Cooper felt he had to get away from the banks of the river. The water was flowing too close in the darkness. He shivered as he remembered the iciness of it on his body the day before, shuddered at the thought of it creeping towards him now, eager to suck him into its currents and drag his body away on to the rocks. Water and more water, closing over him, entering his mouth, filling his lungsHe had to get away from it.
It was a sharp, steep climb up to the Natural Arch. It was here that hed seen a figure crouched high on the rock. Hunched up, silhouetted against the sky, his face invisible. A predator on its perch, scanning the valley for prey. Had this been Sean Deacon, scrambling to escape from the scene of the activity, but reluctant to miss what was going on?
Hidden behind the arch was a shallow, mud-filled cave with a small chamber at the back. The cave was approached through a rocky cleft hung with thick jungles of ivy. Streams of water had formed patches of bright green moss on the rock.
Inside the cave, Cooper shone his torch on to the ground looking for traces of recent activity. He found a few footprints in the mud, graffiti scratched on the wall, and a scrap of cloth, which he bagged.
From the entrance to the cave, he had a narrow view through the arch down to the river. The water gleamed with movement in the darkness, surging endlessly through the night. Despite the distance, he could hear its noise. It reached him clearly on the night air, a murmuring, rushing, roaring sound that seemed to grow louder and louder until it filled the cave, bouncing off the walls and echoing all around him until it swallowed him up in roar.
Cooper felt suddenly dizzy, put his hand to the rock wall to steady himself, and touched a patch of soft, cool moss that squashed and slithered under his fingers.
Immediately he was back again in that moment, standing in the rushing water, holding the cold, limp body of Emily Nield in his arms, calling desperately for help but knowing that she was already dead. And all the time the river kept rushing, rushing over the stones, its chill striking deep into his bones and making him tremble uncontrollably.
And finally Cooper let out a long, painful scream. He wanted to hear it bounce off the pinnacles and the limestone cliffs, he needed it to fill the gorge, to drown out the noise of that cold, rushing water. The scream had been inside him for hours, and it had to come out.
Late that night in her hotel room in Birmingham, Diane Fry woke with a jolt, sweating. Another nightmare.
It wasnt the balti, but the presence of her sister that had caused the nightmare, and Rachel Murchisons insistence on talking about her childhood. It had been a big risk, she knew. Just one sound, a single movement or a smell, could trigger the train of memory that stimulated her fear.
Once again, she had been dreaming of the sound of a footstep on a creaking floorboard, a door opening in the darkness. Opening and closing continually, but nothing coming through. Shed been dreaming that she was frightened, yet had no clear focus for her fear. She heard the footstep, and the door opening, saw shadows sliding across the wall. Still nobody came in. She woke with a wail in her throat and the smell of shaving foam in her nostrils a smell that always made her nauseous, even now.
Fry lay awake, trying to orientate herself in unfamiliar surroundings. Above her, someone was walking around the room upstairs. Perhaps that was what had intruded into her dreams, some guest returning late to the hotel. The closing of a door, the sound of random footsteps.
She got out of bed, made sure the door of her room was securely locked, the catch down, the safety chain on. It was an essential routine if she was going to get some sleep. The voices were right inside her head now.
But as soon as sleep came again, she knew that she wouldnt be able to stop the shadows bringing back the memories that shed pushed deep into the recesses of her mind. They were memories that were too powerful and greedy to be buried completely, too vivid to be erased, too deeply etched into her soul to be forgotten. They merely wallowed and writhed in the depths, waiting for the chance to re-emerge.
First, she sensed their presence, back there in the darkness, watching, laughing, waiting eagerly for what they knew would happen next. Voices murmured and coughed. Its a copper, the voices said. Shes a copper
The memories churned and bubbled. There were brief, fragmented glimpses of figures carved into segments by the streetlights, the sickly reek of booze and violence. And then she seemed to hear one particular voice that rough, slurring Brummie voice that slithered out of the darkness. How do you like this, copper? The same taunting laughter moving in the shadows. The same dark, menacing shapes all around, whichever way she turned. A hand in the small of her back, and a leg outstretched to trip. Then she was falling, flailing forward into the darkness. Hands grabbing her, pinching and pulling and slapping. Her arms trapped by unseen fingers that gripped her tightly, painful and shocking in their violence. Her own voice, unnaturally high-pitched and stained with terror, was trying to cry out, but failing.
Nothing could stop the flood of remembered sensations now. The smell of a sweat-soaked palm over her mouth, her head banging on the ground as she thrashed helplessly from side to side. Her clothes pulled and torn, the shock of feeling parts of her body exposed to the cruel air. How do you like this, copper? And then came the groping and the prodding and the squeezing, and the hot, intruding fingers. And, perfectly clear on the night air, the sound of a zip. Another laugh, a mumble, an excited gasp. And finally the ripping agony, and the scream that was smothered by the hand over her face, and the desperate fighting to force breath into her lungs. How do you like this, copper? How do you like this, copper? Animal noises and more laughter. The relief of the lifting of a weight from her body, as one dark shape moved away and she thought it was over.
But then it happened again.
And again.
10
Wednesday
Next morning, Ben Cooper received the first anonymous letter of his career. It was addressed to Police Officer Cooper, and it had been pushed through the door at Ashbourne section station. It wasnt actually written in green ink, but the writing was difficult to decipher. After a few minutes, Cooper thought he made it out:
You should look into Mr Robert Nield. Hes not all he seems. The man is a sinful beast, and the Lord will punish his ways.
Well, the spelling and punctuation were good, anyway. That wasnt what he expected from an anonymous letter. It suggested someone with a decent schooling in English grammar, which wasnt easy to come by these days. An older person, he guessed. Educated in English and familiar with the Bible, if not entirely well balanced.
A shame there wasnt much information in the letter. Cooper wasnt personally familiar with anonymous allegations, but hed imagined there would be more to go on a few lurid details of what the accused person was supposed to have done. But here, he had to use his own imagination. And that could sometimes be worse.
Taken together with his unease about the vagueness of the witness statements from Dovedale, and his own instinctive feelings towards the Nields, Cooper had something that he didnt feel able to ignore. He might not have enough to put a case together on paper, but there was sufficient to raise concern, surely?
After a few minutes thought, he decided to take those concerns to his DI, Paul Hitchens, who was now his immediate line manager.
In his office, Hitchens smoothed his tie anxiously as he looked at the anonymous letter.
A nutter, he said. We get them all the time. You know that, Ben.
I think it might be worth following up, sir.
Why?
There was a convicted sex offender among the bystanders in Dovedale, said Cooper.
How do you know?
I recognized him. His name is Sean Deacon.
Was he near any children?
Cooper hesitated. I couldnt say for sure.
Do any of the witness statements mention him? Or the parents?
No.
Do you have any reason to suppose that Mr Nield is connected with Deacon in some way?
No.
Well, if you want to give this Deacon a warning, do that. But the witness statements agree on what happened to Emily Nield.
I dont think they do, said Cooper. Theyre inconsistent. No two statements give exactly the same sequence of events.
Thats always the way with multiple witnesses, said Hitchens. You know that, Ben.
Cooper did know that. But he was discovering a stubborn streak in himself. The inconsistencies in the statements felt like a personal failure. He needed to know exactly what had happened to Emily Nield. Exactly. Vague and contradictory statements from confused eyewitnesses werent good enough.
Hitchens glowered at his intransigence.
Theres no mystery about the death of Emily Nield, he said. It was an accident. The inquest was straightforward, the body has been released by the coroner, and the family will be able to hold the funeral this week.
Yes, its tomorrow morning.
Well, there you are. By tomorrow, it will all be over and done with. The family can get on with their lives. Isnt that what we all want?
She was so cold. As if she was in shock.
Shed been in the water. And that water in the River Dove is cold at the best of times, even though the weather has been so warm. It comes straight down off the hills, you know.
Yes, I know.
As I understand the matter, it was thought at first that it might have been the shock of the cold water that stopped the girls heart when she first went into the river. But there was no evidence of that at the postmortem. Her heart was perfectly healthy.
And the head injury
She slipped and hit her head on a rock.
Theres no actual evidence of that.
Well? Ben, youre not suggesting one of the parents hit her, or something?
It happens. Parents are driven beyond endurance sometimes.
They dont all kill their children, said Hitchens.
I have a feeling about the father. Hes bitter about rival supermarkets. I think business must be bad.
So?
Well, hes under stress. That could drive him to do something desperate.
Like drowning his eight-year-old daughter? Youre struggling now, Ben. Grasping at straws.