‘Was it generally believed that the Barrons had valuable items in the house?’
‘Obviously. The builders knew it, the neighbours knew it, anyone coming to the house knew. They never tried to make any secret of how rich they were. Far from it. She told me once how much the taps in their bathroom had cost. It was enough to buy me a new car.’
‘I wasn’t really thinking of bath taps. Antiques, maybe. Or a lot of cash in the house?’
Gamble looked at Cooper thoughtfully, giving him his full attention for the first time.
‘Well, if you’re asking me, I’d say yes. People like that don’t make their money by paying income tax, do they? I wouldn’t be surprised to find a cupboard stuffed with cash. And I bet they wouldn’t keep quiet about it, either.’
‘What about the Barrons’ neighbours?’
‘Well, you’ve got the Hollands on one side, at Fourways. They’re mostly harmless. Spend their time walking and picking flowers, or some such. There’s the Kaye bloke at Moorside. He arrived in the village like the Queen visiting the natives. He’s never spoken to me yet, the stuck-up bugger. I never got inside the gate either.’
‘Interesting. And the Chadwicks? They’re nearest to you, but you haven’t mentioned them yet.’
Gamble’s lips tightened. For once, he seemed to be reluctant to answer.
‘Mr Chadwick is a teacher, I believe.’
Still Gamble was silent. His expression suggested that he was searching his memory for something to say. Something that would give the right impression, perhaps. Finally Mrs Gamble offered some information.
‘The Chadwicks are having a party tomorrow night,’ she said. ‘Their daughter has just got her A level results.’
‘A stars,’ burst out Gamble. ‘She was screeching about it to her friends on her mobile phone all day long. A stars. They all get A stars these days. It doesn’t mean a thing. In my day, you were lucky to get a few O levels.’
‘Well, perhaps not everyone…’
‘The bloody Chadwicks think their child is an intellectual and artistic miracle, of course. Gifted at everything. A genius, but perfectly normal at the same time.’
‘And Mr Edson at Riddings Lodge?’
‘Oh, the lottery winner. We don’t see much of him.’
‘Lottery winner?’
‘So they say. Won millions on the rollover, he did. Bought Riddings Lodge and some place in Tuscany. Took on a housekeeper and moved his mother in to live a life of luxury. You see him swanning about in a brand-new Jag, or sometimes a vintage MG in the summer.’
‘Oh, I think I might have met him.’
‘Lucky you.’
Cooper thought of the man who had stopped his car in the village earlier to offer a piece of his mind.
‘It’s about time I had a word with him, I think. On his own territory.’
Gamble was wearing brown corduroy trousers that were getting rather baggy at the knees. When he stepped outside to follow Cooper to the gate, he pulled on a dark grey fleece over his faded checked shirt.
At the gate, he gazed up and down the street, his protruding ears almost flapping, the beads on his cowboy hat rattling quietly. He was like a Native American scout, scenting buffalo.
Cooper moved closer to Gamble. He noticed that the sleeves of his fleece were covered with small burrs and thorns that had snagged in the wool. He thought of suggesting that a woollen fleece wasn’t the best garment to wear when squeezing through hedges or climbing fences. But he decided against it.
Cooper drove the Toyota up the hill and turned up the small lane that ran past the back of Fourways. He was immediately faced with ‘Private Road’ signs and warnings that there was no public right of way. He slowed the car almost to a crawl as he reached a blind bend between high hedges. You wouldn’t want to meet something coming the other way.
At the end, a driveway went off to the left towards Lane End. On his right, he was facing a set of gates.
These gates weren’t just black wrought iron like the others he’d seen. They were decorated with gold highlights, and had gilt finials and scrollwork. It was as if they had pretensions to be the entrance to Buckingham Palace. They exuded an air of having gone one better than their neighbours. There would have been no doubt in Cooper’s mind who lived behind them, even if the name of the house hadn’t been prominently displayed. Riddings Lodge.
Cooper pressed a button on the entry phone and waited for an answer.
‘Yes?’
‘Police, sir. Detective Sergeant Cooper, Edendale CID.’
‘Do you have identification?’
‘Yes, of course. But-’
‘There’s a camera.’
‘Okay, I see it.’
Cooper held his warrant card up towards the lens of a camera mounted so that it was pointing directly at the area in front of the gates. After a moment, he heard the click and hum of the gates beginning to open.
‘All right.’
The voice didn’t sound very welcoming. But not many people managed to give a good impression through the speaker on an entry phone.
Cooper drove on to a vast paved area around a central water feature, with a fountain and stone cherubs. It was like driving into a Roman piazza. Well, a Roman piazza with imitation Victorian gas lamps. When he saw the house, at first it looked modern. Everything shiny and new, like an illustration from a high-end property brochure. He was thinking of an upmarket country hotel. Then he noticed that it featured several decorative arched leaded windows, as if the owner had changed his mind and decided to live in a bishop’s palace instead.
Although he couldn’t see the extent of the grounds, he sensed that they must be enormous. All he could make out from the piazza was a large monkey puzzle tree, its shape suggesting a mature specimen, with deep green leaves forming dense clusters at the top. A male tree, judging by the cones.
He was greeted at the door of the house by a woman in an apron, who introduced herself as the housekeeper. She led him into a hallway, watched him carefully as he wiped his feet, then escorted him across an expanse of carpet so soft and springy that he felt as though he was walking on a trampoline. A good jump and bounce, and his head would almost touch that crystal chandelier.
He entered a room filled with a confusingly diverse range of furniture and ornaments. Porcelain vases, a brass bar ometer, a large tapestry showing figures against a background of stylised foliage and towers. There were so many items he felt as though he’d just walked into an antiques shop.
The man he’d seen in the metallic blue Jaguar XF was sitting at a large round glass table. His image was reflected perfectly in its surface, as if he was looking out over a pool of clear, still water. Iron-grey hair swept back, a sardonic eyebrow, a loud and commanding tone of voice.
‘Russell Edson. This is my mother, Glenys.’
Edson didn’t bother getting up, didn’t offer to shake hands. The gesture towards the plump lady with the blue rinse was fairly perfunctory too. He seemed supremely confident about who was important in this room, and who wasn’t. So far, he was only counting himself in the first category.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr Edson.’
‘Well, I hope you have some news, Sergeant. Made a quick arrest, have you? No, I suppose that would be too much to hope for from our local constabulary.’
‘It’s early days yet, sir,’ said Cooper, falling back on a stock phrase to cover what he would really have liked to say.
‘Early days? Of course, I expect you like to take your time. Judging from the speed that things happen around here, we’ll all be in our graves by the time you crack the case.’
Cooper recalled the number plate of the Jag that Edson had been driving – RSE1. He could think of a few possibilities for what ‘S’ stood for. He could hear Gavin Murfin’s voice in his head. Russell Soddin’ Edson.