Cooper didn’t answer her question directly. He was thinking it through in his own mind.
‘I mentioned it to Mrs Gamble. She knew straight away that there was no phone in the box, but she didn’t say anything about it. Why?’
Villiers nodded. ‘Because she guessed who it might have been.’
‘Yes.’
‘Her husband, you mean.’
‘More than likely.’
‘What’s the strength on Gamble? Have we got a case?’
‘Not one the CPS will run with.’
Cooper ran his mind over the things he hadn’t done. There were so many, it would make a long list.
‘Did we ever get forensic results from Gamble’s clothes?’ he said.
‘Not that I know of.’
‘The report ought to have arrived by now.’
Villiers pulled out her phone. ‘I’ll call Gavin and get him to check.’
Cooper looked up at Riddings Edge. The hillside up to the edge looked almost impassable. It was too steep, and too scattered with huge lumps of rock, some of them half-worked millstones. A long strip of birch woodland clung to the upper slopes. Birch was a pioneer species – the first tree to colonise bare ground like the lower slopes below Riddings Edge.
He didn’t know how long he’d been staring, but he suddenly realised that Villiers had been speaking to him.
‘Oh. Sorry – what did you say?’
She looked at him strangely. Was that a hint of pity? Or just friendly concern?
‘Gavin has just gone through the forensics report for me. The fragments of gravel stuck in the soles of Mr Gamble’s boots match the gravel on the Barrons’ drive. Some of the vegetation that had attached itself to his jacket was from a blackthorn bush similar to the one growing against the Barrons’ back wall.’
‘Blackthorn? Ouch. The spikes on those things are lethal.’
‘And lots of other stuff. Pine needles, thistle seeds, rhododendron twigs…’
Cooper nodded, absorbed in a thought of his own.
‘I wonder what’s in there,’ he said.
‘In where?’
He looked at her with a smile. ‘Let’s see if we can take a look.’
‘No, it’s Barry’s shed,’ said Mrs Gamble. ‘I never go in there. Every man needs a shed, so they say.’
They were at the back of 4 Chapel Close, standing in the small garden, so different from the acres of grounds surrounding some of the other properties in Riddings. Almost half the space was taken up by the wooden shed, with only enough room left for a patch of grass and a single flower bed.
‘And I suppose he’s out of your way when he’s in there,’ said Cooper.
She smiled. ‘Yes, that’s true. I can’t deny it’s a relief sometimes. We’ve been married quite a long time.’
‘But you don’t have any contact with him when he goes out to the shed,’ said Villiers. ‘You can’t see him from the house, can you?’
‘No. In fact often I don’t really know where he is. I just like to think he’s in his shed.’
Cooper looked at the padlock holding the hasp. ‘Do you know where the key is, at least?’
‘No.’
He looked at her sharply. ‘Are you sure?’
She sagged a little, unable to withstand even the slightest pressure.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘There’s a spare. Barry doesn’t even know it exists.’
When she had fetched the key and the padlock was opened, Cooper stepped into the shed, hesitating as his eyes met the darkness inside.
‘There’s a light switch to your left,’ said Mrs Gamble.
‘Thank you.’
‘So this is his den, is it?’ asked Villiers.
‘I suppose you might call it that.’
On the shelves of the back room were an incredible variety of items. Polished stones, fossils, lumps of weather-worn wood, cones, feathers. And sitting in pride of place, like an evil presence, was a sheep skull. Its bones were bleached white, its jaws and grinning teeth still intact.
Cooper had seen many skulls from dead sheep. They lay around the fields, were often left perched on walls or gate posts. Sheep were suicidal creatures, after all. They died in the most unlikely of places. But their teeth tended to fall out, their jaws became dislocated, they crumbled in time. They were rarely as intact as this one.
‘What is all this stuff?’
‘His collection.’
‘A collection of what? This is just junk.’
‘Souvenirs. Mementos. Little things he’s picked up on his travels.’
‘His travels?’
‘His walks, I mean. Around Riddings, mostly. He calls them his patrols. I know some people think Barry is a bit odd. But it keeps him out of mischief.’
‘Oh, does it?’
One other item caught Cooper’s attention. It was a rough pentagram shaped out of twigs. He’d seen this sort of thing left at stone circles, like the one on Stoke Flat. There were often other tributes left, too – flowers, candles, a few old coins. Of course, it was a hangover from a more superstitious era, but it suited the atmosphere of the place. When travellers crossed these moors before the erection of guide stoops, they were living in a different age – a time of darkness and fear, a world of witches and gargoyles. Any token or charm that might help was worth trying.
Speaking of gargoyles… He turned back to the doorway.
‘Mrs Gamble, where is your husband?’
‘Do you think she knows more than she’s telling?’ asked Villiers, as they drove away from Chapel Close.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Cooper. ‘But so does everyone else around here. That’s always the way of it. No one wants to tell you more than is absolutely necessary.’
‘I suppose it’s human nature. If someone wants to tell you everything, you can bet there’s something wrong with them.’
‘That’s right. The nutter who sits down next to you in the pub. He’s the only person who ever wants to tell you everything about himself.’
They found Barry Gamble right where his wife had suggested. He was taking photographs of the edge from a children’s play area behind the village. To Cooper’s eye, it seemed that he was trying to get just the right juxtaposition of sheer rock face in the background with an empty swing in the foreground. He couldn’t quite think what that was supposed to symbolise.
‘Oh, what now?’ said Gamble when he saw them.
‘Mr Gamble, we had the traces on your clothes analysed, you know.’
‘Well, I supposed that was what you must be doing. I didn’t think you just wanted to try them on for size.’
‘It’s obvious from those traces that you must have been on every property in this part of Riddings. Without the permission or knowledge of the owners, I would imagine.’
‘No one sees me.’
‘Do you really think so? Even after Thursday night, when you were seen by those kids hanging around their party at The Cottage?’
Gamble shuffled in embarrassment. ‘Yes, well that was unfortunate. But usually…’
‘Unfortunate? You could get yourself into a lot of trouble.’
‘Think about your wife,’ added Villiers. ‘What did she have to say to you after Thursday night?’
‘She told me I was too old for this nonsense. This nonsense. I ask you. Besides, I’m not the one showing my age. I said, Take a look in the mirror, Monica. That’s no spring chicken you see.’
Villiers looked up from her notes. ‘And how did she take that comment?’
