again at the weekend, with thousands of people sweltering in narrow, gridlocked lanes surrounded by the stench of exhaust fumes and hot tarmac.
In Ashford, the streets were lined with cars and the bridge over the weir was packed with people watching the ducks paddling in the shallow water or the families picnicking on the grassy banks. There was a small car park behind the church in the middle of the village, but it was overlooked by houses and relatively safe. Cooper drove on.
Through Ashford a road ran up to Monsal Head, where the spectacular view of the old railway viaduct crossing the wooded valley of the Wye attracted many motorists to stop. The railway line here had long since been dismantled and was now used as a
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footpath. Across the other side of Monsal Dale was the parish of Brushfield and a plateau scattered with more of the hundreds of disused mine shafts that Uttered the landscape. He was deep
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in White Peak country horo, a land of ulitterincr streams and
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green pastures, where narrow side-valleys had elbowed their way through the prehistoric fossil sea bed to form craggy gorges.
Northwards from Monsal Head he passed opencast limestone workings and turned right towards Foolow and Eyam. After a call at a disused quarry that was used as an unofficial car park for walkers following the Limestone Way, Cooper found himself crossing Eyam Edge and arriving, as he knew he must, on the
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road into Moorhay.
He parked the Toyota at the Old Mill at Quith Holes, persuading himself that this meant he was still pursuing his routine enquiries into car crime at local tourist spots. There were plenty of other cars at the Old Mill, and several families were seated at the tables set out on the grass. A cluster of cottages were set behind the mill on a narrow road protected by ‘private’ no entry signs.
Cooper crossed a small stone bridge near the original ford and took the path that skirted Raven’s Side, wincing at the bruises on his legs and back but glad of the opportunity to loosen up his limbs. He had to consult his OS map, because he hadn’t approached the path from this direction before. But by following his instinct and steering slightly downhill, he soon reached the area where he had walked to with Harry Dickinson four days previously.
Once again, he left the path and crossed the tumble of boulders to the spot at the top of the slope above the stream. There was no sign of the crime scene now, except for a wide, bare patch where the undergrowth had been cut down to the ground and removed to the forensic laboratory.
He peered down on to the stream below. He knew there was nothing he could see that wouldn’t already have been found and identified by the SOCOs. But sometimes he did get feelings that he couldn’t account for. He didn’t talk about these feelings much at E Division. He couldn’t afford to be considered an eccentric. In the police service, you had to fit in; you had to be a team player and follow the rule book. Now, though, he was hoping that some feeling, some small insight, might just strike him at the place where the body of Laura Vernon had been found. Somewhere at the back of his thoughts, indistinct
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and deadened by the remains of his hangover, was an idea that had been suggested to liiin sometime last night. Something to do with dogs. Or was it pigs?
Cooper found his mind tilled with a vivid image. He saw a sharp, black muzzle filled with white teeth that snapped and tore at pale, dead flesh. Behind the fangs were jaws dripping with saliva and a pink tongue that curled and twisted and rolled out a rumbling growl from deep in a fur-covered throat. Fierce red eyes stared madly as the teeth bit and pierced. The white skin darkened and punctured, but there was no blood. He saw the dog finally letting go of its victim and looking up at the dark, contorted shapes of the Witches as it began to howl, its dirt- encrusted claws scrabbling in the earth with frustration. The black dog had come for a soul, and had been thwarted.
But that wasn’t it. Cooper shook his head to clear the image. He knew the black dog was his own. He had carried it around in his mind since childhood, and it was him that it had come to claim, not Laura Vernon.
After several minutes, he was forced to give up and move on, with no great inspirations. He walked back to the path and looked up the hill. He ought to go back to Quith Holes now — back to the car and his routine enquiries. He was off the Vernon case.
But instead he turned and began to walk up the path towards Moorhay, his muscles protesting and the bruises on his ribs throbbing. Out of the trees, the sun beat on his back and neck, and he began to feel a bit light-headed. This was no way to restore himself as a candidate for a sergeant’s job. But something had happened out here on the Baulk. Who had Laura Vernon met here? Had she met him by design or accident? Had she been followed, or had she walked down this path with someone she had spoken to behind the garden at the Mount?
The final results of forensic tests might reveal some of that information. So far they had at least established that the bite mark on the victim’s thigh had been the work of canine teeth. A
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dog, possibly. But it could just as easily have been a fox, coming across the dead body as it lay in the undergrowth attracting maggots. But would forensics reveal the identity of the killer? Cooper didn’t think so.
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When he got to within a hundred yards of Dial Cottage, he almost, bumped into Harry Dickinson, who as standing under a tree in the shade, with his dog at his feet. He stared wordlessly at Cooper, like a man interrupted in his own sitting room.
‘Oh, you.’
‘Aye, me. Like a bad penny.’
‘Not your usual time for walking the dog, is it, Mr Dickinson?’
‘I needed to get the taste of your police station out of my mouth, lad.’
‘So where have you been?’
‘Minding my own business.’
Cooper was hot and sore, and felt himself starting to get angry. But Harry only tilted his head, revealing his
