‘It was probably rotten,’ said Villiers when she saw him examining it.
‘No, it isn’t. The wood is perfectly sound.’
‘Something smashed it, then.’
A road wound steeply down from Over Haddon past a tea rooms to an old mill and a ford over the river. Cooper went back to his car parked at the bottom of the road.
‘I’ll have to go and tell Naomi Heath,’ he said. ‘And I’ll see if she can tell whether there’s anything missing from the wallet.’
‘Rather you than than me,’ said Villiers.
‘It has to be done.’
Jackdaws chattered in the trees above the mill. The first yellow leaves had begun to fall, drifting downhill towards the river.
‘And what about the daughter?’ said Villiers.
‘Lacey? Her too. I want her down here in Lathkill Dale. Let’s see what else she can remember.’
At West Street, Cooper had another call waiting for him from Detective Superintendent Branagh.
First she wanted him to bring her up to date with the Reece Bower inquiry and what progress he was making. She gave her go-ahead for the search of Lathkill Dale, but Cooper could tell she was concerned about the extent of it, and how long the search was going to take. That translated to how much it was going to cost. But budgets were a superintendent’s job to justify, thank goodness.
After he’d filled her in on the details, Cooper could tell that there was something else on Branagh’s mind.
‘Ma’am?’
‘Ben, I need you to meet with EMSOU,’ she said. ‘Their intelligence unit have come up with some information they want to share with us.’
‘In relation to one of our cases?’
‘No, theirs.’
‘Ma’am, I’m at a critical stage in the Reece Bower inquiry,’ said Cooper. ‘It’s no longer just a missing person. We’ve had some significant finds in Lathkill Dale which suggest we might have to upgrade it to a murder inquiry.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Branagh. ‘I do read the reports. And I appreciate that I was the one who sent you there in the first place. I hate to take you away from it and put more work on to you. But, to be honest... well, there isn’t anyone else. No one that I would trust this much.’
From anyone else that might be a meaningless platitude, just so much fake praise. But Cooper had never heard Detective Superintendent Branagh use platitudes. She had never felt the need. So he had to believe her.
‘Who should I speak to, ma’am?’
Branagh hesitated, and in that second of silence Cooper knew whose name she was going to give him.
‘Detective Sergeant Fry is in the area,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Cooper, ‘I know.’
Diane Fry answered Cooper’s call promptly.
‘Did you say you know where Shirebrook is?’ she began, without any pretence of small talk.
‘Obviously.’
‘Can you get there tonight?’
‘Tonight? To Shirebrook?’
‘Yes. Meet me in the market square. You know my car. I’ve still got the black Audi.’
‘It’s about thirty miles from Edendale,’ said Cooper. ‘Right over the other side of Chesterfield. It would take me about three quarters of an hour.’
‘I’ll see you later then,’ she said, and ended the call.
Cooper opened his mouth to ask why she wanted him in Shirebrook, but she’d already gone. How should he respond to her demand? He could just not go, in which case somebody else might be given the job and he would never find out what she wanted to tell him. And the times she’d offered to share information or ask for his help were rare enough that he didn’t want to pass up the opportunity.
And what else was he doing tonight? The answer was ‘nothing’, of course.
22
A light rain had begun to fall. Ben Cooper could feel it on his face, though it was leaving hardly any impression on the concrete.
Cooper had parked his RAV4 in one of the car parks behind the shops and walked through into the marketplace. It looked pretty bleak.
On the way into Shirebrook he’d passed a dilapidated pub. A sign on the wall had said POKOJE DO WYNAJECIA OD £65 W TYM RACHUNKI — Rooms for Rent £65 a week including bills. POLEC LOKATORA A OTRZYMASZ £25 — Refer a friend and receive £25 cashback. Near a pond by the side of the road the notices said ZAKAZ WEDKOWANIA, ZAKAZ WSTEPU — No fishing, no public access.
At one time, these signs would have looked very odd. They would certainly have had local people scratching their heads. But everyone in this area had learned a few words of Polish by now. The polski sklep had become as traditional a feature of the British high street as WH Smith or Boots. Even English people had been tempted to buy Polish bread, pierogi, kielbasa, sauerkraut, or pickled cucumbers.
Cooper saw Fry’s black Audi and climbed into the passenger seat.
‘It’s hardly the Peak District, is it?’ said Fry.
‘But still Derbyshire.’
‘So you said.’
‘It’s quiet too.’
‘There’s a Public Space Protection Order,’ said Fry.
‘I know. It’s a shame.’
‘Why?’
‘The trouble with PSPOs is that they give local authorities the power to criminalise behaviour that isn’t normally criminal. And they aren’t just directed at an individual, like an ASBO is. Their geographical definition makes anyone liable to prosecution in a particular area. It kills a place like this. Shirebrook used to be full of pubs. Now most of them seem to be closed.’
Cooper watched buses come into the stops and a few people getting on. The number twenty-three to Mansfield, the number eighty-two to Chesterfield. A man passed along the pavement riding a mobility scooter with two England flags attached to the back of the seat.
‘My dad was stationed here when he was a young bobby,’ said Cooper, ‘many years ago, before the Miners’ Strike in the mid-1980s. Shirebrook was a very different place then. The strike tore it apart. You remember what the Miners’ Strike was like.’
‘I don’t think we had the Miners’ Strike in Birmingham,’ said Fry.
Cooper snorted. ‘You just weren’t interested, I suppose. You were more concerned with other things.’
‘Probably.’
‘But in places like Shirebrook, it meant everything. For a lot of these old ex-miners, the strike is still fresh in their memories. Still a raw wound. They blame everything that’s happened to them since on the Thatcher government and the closure of the pits.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Fry. ‘It was more than thirty years ago.’
‘Thirty years is nothing. Not to some of these people.’
‘I can’t believe that.’
Cooper had often had to remind himself that Diane Fry came from a different background. She wasn’t just from the West Midlands and a city girl. She’d also been a graduate entrant to the police service, with a degree in Crime and Policing from Birmingham City University.
Yet these days Fry was starting to look over-qualified. Even Cooper’s modest A levels had become unnecessary, since Derbyshire Constabulary had recently reduced the qualifications for entry. In fact, there were no longer any educational requirements at all, not even the old minimum of a level three NVQ. Now it was enough to demonstrate training or experience that the Chief Constable might consider the equivalent. It was all about expanding the pool of potential recruits and encouraging people from under-represented groups to apply. The change had been made in time for the next recruitment window, which opened for applications later in the month.
‘I’ve read up on your murder case,’ said Cooper. ‘Krystian Zalewski, found dead from stab wounds in his flat. He was apparently attacked in an alleyway off Shirebrook marketplace.’
‘That’s right.’