The Devil's Edge Read Online Free PDF Page B

thought they’d supply lunch, at least. But this was the age of austerity. No such thing as a free lunch. Whoever said that had got it dead right.
    Fry wondered what the others had done wrong to be sent here. When she stood up, her body ached. Not just from the ordeal of sitting still for so long. She physically craved action.
    Somewhere in the world, something must be happening. There must be people who needed her. Mustn’t there?
    The village of Riddings had no pubs, and no shops. Not a sign of a café or a craft shop, or even a farmhouse selling fruit at the side of the road.
    Yet Cooper could see that the place still attracted tourists. Perhaps they saw some quaintness in its narrow lanes and stone houses, or enjoyed the smell of horse manure. But the people who lived here clearly had no interest in tourism. Unlike other villages in the Peak District, they made no effort to encourage visitors. They provided no facilities, not even anywhere to park a car.
    Driving through the centre of the village, he noticed a few smaller cottages standing on The Green, where a hand-written sign advertised horse manure at a pound per bag. But the only people he saw anywhere were women walking their dogs.
    The lanes really were very narrow. Where cars were left parked at the side of the road, their offside wing mirrors had been folded in to avoid getting knocked off by passing vehicles. A lesson learned from experience, he supposed.
    The property neighbouring Valley View was called Fourways. This one was probably worth barely a million. Through more black wrought-iron gates, a drive ran straight up to a double garage, and the house was below it, approached by a set of steps. It was much smaller than Valley View, maybe no more than three bedrooms. But the views alone would add a lot of value to the property.
    On the way to the front door, he passed a window and saw a woman emerging from the kitchen and walking towards a split-level dining room. Through the kitchen door, Cooper glimpsed Shaker-style units, lit by a dozen spotlights. A cream Persian cat sat in a basket by the Aga. When it saw him, it gave him a look of pure contempt.
    He thought of his own moggy back at home in his flat in Welbeck Street, a rescue from the local animal sanctuary and happy just to have a back yard to sit in when it was sunny. There were cats and cats, just like there were different people.
    When he rang the bell, the same woman answered.
    ‘Mrs Holland?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Police. I’d like to have a few words about your neighbours. Have you heard what happened?’
    ‘Oh, the Barrons, yes. Terrible.’
    Inside the house, the entrance hall was floored with slate, which Cooper had always liked the look of. Wherever it was used, it seemed to bring a bit of the natural world into a home. The feel of it underfoot was so different from synthetic flooring. He liked the way it changed colour in different light, and even the smell of it when it got wet. One day he would own a house with slate floors. One day.
    The Hollands were a couple in their late sixties. Comfortable-looking was the expression that came into his mind. Well settled into retirement, but fit enough to be active. The husband was a bit overweight. Perhaps he ought to play more golf, and eat fewer good dinners. Compared to him, his wife was like a slender bird, forever moving here and there, steel-grey hair cut straight around her face.
    ‘I feel so sorry for the children,’ said Mrs Holland. ‘At their age, it must be terrible. At any age, I suppose. You know what I mean.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I wouldn’t wish a thing like this on anyone, no matter what I might think of them personally.’
    ‘How do you get on with the Barrons, then?’
    ‘Oh. Fine, you know. We don’t see all that much of them. It’s not as if we’re right on top of each other.’
    ‘We hear them more than see them, I suppose you’d say,’ said Mr Holland.
    His wife gave him a look, but Cooper couldn’t quite interpret the