in the days before health and safety, when Frank and his colleagues worked on all kinds of jobs and in all conditions wearing their overalls and flat caps. As foreman, Granddad Frank had insisted on wearing a tie too. He could have walked twenty miles when he was aged nearly eighty, and he never seemed to get more than three or four hours’ sleep.

‘Whose grandfather, then?’ asked Irvine.

‘I have no idea.’

Irvine frowned. ‘That’s a shame, Ben. She was supposed to be meeting him tonight, whoever he is.’

‘Tonight?’ said Cooper. ‘Or last night?’

‘It’s an entry for today, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, but at one in the morning,’

‘Oh, I see what you mean.’

‘If you were going somewhere at one o’clock in the morning, would you enter it in your diary for that day or the day before?’

‘Where would I be going at 1 a.m.?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not familiar with your social life. An all-night party? A rave?’

‘Chance would be a fine thing.’ Irvine thought about it for a moment. ‘Probably the day before. Because that’s when I’d need to remember it. The next day would be no good. If I was the sort of person who might forget something like that.’

‘Speaking of which,’ said Cooper. ‘I haven’t seen any car keys yet. You?’

‘No. There’s a handbag here with the usual sort of stuff in. A purse, but no keys.’

Cooper looked round. They’d left the front door open when they entered the house, just in case someone passing by got worried about them being burglars.

‘Close the door for a minute, Luke,’ he said.

Irvine looked surprised, but he pushed the door shut. On the back of it was a row of coat hooks, which held two or three jackets, a waterproof and a scarf.

‘Try the pockets of the top jacket,’ said Cooper.

Irvine patted the pockets, dived in with a hand and pulled out a set of car keys on a fob with a logo.

‘Eureka,’ he said with a happy grin.

‘Let’s take a look in the car, then.’

It was while they were searching the car that a member of the public stopped to ask what they were doing. Irvine showed his warrant card and assured him there was nothing to worry about. Cooper watched the man as he left reluctantly. It would be all round the village in half an hour that something was going on at Pilsbury Cottage. But it couldn’t be helped.

‘Nothing in the boot,’ said Irvine, except some bags of old clothes. ‘It looks as though she was planning to take them to the charity shop.’

Cooper smiled. He opened the glove compartment, pushed aside some old car parking tickets and till receipts, and put his hand on an address book.

‘Excellent.’

They went back inside the house, away from prying eyes again.

‘Luke, did you find a sketch pad in any of the drawers?’ asked Cooper.

‘A what?’

‘A sketch pad. Blank pages that you can draw on.’

‘No, nothing like that.’

‘Let me know if you see one.’

‘By the way, we’ll need a formal identification, won’t we?’ said Irvine, peering into a broom cupboard.

‘Of course. But it’s more important to use these first few hours trying to pick up as much evidence as we can before the lines of inquiry start to go cold.’

‘Yes.’

‘Besides,’ said Cooper, ‘I think we can be fairly sure of who our victim is.’

He picked up a framed photograph from the dresser. Sandra Blair was pictured with a dark-haired man leaning against a stone wall. They were smiling broadly and had their arms round each other. ‘This must be her husband that she’s with. How long ago did he die?’

‘Around five years. His name was Gary.’

There were other photos on the dresser. One was apparently from the Blairs’ wedding day, with Sandra in an elaborate white dress and Gary looking embarrassed in his suit and tie, with a white buttonhole. Another was of an earlier family group, taken perhaps twenty years ago – mother and father, with two teenage girls. Sandra and her sister, he assumed, though Mrs Blair was un– recognisable as a fifteen-year-old.

‘Do we know the sister’s name?’ asked Cooper.

‘No, the Beresfords couldn’t remember. They think she might live in the Dundee area, and she’s married with three or four children. But that’s all we have at the moment.’

‘We must get on to that. Neighbours—’

‘I know. I’ll go now.’

‘Thanks, Luke. Then we’ll try her colleagues at the place Mrs Blair worked in Hartington. And the Women’s Institute too, if necessary.’

When Irvine had left to call at the houses on either side of Pilsbury Cottage, Cooper looked through the address book. Well, it said ‘Addresses’ on the cover, but it turned out to have very few addresses in it. Names and phone numbers, yes. But many were just first names. Only a few numbers such as the dentist’s and the doctor’s surgery were immediately identifiable. Someone would have to go through the book entry by entry and call all these people. First of all, it would help to identify a Dundee dialling code.

Cooper pulled out his iPhone. The easiest way was to do a quick Google search, provided there was a good signal here. It took a few seconds for him to find the code was 01382. He flicked through the pages of the address book, but found no matches.

It was frustrating that there were no addresses given. Of course, there must be an address list somewhere, even if it was only for sending out Christmas cards. Unless Sandra Blair was the kind of person who sent digital cards by email. He went to the kitchen table and switched on the laptop. As soon as it booted up, he saw that it was password protected, as he suspected. That would be a task for a computer forensics analyst who would be able to crack the password and extract files and emails.

Then Cooper went upstairs. Luke had already been up here, so he didn’t spend much time looking for evidence of a second person being present. The neighbours would know about that, if anyone did. It was impossible to miss much of what was going on in an area like this.

At the bottom of the bedside cabinet, he found what he was looking for. It was folded inside a copy of Woman’s Weekly Craft Special, among several other magazines. At first glance it looked like a pattern book. Sandra had covered it with a swatch of velvety material. Cooper ran his hand over its smoothness. She’d made a nice effort of it too. But it was the right size and feel.

When he opened the book, it fell directly to the last page. The page where Sandra Blair had made her sketch of the Corpse Bridge effigy.

8

Cooper parked the Toyota in Hartington Market Place, close to the duck pond. Legend said that it was actually a ‘ducking pond’, originally used for subjecting suspected witches to water torture to make them confess. But today half a dozen white ducks were on the pond anyway, doing their bit to wipe out the memory of its true purpose. They couldn’t have done a better job if they’d been paid by the tourist authority.

In fact, Hartington was an odd mixture of tourist and traditional, with tea rooms and an antiques shop rubbing shoulders with the village stores and a post office with its Victorian postbox still standing outside the door. Self-catering cottages stood opposite the Royal British Legion club, where a notice advertised grocery bingo on the third Sunday of every month.

‘So that’s all the neighbours knew,’ Luke Irvine was saying. ‘Sandra kept herself to herself pretty much. She was interested in crafts, joined the WI.’

‘We know that,’ said Cooper.

‘And she’d been going out quite a lot in the evenings recently. They didn’t know where.’

‘Or with who?’

‘No. In fact, they were surprised to see that she didn’t go out in her own car last night. There isn’t much in the way of public transport.’

‘Somebody must have picked her up,’ said Cooper. ‘Perhaps just not from in front of her house.’

‘Why would she go to the trouble of sneaking away like that?’

Cooper shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Not yet.’

He locked the car and glanced around the village.

‘Do you know Hartington at all, Luke?’ asked Cooper.

‘Not really. I think there’s a DI from Derby who lives here somewhere, isn’t there?’

‘Yes. He has a house up Hall Bank, near the youth hostel. But we won’t bother him. He’ll be busy.’

Irvine smiled, and Cooper wondered if he’d made a joke. It seemed a long while since that had happened.

‘So what’s the village’s claim to fame?’ asked Irvine, looking round.

‘Cheese,’ said Cooper.

‘Cheese?’

‘Yes, cheese.’

A passer-by turned to stare at them. Cooper laughed now. He suddenly had a picture of himself and Irvine as a couple of tourists having their souvenir photo taken. ‘Say cheese, and let’s have a big grin for the camera.’

But it was true. Until recently Hartington had been a centre for Stilton cheese-making. The cheese factory was built at the Duke of Devonshire’s creamery, where cheese was made from the milk produced by his tenant farmers. There had been other cheese factories in this area – one at Glutton Bridge and one across the river near Sheen. But Hartington had supplied a quarter of the world’s Stilton at one time. The factory closed when it was bought out by a rival company in Leicestershire six years ago. It had been looking increasingly derelict since plans for a residential development on the site were turned down by the planning authority.

Cooper could see the old cheese factory down a side lane off the marketplace. The paint was peeling on the doors and window frames, rubbish was scattered outside, and the sheds and loading bays were gradually losing any sense of function or purpose as they lay abandoned.

In a way the history of the Hartington cheese factory reflected the role of large landowners like Earl Manby. Nearly two hundred people were employed here at the height of its production, many of them living in the village of Hartington itself. They depended on the factory, and its closure took away their livelihoods. Some of them were probably forced to move away to find alternative work.

‘Which tea rooms did Sandra Blair work in?’ asked Cooper.

‘Hartdale. It should be close to the square somewhere. Mill Lane.’

‘Over that way,’ said Cooper.

Some enterprising individuals had reopened the Old Cheese Shop in the village and were making their own cheese from a farm nearby. If he got chance, he ought to call in for a chunk of Peakland Blue. His cat was a bit of a cheese connoisseur and blue cheeses were her favourite.

The pub across the road was called the Devonshire Arms. Of course, Hartington was the Duke of Devonshire’s territory. In this part of Derbyshire every second pub was called either the Devonshire Arms or the Cavendish Arms, after the family name of the owners of Chatsworth House. Even some of the larger houses in the villages had stones featuring the stags’ heads from the family’s coat of arms. The Devonshires were much larger landowners than the Manbys, and always had been. So the owners of Knowle Abbey had bigger neighbours – and grander, too. A duke outranked an earl in the order of precedence, the aristocrats’ league table.

Hartdale Tea Rooms were located in a converted farm building, near the corner of Mill Lane. It had no parking of its own, but it was handily placed between the village centre and the overspill car park further up the lane. The proprietor was alone, except for a teenage girl wiping tables and tidying chairs.

The windows were small – probably because they hadn’t been able to change the original exterior of the barn in view of Hartington’s conservation area status. But it created a cosy feeling inside, even at the beginning of November. Cooper could imagine it would be pleasant in here later in the year with snow falling outside, and the smell of coffee and hot crumpets inside.

Florence Grindey was a woman in her sixties. In his mind Cooper felt as though he ought to be thinking of her as a lady, rather than a woman. She had that air about her. A certain confidence and style natural to people who’d grown up that way. She was tall and slim, with greying hair tied back from well-defined cheekbones. In fact, she resembled an ageing actress. If he’d encountered her in different circumstances, he might have wondered if he’d seen her as a leading lady in films from the 1970s. He would have been sifting through his memories trying to place her name, but failing. Even now he couldn’t say who exactly it was she reminded him of.

‘Miss Grindey? I’m Detective Sergeant Cooper from Edendale CID,’ he said, showing his warrant card. ‘This is my colleague, Detective Constable Irvine.’

Miss Grindey looked flustered for a moment. It was often the way, even with the most law-abiding of citizens. People tended to search their memories, or their consciences, for something they’d done wrong. Almost everyone had broken a law at some time. But Miss Grindey’s search didn’t seem to last long. Her expression changed to concern. It must be bad news.

‘Poor Sandra. It’s so dreadful,’ she said, when Cooper broke the news of her employee’s death to her. ‘Do we know what happened?’

‘Not yet, I’m afraid. But obviously, that’s what we’re trying to find out.’

‘Of course.’

It was odd, that use of ‘we’. It was the tone of a nurse addressing an elderly patient or a mother talking to a child. Not so much a paternal manner, as maternal.

‘So what can I tell you, Detective Sergeant?’

‘First of all we need to trace her movements yesterday. Was she working here?’

‘Yes, but only until lunchtime was over. We’re very quiet on a weekday at this time of the year. Some days we don’t open at all in the winter. We rely on the weekend for most of our business.’

‘So what time did Mrs Blair leave?’

‘Oh, about two-thirty.’

‘Do you have any idea what she was planning to do for the rest of the day? Or in the evening?’

‘None at all.’

‘It was Halloween. You’re sure she didn’t mention any plans?’

Miss Grindey shook her head. ‘I’m sure she didn’t.’

‘Did she seem worried about anything? Was there anything unusual about her manner?’

‘No.’

Cooper turned to look at the teenage girl, who had stopped working to listen to the conversation.

‘Kimberley wasn’t here yesterday,’ said Miss Grindey. ‘She only helps us out part-time, mostly at weekends. Though what I’m going to do now without Sandra…’

‘Even so,’ said Cooper. ‘Might my colleague DC Irvine chat to Kimberley for a few minutes?’

‘I suppose so.’

He nodded at Irvine, who managed to lead the girl into the kitchen area without any reluctance on her part. Irvine might not get anything from her, but at least now she was out of earshot.

Cooper found Miss Grindey watching him expectantly. A knowing expression had come into her eyes.

‘I suppose you’re going to ask me about Sandra Blair’s private life now,’ she said.

‘Well—’

‘It’s always what the police are interested in, isn’t it? The prurient details. The victim’s sex life. How did she get on with her husband? Was there a boyfriend involved?’

‘Well, we know her husband has been dead for several years,’ said Cooper calmly.

‘Indeed.’

‘So was there…?’

He waited patiently. Finally, Miss Grindey sighed. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

Cooper had the feeling she wouldn’t have told him even if she’d known that Sandra Blair had a string of lovers. It was something about the way she’d said the word ‘sex’ in a hushed tone, as if it were a subject never mentioned in a Hartington tea room. He knew that wasn’t the case, of course. When some people got together over a pot of tea, they talked of little else. He was sure that Miss Grindey must be the sort of person who noticed little things about her customers.

‘She never mentioned any friends at all?’ he asked.

‘Not by name,’ said Miss Grindey. ‘She was in a few local organisations, I understand.’

‘Yes. What sort of interests did Mrs Blair have? Did she talk about any of her activities?’

‘Oh, she was interested in all kinds of crafts,’ said Miss Grindey. ‘She brought little things in to show us sometimes. I think it was something she took up after her husband died. Poor dear. You do need something to occupy your time in those circumstances.’

‘Is that why she took the job here too? I mean … no offence, Miss Grindey, but it was hardly launching herself into a new career, was it?’

‘No, you’re right.’ Miss Grindey lowered her voice. ‘Actually, I believe she needed the money.’

‘Oh?’

‘Her husband’s death didn’t leave her very well off, from what I gather. She was able to buy her little cottage at Crowdecote. But even that wasn’t cheap. I’m sure you know what property prices are like in this area.’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Cooper.

The unexpected jolt of memory made him gulp. He’d spent many months looking at properties with Liz, when they were planning their future. He could probably have put an accurate asking price on anything on the market below two hundred thousand pounds. And he knew there were many houses to be found at that price.

‘I think it was thanks to a life insurance policy that she was able to do that,’ said Miss Grindey. ‘Otherwise she would have been stuck in rented accommodation.’

‘Didn’t she have a house to sell when her husband died?’

Miss Grindey shook her head. ‘Oh, no. Until he died they lived at Bowden.’

‘Of course.’

Cooper mentally kicked himself for his naive question. Bowden was one of the estate villages for Knowle Abbey and its residents were all tenants. Their landlord was the owner of the Knowle estate, Lord Manby himself. He owned Bowden.

‘We urgently need to track down Sandra Blair’s family,’ said Cooper.

‘She has a sister in Scotland.’

‘So I understand. Do you have any idea of the sister’s name or where she lives?’

‘No, I’m sorry.’

He looked across at Irvine, who seemed to have finished with young Kimberley.

‘You could try Mr Naden,’ said Miss Grindey, finally volunteering information now that she sensed the police were about leave her tea rooms.

Cooper turned back to her. ‘Who?’

‘Mr Naden. He and his wife come in here for afternoon tea sometimes. I always had the impression that they knew Sandra quite well. Not that they chatted or anything. But just the way they spoke to each other, you know.’

‘I know,’ said Cooper, glad that his instinct about her had been correct. ‘Thank you for your time, Miss Grindey.’

‘I don’t know their address, but Geoff Naden looks after the churchyard,’ she said. ‘You might find him there.’