Gamble grimaced. ‘Oh, she didn’t take it well. She didn’t take any of it very well at all.’
‘I think you must be very familiar with all the lanes and tracks in this area,’ said Cooper.
‘Yes, I am. I can’t deny that.’
‘Even some that no one else is aware of?’
Gamble fidgeted with his hat, worrying at the beads around the brim. Cooper felt an urge to grab it off his head and hurl it across the garden. But that would be silly and childish, not the actions of a responsible police officer. He might get someone else to do it instead.
‘There are a couple of old trackways that have been there for hundreds of years,’ said Gamble. ‘Worn away and sunk into the ground. None of these people round here either know or care about them.’
‘I might want you to show them to me some time soon,’ said Cooper.
‘I can do that. I suppose you’ll be around.’
‘You can bet on that.’
‘So, what do you know of any feuds or disputes between residents in Riddings?’ asked Villiers cheerfully.
Gamble’s eyes gleamed. ‘Oh, well. How long have you got?’
He began to reel off details. Gamble might seem a bit vague about some things, but his brain was like a well-organised filing cabinet when it came to the activities of his neighbours. He knew all about the court case between Nowak and the Barrons, about the confrontation between William Chadwick and Jake Barron over the dog, and about Richard Nowak’s complaints against Mrs Slattery. He had observed every last second of the argument between Nowak and Alan Slattery at the show on Saturday.
Unfortunately, his litany ran out before he’d told Cooper anything he didn’t already know.
When he’d finished, Gamble smiled at them with satisfaction.
‘I’m glad to help,’ he said.
‘What about the Hollands?’ asked Cooper.
He shrugged. ‘They keep themselves to themselves, pretty much.’
‘You missed out on Thursday night, then,’ said Villiers.
‘What?’
‘When the Hollands had an intruder at Fourways.’
‘You know where I was that night.’
‘Yes, we do.’
Cooper studied him thoughtfully, reflecting that if it hadn’t been for the teenagers and their pursuit of him on Thursday, Gamble might actually have been on hand to witness the incident at Fourways. It certainly wasn’t like him to have missed something. What a pity he hadn’t been there to tell the story.
‘And Mr Edson?’
Gamble sniffed, and tugged at the brim of his hat.
‘Him? No chance. Can’t get near the bugger.’
‘So that’s it,’ said Cooper when they left Gamble to his own devices and the attentions of his wife.
‘Not quite,’ said Villiers. ‘There’s your message.’
‘What?’
‘ Sheffeild Rode. And the surveyor’s mark. You had an idea that you’d seen it somewhere.’
‘Of course.’
Cooper looked up at the Devils’ Edge, shading his eyes against the brightness of the sky. Had he just seen something drop over the edge? He couldn’t be sure what it was. A climber? A bird? He had no idea.
He scanned the face of the rock, trying to pick out a movement. But there was nothing. Whatever he’d seen was gone now, either vanished into a crack in the stone or lying motionless and too well camouflaged.
With a shrug, he went back to the car. The Devil’s Edge was full of illusions. He mustn’t let his imagination lead him astray. There was far too much tendency for that to happen already.
‘You’ve got your boots, then?’ said Villiers.
‘Always.’
Her phone buzzed. ‘Hold on a second.’
Cooper watched her face closely as she took the call, seeing her expression change. The animation faded, and was replaced by concern and despondency.
‘It’s Gavin. There’s been a call from the hospital,’ she said.
‘The hospital? That means bad news,’ said Cooper.
‘Yes.’
He closed his eyes in pain, as all the emotions of the past twenty-four hours rushed back into his mind. The man who’d been shot by Matt last night must have died from his injuries. It was the worst possible news. It meant that Matt might face a charge of manslaughter, at the very least. Or the case could become a murder inquiry. It raised the stakes to a whole different level.
‘Yes, it’s Jake Barron,’ said Villiers. ‘They’ve turned his life-support machine off. He never regained consciousness.’
24
It was amazing how different the landscape on the edge was from the White Peak country below it. Down there were green fields carved by limestone walls, wooded valleys with clear streams, a distinct sense of a place formed by human activity. None of that was present on the moors. Almost all signs of human occupation had been wiped out. Big Moor had reverted to a wild place.
Cooper unfolded his Ordnance Survey map of the White Peak. Previous generations of inhabitants had certainly used their imaginations. All along these edges, rock formations had been given evocative names. Many of them spoke of the dark imaginings of people who had been obliged to find their way across these moors in fog and snow, and maybe at night too. A traveller crossing Big Moor on the way from Sheffield would have to identify a specific rock from a distance if he was going to navigate his way safely through the bogs. It would have been an essential skill for the preservation of life and limb, not to mention the ability to arrive at the right spot for a steep descent into the valley.
How would you pass on instructions for a crossing like that? Only by describing the shape of a rock in terms someone else would recognise. The Eagle Stone, the Toad’s Mouth, the Three Men. A traveller would have watched for the moment when a shape became recognisable, like a sailor scanning the coast for the glimpse of a lighthouse. He would be waiting for a giant black toad to open its mouth, for a monstrous bird to spread its wings on the horizon.
No wonder, in those superstitious times, that stories of monsters and demons had thrived. A packhorse lost in a bog could have been swallowed by a serpent. A man falling to his death from the edge would have been led astray from the path by an evil spirit. It wasn’t so difficult to believe when you could see those monstrous shapes in the desolate landscape. Things that were moving, changing. Practically breathing.
‘There are still traces of the old packhorse routes somewhere on these moors,’ said Cooper. ‘Tracks and hollow ways. It’s funny to think how localised people were back in those days. They knew nothing about the geography of neighbouring valleys. And that was because of the moorlands that separated them. They were pretty inhospitable places.’
‘I know villages around here where you’re still considered a foreigner if you’re from the next valley,’ said Villiers.
Cooper smiled. ‘A foreigner? Practically an alien.’
He was tending to forget that Carol Villiers was local too. He’d become used to having to explain these things to outsiders who knew nothing about the area. But Carol understood.
‘All that travellers had to guide them at one time were the natural rock formations.’
‘The Salt Cellar. That was always my favourite.’
He nodded. ‘That’s further north, on Derwent Edge.’
It was true that some of the rocks on the eastern edges had less sinister, more domestic names. The Wheel Stones, the Cakes of Bread, the Salt Cellar. A few of the meanings were too far lost in time to be explained. Take
