Lost River by Stephen Booth

The worst part of the process was waiting in the witness room, and the long walk down the corridor to take the stand. She’d watched people taking that walk. It might only be a few yards, but when you were going to face your own demons, it could seem like a million lonely miles.
    ‘So what do you say, Diane?’
    ‘I need time.’
    ‘Of course. All the time you want.’
    For herself, Fry knew that the long walk down that corridor would be the most difficult thing she’d ever done in her life.
    Cooper stopped a few miles out of Ashbourne and pulled off the A515 into a car park serving the Tissington Trail, close to the village of Alsop. Dovedale was just over the hill to the west – the Milldale end of the valley, up past the boardwalks beyond Reynard’s Cave and the weirs under Raven’s Tor.
    He couldn’t put off reading the witness statements any longer. And he was afraid of being distracted when he got back to the office, too caught up in other things, all those unavoidable demands on his time.
    Ideally, the statements ought to be read on the ground, in Dovedale itself, so he could picture where the witnesses were standing. But it would take too long right now to battle his way in and out of the dale against the traffic, and mingle with the crowds. That would have to wait for another time.
    The statements were all pretty brief. The one thing that became clear was that no one had seen everything. Some witnesses recalled seeing the dog go into the river, but not the girl. Others had seen Emily and her brother playing on the bank, throwing sticks for Buster. Then they’d looked away, absorbed in their own concerns, until all the shouting began.
    A few members of the public stated that they had actually seen Emily run into the water, then fall and bang her headon a rock. He could see why Sergeant Wragg felt the results of the interviews were conclusive.
    But Cooper was bothered by the wording of these statements. ‘Yes, I saw the little girl fall and bang her head.’ ‘She was knocked over by the dog. The rock struck her on the side of the head.’ ‘She couldn’t catch the dog. I saw her slip and float downstream towards the rocks.’ One lady believed there had been a whole crowd of children and dogs in the water, too many for her to be able to distinguish one little girl in a green summer dress. Meanwhile, her friend had seen the girl distinctly, but swore the dress was blue.
    All of these people had been within a few hundreds yards of the incident. Strange that none of them had noticed the child’s parents. How odd that none of them had seen what Cooper saw – the man standing on the bank, his hands raised, fingers dripping water. Robert Nield was a striking enough figure at any time. You’d think he would have been observed by at least one of these eyewitnesses.
    But perhaps some of them had seen him. Possibly, they had just never been asked.
    Murfin was waiting impatiently in the CID room, looking anxiously over his shoulder as if he expected the Spanish Inquisition at any moment.
    ‘It’s all right, Gavin, chill out.’
    ‘I’ve had Luke Irvine out on the Devonshire Estate,’ said Murfin, ‘to see if he can sniff out anything more about Michael Lowndes.’
    ‘That’s great, Gavin.’
    ‘I’m glad you appreciate it. If the information checks out, we should be able to have another go at putting surveillance on him this week.’
    ‘And what about the sex offenders?’
    Murfin sighed. ‘ViSOR print-outs are on your desk.’
    Murfin was chewing as usual, but he was managing to doit with an air of dissatisfaction. He had that sort of face, one that had sagged enough with age and misuse to enable him to carry off two expressions at once. His eyes looked merely quizzical, but his jowls were resentful.
    Cooper flicked through the file, not reading the details at first, but looking at the photographs. The Police National Computer was linked to the database for ViSOR, the Violent and Sex Offender