‘In the choke, the extra exertion of climbing over the rocks would increase the effects of CO2, and the lower levels of oxygen. A short trip is fine in those conditions. But if you stay in too long—’
‘I understand.’
The remnants of his own team had wandered back into Lathkill Dale and arrived at the rendezvous point. Only Carol Villiers and Gavin Murfin were left now, and he could see from their faces that there was no good news.
‘We interviewed the people at the Lathkill Hotel in Over Haddon,’ said Villiers. ‘We also went to the Mandale campsite, and the Reckoning House camping barn. Nothing.’
‘Have you checked the car park at Over Haddon?’
‘Yes. Nobody has seen any suspicious vehicles. There were only a few cars there and we accounted for them all.’
‘It was amazing,’ said Murfin.
‘What was?’
‘I went in the toilets there. Do you know there are pot plants in the gents? And they’d been watered recently too.’
‘Okay, you can call it a day. We can manage here.’
‘See you tomorrow then, boss.’
The afternoon was getting late. Cooper knew he was no use here for now. He had to leave the search to the experts and hope they came up with something. It was time for him to get back to the office and do his own job. But he wanted to get one last look inside this mine.
‘Inspector—’
‘I won’t go far in,’ he said.
Cooper’s urge was to go deeper in, and deeper, to keep going through the tunnels and shafts of the mine until he found what he was looking for. But if he got trapped or lost, it would only create more problems for the search team and put others at risk. He had to take some responsibility.
‘Inspector, we need you to come back out, please. It might not be safe without proper equipment.’
‘All right, I’m coming,’ he said.
He couldn’t resist taking one last look at the tunnel, a final sweep of his torch. The depth of the darkness was unnerving. It was easy to imagine anything in here. Yet anything, he felt, would be far better than nothing at all.
28
The twelve-mile drive up the A6 from Bakewell to Buxton was always spectacular, whatever the time of year. As autumn approached, it came into its best with the changing colours of the trees. On the final stretch, the River Wye ran right alongside the road as it twisted and turned through the limestone quarries and railway bridges near Pig Tor and Cowdale.
A massive restoration project had been going on in Buxton to renovate the Georgian Crescent. It had been built by the fifth Duke of Devonshire as part of his scheme to establish Buxton as a fashionable spa town, but had stood empty for years. An eighty-bed five-star hotel and thermal spa was due to open next year, a project estimated to have cost forty-six million pounds. Judging from the signs on the safety fencing, this was where Martina Curtis’s National Lottery money was being spent. All those scratch-card purchases were helping to restore The Crescent in Buxton.
The bell of St John’s Church was ringing the hour as they arrived. Parked in the square outside the opera house was a miniature red double-decker bus that took tourists round the town.
They mounted the steps of the opera house among a tide of people and entered the tiled lobby. The various parts of the auditorium were reached by a maze of narrow passages and even narrower stairs. Signs pointed to the stalls, dress circle, upper circle, gallery, and a series of boxes on either side of the stage.
They had seats in the centre of the dress circle on Row A, looking down into the stalls. He found he had to lean forward to see what was happening at the front edge of the stage.
‘Do you want to rent a pair of opera glasses?’
‘Why not? It’s only a pound.’
For a moment he wondered how much Chloe Young had paid for the tickets. The programme was expensive enough.
Cooper couldn’t remember much about his last visit here. But the interior of the building was vaguely familiar.
Stained glass on the promenades, ladies bar on Upper Circle floor with a portrait of Arthur Willoughby, a Victorian gentleman. Brass lights, a brass rail on the parapet at the bottom of the aisle. Iron radiators painted gold. A theatre manager’s box to the right of the stage, and a box containing the lighting controls.
It was a long drop from the dress circle to the stalls.
‘It was designed by Frank Matcham,’ said Chloe. ‘He was the architect of many famous Edwardian theatres. I think of it as being like a miniature London Coliseum. Grand, but on the scale of a dolls’ house.’
‘I’ll have to take your word for it. I’ve never been to the London Coliseum.’
They settled themselves in the plush green seats. Cooper looked up at the ornate, domed ceiling. He’d never visited the Sistine Chapel in Rome, but he imagined it was painted something like this. Flocks of cherubs and angels floating on clouds and an immense amount of gilt had been used in the decoration of the interior. Gold edging glinted everywhere. Buxton Opera House was a little jewel box of a building.
Panels on either side of the stage commemorated William Shakespeare and Arthur Sullivan. Criterion Strawberry ice-cream tubs were for sale at £2.50, orange lollies £2. He found a tiny gents down a set of steps by the Stalls Bar.
Cooper found himself fascinated by the boxes. On this side, Box C stood over the stalls, while Box D directly overlooked the stage, with Box F above it. They were tiny, containing no more than two or three seats.
The orchestra filed into the pit and he knew they were close to the start. He spent a couple of minutes reading the synopsis of the story in the programme. But soon the lights went down and the curtains opened, revealing a candlelit church. The cast seemed to be dressed in ornate costumes with ruffles, frock coats and swords, but he couldn’t quite place the period and location.
‘When is this performance set?’ whispered Cooper.
‘The year eighteen hundred in Rome. Didn’t you read it in the programme?’
As a screen spooled out the words in English, Cooper did his best to follow the plot. It seemed to be about a painter called Cavaradossi who helped a fugitive to escape justice and attracted the attention of a sadistic police chief, Scarpia. He was quite a villain too. Heartless and malevolent, pursuing his prey ruthlessly. He was always introduced by dark, demonic music that contrasted with the arias of Cavaradossi and his lover, Tosca.
After torturing him, Scarpia ordered the execution of Cavaradossi, but promised Tosca that the firing squad would fire blanks if she gave herself to him. Thinking she’d achieved their freedom, Tosca stabbed the evil Scarpia. But the police chief had lied, and Cavaradossi was killed. Tosca ended up throwing herself off the ramparts of the castle.
Tosca was described in the programme as ‘a roller-coaster story of love, lust, murder and political intrigue’. As Becky Hurst had said, pretty much the usual.
‘How long does it go on?’ he asked Chloe.
‘This is only the first act.’
‘I know.’
‘About two and a quarter hours, with intermissions.’
Cooper was impressed by Scarpia’s gloomy study with a hidden torture chamber where Cavaradossi’s screams came from, and he liked the sound effects — from the distant cannon fire during the Te Deum in Act One to the tolling of church bells and the sudden rattling shots of the firing squad.
He could see that Scarpia had a manipulative mind. The police chief had calculated that he could succeed in his objective by turning the strength of Tosca’s passion to his own advantage. There was a moment towards the end of Act One, when the chorus came in on Scarpia’s Te Deum that made Cooper sit up. There was one familiar aria later in the piece. Tosca’s Vissi d’arte.