Chapters (46)
- Dedication
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-one
- Chapter Twenty-two
- Chapter Twenty-three
- Chapter Twenty-four
- Chapter Twenty-five
- Chapter Twenty-six
- Chapter Twenty-seven
- Chapter Twenty-eight
- Chapter Twenty-nine
- Chapter Thirty
- Chapter Thirty-one
- Chapter Thirty-two
- Chapter Thirty-three
- Chapter Thirty-four
- Chapter Thirty-five
- Chapter Thirty-six
- Chapter Thirty-seven
- Chapter Thirty-eight
- Chapter Thirty-nine
- Chapter Forty
- Chapter Forty-one
- Chapter Forty-two
- About the Author
- Also by Stephen Booth
- About the Publisher
‘But our tourist wouldn’t have seen a stretch of water on his map. It wasn’t there, because his map was out of date.’
Cooper nodded. ‘When he reached water, he must have thought he was completely lost. He ended up disorientated, trying to work out where he was on the map.’
‘The poor bloke,’ said Irvine, looking at the map. ‘He was never more than a few hundred yards from a road.’
‘Which doesn’t help at all. Not if you’re walking round in circles.’
Cooper took a call from Diane Fry. She was still in her car somewhere, stuck in a bottleneck near Glossop.
‘This body,’ she said. ‘I suppose you’re at the scene, Ben?’
‘Looking at it right now.’
‘It isn’t Michael Clay, is it?’
‘Why would you think it’s him?’ asked Cooper.
‘Because he’s too elusive. I’m starting to think I’ll never get the chance to interview him. So please tell me this body isn’t Michael Clay.’
Cooper watched the body slowly being lifted to ground level, and an officer passing up something else that he’d found in the bottom of the rake. He leaned closer to take a look, and could see the manufacturer’s name and model quite clearly.
‘It isn’t Michael Clay, Diane.’
‘Thank God.’
‘But,’ said Cooper, ‘we do seem to have found Patrick Rawson’s phone.’
FRY DROVE BACK to West Street as fast as she could, bearing in mind the speed cameras on the approach to Edendale. But Sean Crabbe had already been processed through the custody suite by the time she arrived. His fingerprints had been taken in Live Scan, a sample of his DNA had been obtained on a buccal swab, and his personal possessions had been logged by the custody sergeant. Now he was waiting for the duty solicitor before being questioned.
DI Hitchens explained that a call had been put through after the young man’s mother had responded to the public appeal on the local TV news. She hadn’t called straight away, but had waited a couple of hours.
‘Otherwise, you would have been here for the arrest, Diane,’ he said. ‘It was just one of those things.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Fry, though they both knew she was lying. ‘What made the connection for her?’
‘The mention of the old agricultural research centre. The TV people took some footage of it for background to the piece. You know – crime-scene tape, bobby fidgeting in front of the camera. She recognized the place. And she knew perfectly well that young Sean goes up there regularly when he bunks off from college. It turns out she’s been worried about him for a while, thinks he’s been going off the rails a bit.’
‘And he was up there on Tuesday morning?’
‘Mum didn’t know that for certain,’ said Hitchens. ‘But she remembers him coming home early that day and behaving oddly. She says he tried to make out he had ’flu, but she wasn’t fooled. Mothers rarely are, no matter what they tell us to our faces.’