‘That’s the way it always was,’ the Reverend Latham was saying. ‘The bearers and the funeral party making their way down the hill, resting the coffin, dividing and coming together again across the water.’

‘Yes, Bill,’ said Cooper.

But he wasn’t really listening to the old man now. The map had engaged his imagination. The coffin road to the graveyard at Bowden must have covered a distance of more than four miles and crossed two streams as well as the River Dove. It was so difficult to conceive of the hardship willingly undertaken by those mourners, struggling over the hills with their burden. And resting the coffin for a few minutes on the stone down there, in constant fear of the taint of death or a fugitive spirit.

Cooper was thinking of mentioning to the Reverend Latham his thought about the Devil manifesting himself at crossroads. Just to see what the clergyman said. Did the old man believe in the Devil? Or was that too Old Testament a concept for him?

But before he could speak Latham turned his head and looked up the trackway. He must have sharper hearing than he let on, because he’d noticed someone approaching before Cooper had himself.

‘Is this a colleague of yours?’ he said.

Cooper opened his mouth in astonishment. ‘In a way,’ he said.

14

Diane Fry smiled her ambiguous little smile when Cooper introduced her to the Reverend Latham. He had no idea what she was thinking, but he knew it wouldn’t be anything complimentary about either of them.

‘I thought I’d find you here, Ben,’ she said. ‘Despite the fact that you’re supposed to be off duty, according to your office.’

‘An informal visit. The Reverend Latham is just giving me some insight into the history.’

‘I can imagine,’ she said.

Fry looked round. ‘That’s your crime scene? The bridge.’

‘Yes,’ said Cooper.

He looked for Carol Villiers.

‘Carol, would you give the Reverend Latham a lift back to Edendale?’

‘Certainly,’ said Villiers. ‘I can see you’ve got your hands full.’

‘Don’t, Carol,’ said Cooper quietly, unable to suppress a pleading note from his voice.

Villiers said nothing, but gave him a quizzical look. She knew all about Diane Fry. Possibly more than he could guess.

‘Under the bridge,’ said Latham, as he rose and supported himself on his stick to go with Villiers.

‘What, Bill?’ said Cooper.

‘The body. It was under the bridge.’

‘Yes, it was.’

But even as he answered, Cooper realised that Bill Latham hadn’t been asking him a question. His words had formed a statement. It was under the bridge. Latham already knew that. But how?

Latham nodded. ‘It fits,’ he said. ‘Under the bridge. Yes, it would have to be.’

Cooper was distracted by the sound of Fry’s voice.

‘I won’t be a minute,’ she called. ‘I’m just going to take a look at what’s on the other side of the bridge.’

‘Be careful,’ said Cooper automatically, as Villiers and Latham left.

‘Of course.’

There was a smaller stream on the Staffordshire side, with a footpath running alongside it. A few yards along, the stream was crossed by avery slippery wooden footbridge, consisting of nothing more than a single plank wedged into the mud on either side.

Cooper watched Diane Fry walk up the footpath to examine the spot where Staffordshire officers had found the coil of rope. Then with her eyes fixed on the water, she decided to cross the stream. He saw her step casually towards the makeshift footbridge with a horrified fascination.

Despite all her time in the Peak District, Fry had never learned how to choose appropriate footwear. She always seemed to wear the minimum she thought would be required. The flat shoes she was wearing now might have been fine for driving out here from Edendale, and they’d just about coped with the uneven setts on the trackway, as long as she went slowly and took care. But when she left a solid surface, she would be in difficulties. Her soles had no grip on them. The moment she set foot on that greasy plank, the outcome was inevitable.

Instinctively, Cooper stepped forward. He quickly came up behind Fry and was able to grasp her arm to support her just as she began to lose her balance. She hardly seemed to notice his assistance.

‘Where do we come to if we go this way?’ she asked.

‘We’re in Staffordshire now,’ said Cooper. ‘This track leads up towards a village called Hollinsclough.’

‘Staffordshire? Really?’

‘Of course.’

Cooper kept his eye on her. Even Fry didn’t have any jurisdiction in Staffordshire. It wasn’t in the East Midlands, so it was out of the EMSOU’s patch. They had to rely on mutual cooperation with a neighbouring force.

‘It’s strange really, to think that you’ve crossed a border,’ said Cooper, turning to look back at the Corpse Bridge. ‘It’s such a narrow stretch of water and such a small bridge. Yet it’s always meant so much to people because of its position and significance.’

‘A crossing from life to death?’ suggested Fry.

Cooper swung round sharply. ‘What made you say that?’

Fry smiled again. ‘I just thought it was something you would be thinking, Ben.’

‘I see.’

‘Well, wasn’t it?’

‘Something like that.’

Fry nodded, apparently pleased with herself. Just because she’d guessed at a notion flitting through his imagination. Was that what she regarded as insight?

‘And what about this way?’ she said, pointing to the main route of the trackway where it climbed through the trees.

‘That’s the coffin road,’ said Cooper. ‘It goes to Bowden.’

‘Derbyshire?’

‘Just about.’

Cooper explained the nature of the estate village and its relationship to Knowle Abbey.

‘And that’s where the coffin way leads to?’ she asked.

‘Yes, to Bowden. It’s where they had to take their bodies, for burial in the graveyard there.’

He could see the concept was difficult for Diane Fry to understand. And why wouldn’t it be, for someone who had grown up in a city like Birmingham? To Fry, the idea of trekking across the Peak District countryside carrying a coffin probably sounded like just another inexplicable rural tradition.

Cooper showed her the route of the coffin road on his map and carefully explained why people from the hamlets to the east had been forced to carry their dead all this way. It hadn’t been their choice, or a random whim. They were completely at the mercy of those who had all the money and power.

‘But this track crosses the bridge, then recrosses the river a few hundred yards further down,’ pointed out Fry. ‘Why would they do that? It doesn’t make sense. You just end up back on the same side of the river that you started from.’

He could see Fry frowning at the map in bafflement. What she said was accurate, of course. That was exactly what the coffin road did. And she was right, too, that there seemed no sense in it. No rhyme or reason, or apparent purpose.

Or at least, no reason in the purely logical, modern world that Diane Fry lived in.

‘Spirits,’ said Cooper.

‘What?’

‘Spirits,’ he repeated, with that sinking feeling of resignation. He knew what her response would be when he tried to explain this. Derision and disbelief. But he was quite used to that now.

‘Do you really mean—’ she began.

‘Yes, spirits,’ he said. ‘Spirits can’t cross water.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’

‘Perhaps.’

Fry turned away and began to walk up the track and Cooper followed her. As they climbed away from the banks of the river, the trees soon began to close in again.

Cooper couldn’t escape the feeling that Diane Fry was observing him constantly. He supposed she was waiting for him to slip up and make a mistake. She’d be watching him for any sign of weakness or hesitation, an indication that his mind wasn’t fully focused on his work, that his powers of concentration still hadn’t fully returned. She’d be hoping that he wasn’t up to the job.