‘Are we going shopping?’ asked Villiers.
‘No,’ said Cooper. ‘We’re going to make some arrests.’
Markets always seemed to be the coldest, windiest spots. He supposed it was in the nature of the layout — an open space with streets funnelling into it from every direction. In winter, stallholders often shivered in heavy overcoats and fur hats, as if they were trading on a street market in Moscow.
Shop windows all around the market square in Edendale were filled with posters advertising the town’s campaign against the building of a new Tesco store. There was a Sainsbury’s Local right here on the market square, but many of the other businesses were independents.
The register office was still located here in the town hall, but the magistrates’ court and county court round the corner had a less than promising future. Court facilities were being closed and centralised in bigger population centres, just like police stations
Cooper had to admit that Edendale market wasn’t the most exciting in Derbyshire. Chesterfield and Bakewell were both better. On this side of the market, the main attractions seemed to be a fish van, a plant stall, a hot-dog trailer, and a trader selling Union Jack rugs.
Ian Gullick was doing business today on his vegetable stall. Piles of potatoes and carrots failed to hide his beer gut, which stretched a T-shirt and a leather money belt to breaking point. Though his stall was right in front of Jack’s Barbers, he clearly hadn’t been inside recently for a wash and cut.
‘Okay, we’re going to go in nice and easy,’ said Cooper into his radio. ‘Gavin, can you see him from your position?’
‘Yes, got him.’
Murfin was standing by the window of the tattoo parlour, just behind the artisan bakery, partially obscuring a poster advertising ear-lobe tattoos.
‘Becky?’
‘Right behind the stall.’
‘Excellent. Let’s hope the uniforms stay out of sight until we’ve got the cuffs on.’
Without showing any signs of hurry or drawing attention to themselves, they closed in towards Gullick’s stall. A young assistant was weighing out onions for a customer, and Gullick himself moved down to the end of the stall to shift some empty boxes. When Cooper was within a few yards, the customer paid for her onions and the stall was clear.
‘Right, move in.’
Cooper picked up speed as he moved towards the stall. But Gullick, seeming to sense that something was wrong, looked up and spotted him. Cooper saw the flash of recognition in his eyes. A pile of boxes went flying as Gullick barged his assistant out of the way and ran round the end of the stall, toppling a pile of Golden Delicious, which spilled into the aisle and rolled under the feet of passing shoppers.
‘He’s spotted us, Ben,’ said Hurst. ‘He’s doing a runner.’
Cooper could see Hurst grabbing for Gullick, but missing.
‘Police!’ he called. ‘Stay where you are!’
‘Damn, I almost had him there,’ called Hurst.
‘Police! Stop!’
Gullick took no notice. It never did work anyway, unless you had a dog handler to enforce the command.
Cooper tried to dodge between the shoppers, who milled about in confusion, getting in his way. There was a crash, a splintering of wood, and someone screamed as if they’d fallen on to the stone paving.
‘Gavin?’ said Cooper.
‘Yeah?’
‘Where the hell are you?’
‘Right here. Just waiting for you to join me, like.’
‘What?’
Cooper pushed his way through the crowd, and Becky Hurst came panting up behind him. When the press of bodies cleared, he saw Gavin Murfin in his old anorak, standing there like someone’s mildly confused uncle out doing his weekly shop.
At Murfin’s feet lay a large shape in jeans and a white T-shirt, squirming desperately in his efforts to free himself from a heap of Union Jack rugs. Murfin bent, snapped on the handcuffs in two quick movements and straightened up again.
‘You youngsters,’ he said. ‘All that running about, and it doesn’t achieve a thing.’
Today was also Emergency Services Day in Edendale. Cooper had forgotten that. The whole of Victoria Park had been taken over to mount displays for the public. Crowds of civilians were passing through in their hundreds.
This park was also the site of the annual Christmas market. It was a popular attraction, bringing crowds of people into town. There was always a smell of roasting chestnuts in the air, and the sound of a fairground organ. In the evening, mime artists, stilt walkers and clowns would mingle with the crowds in the lamplit streets, and Santa would turn up on his sleigh.
It was where David and Trisha Pearson should have been on their Peak District Christmas break, not trekking across Oxlow Moor.
A few uniformed officers and PCSOs from E Division had been allocated to Emergency Services Day. The mobile police office was here, with a PC inside demonstrating the old-style fingerprinting technique, which was always popular. A liveried Vauxhall Astra sat with its blue lights flashing and its doors open, so that children could sit in the driver’s seat and tap the steering wheel to set off the siren.