‘How about Mr Edson?’
Mrs Holland sniffed. ‘You’re joking. Edson wouldn’t get his hands dirty with a job like that. He wouldn’t even think it was worth getting a speck of mud on his green wellingtons. Though I’m surprised he didn’t send the gardener down to do some work on his behalf.’
‘Anyone else you knew?’
‘I think they were mostly people from Calver or Froggatt. Plus a couple of national park rangers.’
‘What time did you come back?’ asked Villiers. ‘You weren’t working in the dark, I’m sure.’
Mrs Holland laughed. ‘Oh, no. Most of us went for a drink at the Bridge Inn afterwards. It’s thirsty work, you know. And it was our last session together, so it was a kind of celebration drink. Or two.’
‘Or three,’ said her husband.
‘Well, some of us, perhaps.’ She looked at him accusingly. ‘Anyway, that meant it was dark when we came home. So it was after nine o’clock, I suppose. Possibly nearer ten.’
‘Is the balsam bashing finished, then?’ asked Cooper.
‘Until next year. Why, were you thinking of volunteering?’
‘I don’t think I’d have time.’
‘That’s what everyone says.’
‘I suppose they do.’
‘Do you know many of the residents of Riddings?’ asked Villiers.
‘Quite a few,’ said Holland. ‘More than most do, I’d say. We’re quite gregarious, and like to say hello when we’re passing. But you don’t get people coming together much in this village.’
‘That’s right,’ said his wife. ‘There’s no pub here, or anywhere else to meet. We only have the chapel, and that’s just for a few particular individuals. The annual show is about the only time you see people together.’
‘Oh, Riddings Show?’ asked Cooper.
‘Yes, it’s this Saturday, as it happens. Always on the bank holiday weekend. For some folk in this village it’s the one day of the year that they actually see each other. It’s funny, they might have spent the previous twelve months avoiding someone, but everyone goes to the show. Everyone. You have to put in an appearance.’
‘A question of being accepted, looking respectable?’
‘Not everyone is all that respectable,’ said Holland.
‘Yes, we do have the Russian mafia living in Riddings,’ said his wife.
Cooper raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you?’
‘Mr Nowak at Lane End. You must have spoken to him.’
‘Yes. His family is Polish.’
Holland shrugged. ‘Sarah rather likes the idea of having a criminal as a neighbour. As long as he’s a major drugs baron, or the head of an organised crime syndicate. Nothing petty, you know. But then he’d have to be a particularly successful criminal if he can afford to live at Lane End.’
‘We don’t know much about him,’ Mrs Holland admitted.
Cooper nodded, noting that she knew enough about him to pronounce the ‘w’ in his name as a ‘v’.
‘You must see a few strangers around in the village,’ put in Villiers.
‘Of course, there are all kinds of people hanging around Riddings at times. Tourists. They walk through the village and take photos of almost anything. Sometimes I see them with their cameras pointing apparently at random, and I want to ask them what on earth there is to photograph. I mean, what? A tree? A wall?’
Cooper nodded, thinking: Or a burglar alarm?
‘We’re quaint,’ said Mrs Holland. ‘That’s what it is.’
Her husband snorted. ‘Quaint. Nonsense.’
‘I bet we are if you live on a council estate in Sheffield.’
‘Thank you,’ said Cooper, as he and Villiers turned to go.
Before they were halfway down the drive, Mrs Holland called after them.
‘It’ll be in the paper this week. The balsam bashing, I mean. We all had our photograph taken before we started.’
Cooper started the car, and waited for a white van to pass on Curbar Lane, heading towards the centre of the village.
‘This is getting quite exciting,’ said Villiers. ‘Meteor showers, balsam bashing, gravel… I hardly know what’s going to come up next.’
‘Sarcasm,’ said Cooper.
‘No. Actually, I’m really starting to get into it.’
Cooper shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t think we’re making progress quickly enough.’
‘Well, there should be some results coming in from forensics soon, shouldn’t there? That ought to provide some lines of inquiry. I presume there’s been a thorough forensic sweep at Valley View?’
‘Of course,’ said Cooper. ‘But… well, I could be wrong.’
She looked at him curiously. ‘Are you often wrong, Ben?’
‘No comment.’
‘You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘Having a murder case to work on gives you a kick.’
‘It does,’ admitted Cooper. ‘I think a lot of officers would say that, if they were to tell the truth.’
She nodded. ‘I always felt like that. Even when you know people around you are getting killed, the excitement of the moment carries you along. There’s nothing like it, really. It’s not something the public back home get to hear about, but I saw a lot of guys really high on the adrenalin rush of being shot at. And being able to shoot back, of course.’
‘In my case,’ said Cooper, ‘I think it’s the shooting back that I like. Speaking metaphorically, obviously.’
‘Catching the bad guys.’
‘Or at least making life difficult for them.’
‘So where to now, then?’ she said.
‘South Croft. Mrs Slattery, widow of Dr Slattery.’
Cooper pulled out into Curbar Lane and turned past the horse trough into The Green, where the mobile library was parked. It was right what he’d said, that they didn’t seem to be making any progress. For some reason, a phrase that Superintendent Branagh had used was running through his head. Time isn’t on our side. Cooper’s subconscious had rephrased it and set it to the tune of the old Stones song. It seemed to change the emphasis, refine the meaning. Time is not on our side. Time is NOT on our side.
A woman walking her dog turned to watch them go by. A few yards further on, the driver of the mobile library stared at them until they’d passed. A pair of hikers stopped abruptly on The Hill and gaped as if they were members of a travelling circus.
Forget about surveillance. In this village, Cooper had the feeling that he was the one being watched.
11
Mrs Slattery was ill. She’d taken to her bed, sedated by her GP as a result of the stress she was going through. All this business in Riddings had really upset her. If the police didn’t sort it out soon, it would kill her.
At least that was what her son said. He faced Cooper and Villiers on the doorstep of South Croft, his arms folded, an aggressive scowl on his face. The very image of a perfect guard dog.
‘She didn’t see anything, anyway,’ he said. ‘On Tuesday she’d been down at some community effort that she was keen on. I don’t know what
…’
‘The balsam bashing?’
‘Something like that. Well, Mum’s not up to that sort of malarkey, not anything physical. She soon got tired, and one of the organisers brought her home. She went straight to bed and she was fast asleep by the time it all kicked off. Never heard a thing.’
‘I see.’
Slattery looked from Cooper to Villiers challengingly. ‘Since then she’s been frightened out of her wits thinking that it could have been her that got attacked, worrying about what might happen next. That’s why I came down to stay with her for a bit. The tablets are helping, but I don’t want her being harassed by you lot. Or any of those pillocks in the village either.’
‘Who do you mean, sir?’ asked Villiers politely.
‘Any of them. They’re all cut from the same cloth. If my dad was still alive, he wouldn’t have taken any nonsense. But Mum is on her own, and she can’t cope with it all.’
‘The Barrons?’
‘Well, that Jake Barron is a real piece of work. Mind you, I could say the same about a lot of people in Riddings – look at the teacher who beat up one of his own pupils, the gangster from Moorside House who drives round in the BMW, the dodgy East European businessman, the mad character at Riddings Lodge…’