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.
‘It’s just some old farm buildings,’ Gamble said finally.
‘There are no farms in Riddings, sir. I imagine there haven’t been any for quite a long time.’
‘No, but there are still some derelict buildings. You just need to know where to look.’
‘And where are these particular buildings?’
‘On the outskirts of the village, under the edge.’
Cooper nodded. ‘Perhaps I’ll ask you to show me some time.’
Gamble scowled. ‘I don’t like being seen talking to you in public like this. People will think I’m in trouble.’
On the other side of Gamble, his wife made a small sound, a faint expression of incredulity. Cooper looked at her, saw her raise her eyes upwards in exasperation.
‘I’m sure we can all be discreet,’ said Cooper. ‘Especially when we want to obtain information.’
He left Gamble muttering to himself, and Mrs Gamble hissing into his ear. That was one couple he was happy to unsettle.
The spell of sun had lulled everyone into a false sense of security. The waterproofs had come off, the umbrellas had been lowered, the ice creams were being handed round. The first big drops of rain hitting the ground caused a wave of movement across the showground as visitors ran for cover.
A gust of wind along the river blew sprays of water off the awnings of the stands. A few moments later, an even stronger gust dismantled the face-painting tent, tugging its pegs out of the ground and folding the canvas right over on to the popcorn stand. The sight seemed to have alarmed Doctor Woof, who had cut his show short and was packing up his gear as Cooper and Villiers walked towards his spot.
Now rain drummed on the canvas roof of the marquee, and water cascaded over the entrance flap, where straw had been strewn on the floor to prevent it from getting poached – churned up by thousands of passing feet.
The band was playing something more soothing now, but not a piece he recognised. He asked Villiers if she knew it.
‘It’s “Music of the Night”.’
‘“Music of the Night”? That sounds like something from Count Dracula. You know, when Dracula hears the wolves howling outside the castle. He says: “Listen to them. Children of the night. What music they make. ”’
‘No, it’s Andrew Lloyd Webber.’
‘I was close.’
‘You don’t know Phantom of the Opera, then? You must be about the only person who’s never been to see it.’
‘Musicals aren’t really my thing. Besides, you have to go to London.’
She smiled. ‘And you could never do that. You’re getting very provincial, Ben.’
‘Getting? I always was.’
‘I know. And I rather like it.’
When the rain stopped again, they decided to leave. As they walked back to the parking area, they passed small knots of people leaning on their umbrellas and shooting sticks, or picnicking under the tailgates of their 4x4s.
