‘Oh, Gamble. The local vigilante nut job?’ said Murfin.
‘I don’t think he’s a total nut job.’
‘He’s a good actor, then. He gets my vote for the Oscar.’
‘I know what you mean. But he’s just eccentric. There used to be one in every village. But he seems particularly out of place in Riddings.’
Murfin shoved his hands in his pockets, considering the property in front of them.
‘No house-to-house, then. I’m devastated. What about my hill?’
‘I’ll find you a mountain of paperwork to climb instead,’ said Cooper.
‘Oh, thanks.’
They went back down the drive to where a long roll of crime-scene tape had been used to cordon off another gateway. Murfin paused, and looked back at Fourways.
‘You know what, Ben? If I lived in Riddings, I’d have my house on the market by now,’ he said. ‘Too many murders bring down the tone of an area. It really ruins the character of a place.’
One of the SOCOs glanced round from the back of the crime-scene van as Murfin walked past. They all tended to look a bit indistinguishable in their shapeless blue scene suits, especially with their hoods up and masks on. But Cooper recognised this SOCO from her size and the way she moved. He didn’t have to wait to see her eyes over the top of her mask.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi, you.’
‘One day we’ll stop meeting like this.’
They both spoke in lowered voices, conscious of the comments they would get if colleagues saw them chatting at a crime scene.
‘So, where were you?’ asked Liz.
‘When?’
‘Last night. You said you were going to explain something. But I never even saw you. Never heard a peep from you all evening.’
‘Look at this,’ said Cooper. ‘This is where I was.’
‘But I heard you were already in the area when it happened.’
‘Yes, I was,’ admitted Cooper.
She came a bit closer.
‘Ben,’ she said, her tone switching from accusation to concern. ‘You’re not…?’
‘What?’ he said, suddenly afraid of what she was going to say.
‘You’re not getting obsessed with the case, are you? I know what you’re like. You’ll be letting it take up every minute of your time if someone doesn’t stop you. And no one will thank you for it, you know.’
‘I don’t think it’s like that.’
‘I hope not. Because I’m the one who’ll have to stop you. I need some of your time for myself.’ She lifted a case of equipment from the van and gave him a wink. ‘Besides, you definitely can’t be like that when we’re married.’
‘Shush.’
‘It’s not going to be a secret for long. We need to talk…’ She broke off as the crime-scene manager came out of the house to look for her. ‘Later.’
Carol Villiers and the rest of the team were already at their desks in West Street, busy with phone calls, following up contacts from residents in Riddings during the night. Most of them were complaints about noise from the party, or the police helicopter frightening their horses. But they all had to be checked out.
‘Well I don’t know about you, but I’ve been busy,’ said Villiers. ‘All the work is done back at the office, like you said.’
‘Yes, it is. Sometimes I think it would be nice to have a desk job.’
She studied him more closely. ‘Actually, you look shattered, Ben. Didn’t you get much sleep?’
‘No, I couldn’t get last night out of my mind.’
‘It wasn’t your fault.’
‘If I’d been able to take control of the situation, instead of letting that chaos go on…’
‘It wouldn’t have made any difference to Mr Holland.’
‘Maybe not. But we might have been pursuing the real suspects instead of letting Barry Gamble and a bunch of drunken kids lead us on a wild goose chase. Damn it.’
‘Well, let’s put that aside. I got the intel you wanted. And a bit more besides.’
Luke Irvine and Becky Hurst came over and joined them, forming a tight-knit group around Cooper’s desk.
‘There was one thing I was thinking about,’ said Cooper. ‘Mr Nowak said they had a break-in at Lane End a while ago.’
‘Yes, I found the incident log.’
‘What was the outcome?’
‘Finalised at source,’ said Villiers.
‘Oh, great.’
‘Finalised at source’ was the current euphemism for a decision not to investigate a crime. A lack of evidence, low priority, a judgement that there was no prospect of a successful outcome. Whatever the reasons, the report could be signed off, provided the victim was notified of the decision within five working days and issued with a Victim of Crime leaflet. That was the Code of Practice, by the letter.
Cooper sighed. When you did things by the book, the results could depend on which book you were using. It was hardly an unusual story, though. At the serious end of crime, money was rarely a major issue. But at the bottom end, forensic resources were considered too expensive to be justified.
‘They did get a visit from Victim Support,’ said Villiers.
‘What about Richard Nowak?’ said Cooper. ‘Any convictions?’
‘Nothing on him.’
‘Really? So much for the Russian mafia theory, then.’
‘Definitely a red herring,’ laughed Villiers. ‘It might almost have been intended to distract us from the real villain in Riddings.’
Detecting a tone of significance in her voice, Cooper looked up and caught the smile on her face. A bit self-satisfied, perhaps. But right now, he was glad to see it. That smile suggested that someone had made some progress. If Carol had discovered a new lead, she was entitled to feel as pleased with herself as she wanted to be.
‘Come on. Spill it.’
Villiers nodded. ‘Mr Kaye.’
‘Wait.’ Cooper located Kaye on the map of Riddings. ‘Tyler Kaye at Moorside House? What about him?’
‘He’s well known.’
Now Cooper was interested. ‘Well known’ in this context meant only one thing – an individual with a substantial criminal record, whose name cropped up frequently in the intelligence system.
‘He’s a Sheffield villain,’ said Villiers. ‘And a major player, by all accounts. I’m just waiting for a return call from the Regional Intelligence Unit.’
‘But he’s a celebrity,’ protested Irvine. ‘He runs a string of clubs across the north of England. He puts on gigs. His company manages some well-known bands.’
‘And your point is?’ said Hurst.
‘Okay,’ said Cooper. ‘I can see he’s likely to have some form from way back. Drugs, I suppose? Links to organised crime? It seems to go with the territory. But it’s not what we’re looking for, is it?’
Villiers looked at him with a frown. ‘Unless the Barrons and the Hollands had both upset him at some time. It sounds as though he’s the only one who might have the right contacts.’
That made Irvine laugh. ‘What, to put a hit on his neighbours?’
‘It’s not what we’re looking for,’ repeated Cooper.
‘Oh, do we actually know what we’re looking for?’ asked Villiers.
‘Well… maybe not. But I think I’ll know it when I hear it. What about the others?’
‘There’s nothing on the PNC – none of them has a criminal record.’
‘Shame.’
‘But…’
‘But? Have you found something, Carol?’
‘Yes.’
‘Brilliant.’
‘It’s a county-court hearing.’
‘A civil case, then? Is it relevant?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
Cooper felt the familiar surge of interest, sparked by the tone of her voice. ‘Which of them was involved?’
‘Nowak and the Barrons,’ said Villiers. ‘It was a dispute over ownership of a piece of land. The judge said it was ludicrous to drag a petty argument between neighbours into court. It must have cost them both a fortune in legal fees. The lawyers are the only winners in a case like that, aren’t they? But you know how these things go. Nobody wants to back down.’
‘So who won?’
‘Well, that’s debatable. Reading the reports, it sounds as though they both thought they’d lost the case. Neither of them really got what they wanted, you see. Not completely. The judge thought he was achieving a reasonable compromise, but neither of the parties involved seems to have been in any mood to find a middle ground.’