One Last Breath. Stephen Booth

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      ‘Milly, you poor old thing. What happened to you?’

      As far as she could tell, the dog seemed physically unharmed. But when she saw how terrified the animal was, Dawn hardly needed to look any further. She knew without a doubt that her sister must be dead.

      On the way back from Castleton, Ben Cooper drove past the Hope cement works and over Pindale to reach the Eden Valley. A tiny hamlet lay at the foot of Pindale, with a restored mine building and a camp site. But few people took this route – the road was single track, and too steep and narrow to make for comfortable driving if you didn’t know it well.

      Further on, he crossed the Roman road, Batham Gate, and joined the B6049 south of Bradwell. After a few more miles, he crested the final hill and looked down on Edendale.

      The Eden Valley lay at a sort of geological collision point where the two halves of the Peak District met. On one side were the limestone plateaux and wooded gorges of the White Peak, with its patchwork of fields and quiet villages. Enclosing them on three sides like the fingers of a hand were the higher slopes of the Dark Peak. Its barren peat moors were scattered with gritstone outcrops, eroded into the grotesque and sinister shapes that had created so many folk legends.

      For Cooper, the White Peak and Dark Peak carried an irresistible symbolism – they represented light and dark, good and evil. Because of Edendale’s location, he sometimes got the idea that he was literally walking the line between good and evil as he moved about the landscape. But the line wasn’t so clear-cut as it might at first appear. Those dark outcrops of twisted rock had a tendency to erupt in places you didn’t expect them. There was always a kind of darkness lurking just below the surface, ready to thrust its way into the daylight.

      Cooper drove into the centre of town and reached his flat in Welbeck Street. He could see thunder clouds approaching in the west. They seemed to hang on the horizon for a while until they amassed a large enough bulk, and then they moved to blot out the sky. When he got out of the car, he could feel the air already becoming heavier and more humid. People would be going around saying ‘It’s going to break’ with a note of relief in their voices.

      With no tenant upstairs since the departure of his American neighbour, the house was strangely silent. Cooper still hadn’t got used to coming home every night to an empty flat, with the post still lying on the doormat and an unwashed coffee mug standing in the sink from breakfast. He hadn’t brought much with him from Bridge End Farm either, only his PC and a few prints, and of course the framed photograph over the fireplace – the one showing rows of police officers lined up in their uniforms, with Sergeant Joe Cooper standing in the second row. It had been taken at some formal occasion a few years before his father’s death.

      Living alone had many advantages. On his days off, it hardly seemed necessary to Cooper to get dressed or have a shave. He could slop around in an old T-shirt and a pair of tracksuit bottoms for as long as he liked. He could sit at the kitchen table and drink coffee and eat toast all morning, if he wanted to. And living on your own was nothing unusual these days. Soon, nearly half the country would be living alone.

      Still, he couldn’t help the rush of pleasure when the first thing he saw as he entered the flat was a black cat coming towards him from the kitchen, its fur warm and its yellow eyes gleaming expectantly. Randy had changed into his summer coat, and now he was sleek and dark, and obviously not as big a cat as he’d have everyone believe.

      The rumbles Cooper could hear now weren’t really a storm, more of a warning that the rain was coming. And come it did, within a few seconds. Instantly, the downpour was so heavy that it sounded as if the river had burst its banks and was surging across the gardens, threatening to flood the houses at the bottom end of the road.

      In the kitchen, the noise of the rain was deafening as it fell on the glass roof of the conservatory. Above the sound, he heard the wooden frames of the windows cracking as they cooled and contracted. Cooper fed Randy and walked back into the sitting room. After the cat, the second thing he saw in his flat that night was the green light flashing on his answering machine. It was blinking at him in a way that could mean only one thing. Yet again, a small piece of darkness was about to thrust its way into the daylight.

      Raymond Proctor arrived home late that night. Before he locked up the house, he took a look around the caravan park. He prayed there wouldn’t be any last-minute arrivals tonight. Or if there were, that they’d find a temporary pitch without bothering him, and without making too much noise about it either. Let the buggers sort themselves out for once.

      Proctor wanted to walk down to the pond and check the area round the old ’vans again. But not in the dark. The main lights only covered the central area of the site, around the office and shop. They made the log-cabin effect look grotesque and crumbling, like the set of a cheap horror film. Outside that pool of light, he could see only the glowing rectangles of curtained windows, where families were shut up in their little boxes for the night.

      A car had come in through the main gate. It looked like the white Audi that belonged to the young family occupying one of the lodges. As it turned on to the gravel road, the car’s headlights caught the outline of a figure moving across the grass near the water taps. Proctor squinted at the figure, but the headlights had passed long before he could make out who it was. Male, he was sure. Probably one of the group of French teachers who were staying on the site for a couple of nights on their way to Scotland. On the other hand, it could have been anybody.

      Proctor limped into the house and checked all the bolts on the doors and windows. He left a light on in the hallway and the outside light over the back door. Connie was in the sitting room watching TV. He could hear the noise of gunfire and screeching tyres as soon as he entered the house.

      ‘Turn it down,’ he called from the hallway.

      ‘What’s the problem?’

      ‘Nothing. Just turn it down.’

      Connie came out into the hall, which wasn’t what he’d intended. She was ready for bed, in her dressing gown and the slippers with blue fur round the edges. She stared at him and sniffed suspiciously.

      ‘Who have you been drinking with?’

      ‘Nobody.’

      ‘Rubbish.’

      ‘I only had a couple.’

      ‘You’re sweating, Ray. You can hardly keep still. I know when you’ve had too much to drink.’

      ‘For God’s sake, get back to your telly. I’m sick of your yacking.’ A crashing noise made him jump. It was like a door being broken down, kicked in by boots. ‘And turn that TV down, will you?’

      She pointed a finger at him, jabbing it towards his face. ‘If you speak to me like that again, Raymond Proctor, you’ll regret it. You know I wanted us all to be together for dinner tonight, but you had to go out boozing. Then Jason started playing me up again and now he’s sulking in his room.’

      Proctor thought the idea of having family meals together was lunacy. He remembered that Alan had behaved exactly the same when he was about Jason’s age. Funnily enough, it had been harder to tolerate from his own son. It must have been something to do with the guilt.

      ‘I just want us to be a real family,’ said Connie. ‘Doing things together, getting on with each other.’

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