‘The show looks busy,’ he said. ‘Good turnout?’
‘Not bad,’ she said. ‘But it’s difficult to keep things going. We’re lucky that so many people give their services for nothing. We wouldn’t manage without that. The children’s entertainer, for example.’
‘Doctor Woof?’
She nodded. ‘He’s not charging us a penny. He seems to do it for love. We hadn’t even thought of getting an entertainer until he volunteered his services. It’s wonderful that people want so much to be here at the show.’
A man in a cotton trilby had stopped nearby, seeming to overhear their conversation.
‘Did you say you were police?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Cooper.
‘I don’t mean any disrespect, but…’
Cooper sighed. ‘I know, I know.’
Whenever the sun came out, he felt warm in his waterproof. People folded their umbrellas and carried them like swords. Entering the produce tent was fraught with danger as he dodged the lethal ferrules.
A line-up of classic cars was attracting attention. Cooper was surprised to see not only vintage Rollers and Humbers, but a yellow 1975 Hillman Imp. He dimly remembered a neighbouring farmer driving one of those when he was a child. He and Matt used to make fun of him whenever they saw it going past. They called it the sardine can. The Imp had looked totally cheesy then, back in the 1970s. Now it was a classic.
At the end of the row stood a Mark III Zodiac, with a sign appealing for spare parts. These cars must be a headache to keep running. And an immense drain on money, he was sure. He saw Russell Edson’s name on a red 1967 MG convertible with big headlamps and indicator lights on the wheel arches. There was a man with money to burn, anyway.
‘Mr Edson seems to be fascinated by the children’s entertainer,’ said Villiers.
‘So he is.’ Cooper frowned at the figure in the panama hat and white scarf. ‘That’s a bit strange. I hope it’s not the children he’s interested in.’
‘It doesn’t seem to be,’ said Villiers. ‘I’ve been watching him for a few minutes, and he hasn’t even glanced at any of the kids.’
‘Perhaps he missed out on magicians and clowns in his childhood.’
‘And oh, look,’ said Villiers. ‘The missing element has made its appearance.’
She indicated a man in a black sweatshirt and a bright red baseball cap. He wore wraparound shades and a dark goatee beard shaved into an unnaturally geometrical shape. He was accompanied by a young blonde woman.
Cooper frowned. ‘Who is that?’
‘Ben, you’re getting so out of touch.’
‘Am I?’
‘Luke Irvine would tell you straight away who that is.’
‘Oh, wait a minute. Is it…?’
‘Mr Terence Kaye, also known as Tyler Kaye or Tyler K.’
‘Our missing celebrity. I wonder why he doesn’t want to be known as Terence.’
‘Yes, I wonder.’
‘He’s been abroad, hasn’t he? Owns other homes somewhere.’
‘One in Florida at least, they say. He isn’t seen in Derbyshire much during the winter.’
Cooper smiled. ‘No, I can imagine.’
He could, too. A Pennine winter wouldn’t appeal to the likes of Mr Kaye. Not when the wind howled over the edge and rain and snow blew down the hillside on to the houses of Riddings. Your outdoor swimming pool and barbecue patio weren’t much use then. Your tennis court would fall into disuse, and the paddocks would turn into mud. Even in August, those shades Kaye was wearing looked out of place. If he was seen with them on in January or February, he’d be followed around by small children chanting and throwing stones.
On a word from Kaye, the blonde woman detached herself from him and headed towards Cooper. She was deeply tanned, no doubt from a Florida trip rather than any amount of time spent in Derbyshire. A dyed blonde, he guessed. Cosmetic surgery maybe. He couldn’t really tell. He wouldn’t even be willing to swear to her age.
He was interested to observe Carol Villiers bridle as the woman walked up to them.
‘You’re the police, aren’t you? Detectives, yeah?’
‘Yes, Miss…?’
‘My name’s Lisa. Tyler asked me to speak to you. He thinks you might want to talk to him. Someone has been up at Moorside House while he was away, looking for him.’
‘It’s just routine,’ said Cooper. ‘We’re speaking to everyone in the area.’
‘Well, he’s only just flown in from the States. He gets really badly jet-lagged, you know. But he’ll be happy to talk to you tomorrow. He has a bit of time before his new concert tour.’
‘Are you Mr Kaye’s girlfriend?’ asked Villiers.
Cooper was surprised how much subtle meaning Villiers could get into the word ‘girlfriend’. Lisa couldn’t fail to detect it, too. She glanced at Villiers with undisguised hostility.
‘Yes. So?’
‘Nothing. Just asking. I hope you’re happy together.’
The girl seemed to sag. For a second, Cooper thought she was going to cry. Instead her face seized up, fixed in a kind of comical expression of dejection. Cosmetic surgery, almost certainly. Botox froze the facial muscles.
‘We’ve been together for months,’ she said. ‘But he’s losing interest in me, I can tell.’
‘Shame,’ said Villiers. ‘The loss of a meal ticket is always a blow.’
‘What can I do to stop him leaving me?’
Villiers squared her shoulders. ‘Tantrums, crying fits, emotional blackmail? The usual, I suppose.’
The girl drew back her teeth and snarled. ‘I should have known better than to talk to the pigs.’
Cooper waited until she’d gone.
‘That was a bit cynical,’ he said.
Villiers shrugged. ‘I told you, Ben. I’ve changed.’
A few minutes later, they stood on a clover-covered slope watching the gymkhana events, girls on ponies racing each other to collect upturned flower pots from posts.
A few of the older visitors looked as though they might have been members of the original cow club. Cooper noticed an old man in a tweed jacket and a brown waistcoat with a silver fob chain, untidy white hair stirring in the breeze. Despite his age, he had the keen gaze of a livestock man. Another old farmer in a suit and tie, with brightly polished leather shoes, was dozing off on a wooden chair near the pony classes.
A small girl with blond pigtails hanging from under her riding hat was seated on a dapple grey pony. The child screamed as her pony panicked and shied away from a judge trying to present her with a blue rosette.
They finally found the Gambles watching the gymkhana. From behind, the couple were hardly recognisable. Their chairs were pulled close together, and their heads were covered, hers by the hood of a cagoule and his with a tattered deerstalker instead of the cowboy hat. Even so, there was something about their posture that identified them to Cooper’s eye. Perhaps it was the way they had huddled together and cut themselves off from the crowd, turning their backs deliberately to the rest of the show.
Cooper sat down in a chair next to Mr Gamble, while Villiers stood patiently behind their seats. Gamble barely acknowledged his presence with a twitch of his eyebrows.
‘Interested in horses, sir?’
‘Our granddaughter is competing.’
‘Oh, really? Does she live in Riddings?’
‘No, in Bamford. But they come from all over for this show.’
‘I saw that you’d entered the photographic competition,’ said Cooper.
‘It’s my hobby. I told you.’
‘Well, one of them.’
‘I didn’t win,’ said Gamble.
‘I’m sorry about that. But it was a fascinating photograph. I was wondering where it was taken.’
‘Are you interested in photography?’
‘No, but I’m interested in Riddings. In everything about the place. And I didn’t recognise the location in your picture.’
Gamble made a pretence of being engrossed by what was going on in the ring, applauding some child receiving her award. Cooper wasn’t fooled. Not this time. He could practically see Gamble’s brain working, trying to calculate the best answer to the question, maybe hoping Cooper would go away if he didn’t reply for long enough. But Cooper wasn’t going away.