‘They might be suicidal,’ said Cooper, ‘but they don’t dig shallow graves for themselves. When they die, they generally just lie about on the surface until the scavengers get to them.’

‘Grave?’ said Fry.

‘Well, it seems to be where the possessions of David and Trisha Pearson were buried. Whether the Pearsons are also dead and buried … I guess that’s what you’re here to find out.’

‘No bodies, then.’

‘No,’ said Cooper. ‘No bodies. Not yet.’

Fry turned and pointed.

‘The building I passed a mile or two back,’ she said. ‘A pub, is it?’

‘It was.’

The auctioneer’s sign on the wall of the Light House was legible from half a mile away, and visible from much further. Historic landmark inn. Cooper wondered how many more questions he would have to give obvious answers to.

‘It’s been empty for about six months,’ he said.

‘Looks a grim place.’

‘It wasn’t so grim when it was open.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

‘You don’t remember it, do you?’

Fry frowned. On her face a frown looked more like a scowl, as if being forced to remember something made her really angry.

‘Have I been there?’ she said.

‘Yes, with me,’ said Cooper.

‘No, I don’t recall the occasion, then.’

‘Never mind.’

Cooper remembered it, though. He recalled sitting in the conservatory after driving up here from Fry’s flat in Edendale one summer evening, when it stayed light long enough for them to enjoy the spectacular views for an hour or two. It had been busy at the Light House that night, but they’d managed to get a table in the conservatory, just as the first drops of rain began to fall on the glass roof. He remembered being surprised when he offered to buy the drinks and Fry asked for a vodka. When he thought back, he could still recall the clatter of those raindrops on the roof, sounding much too loud in the awkward pauses in their conversation. The memory was so firmly lodged in his brain that the sound of rain had become a sort of musical accompaniment to the history of their relationship.

And Fry said she didn’t remember it. Well, he wasn’t surprised. She was capable of erasing him from her life as easily as she might wipe away a splash of rain.

It was amazing to think now that he’d once considered … well, it was probably best not think about it at all. He was marrying Liz Petty in a few months’ time. That was what he was put on this earth for. Diane Fry had just been an irritant, sent to make him appreciate better things. He ought to be thankful that she’d existed. If only he could bring himself to be thankful that she had gone.

Fry seemed to be gazing at something, but not the nearby scene. She was staring into the distance, where the smoke was still billowing towards them across the moor. The wind must have changed again.

‘We might have to move,’ said Cooper.

‘Possibly.’

But then he realised that she was gazing in the direction of the Light House, even though it wasn’t visible from here. He wondered what it was that fascinated her. Had she perhaps dredged up a fragment of memory? But if he knew Diane Fry, she would have pushed any memories she didn’t want right to the back of her mind, where they would never be found.

‘Why did it close?’ she said.

‘The pub? Lots of reasons.’

Cooper knew there were several factors contributing to the closures of rural pubs. The traditional lunchtime trade had been dying on its feet. The crackdown on drinking and driving, the ban on smoking in public places, the availability of cheap alcohol in supermarkets – they’d all played their part in the slow erosion of pub business. For many licensees, the increase in VAT to twenty per cent had been the last straw, a sudden hike in their quarterly bills too much to cope with at the wrong time.

In addition, the Light House had always been one of the places worst affected by spells of bad weather in the winter. Prolonged periods of snow meant no one could reach the pub for weeks. Over Christmas and New Year, that was a disaster. The holiday period was the one time of the year when a pub could expect to make a profit. Cancelled bookings and an empty bar turned a bad situation into a catastrophe beyond recovery.

He started to tell Fry this, but soon ground to a halt. Not for the first time, he had the distinct impression that she wasn’t listening to him, that she was just letting him talk as a form of noise to fill the void, the way you might play familiar music on a long car journey. It allowed your thoughts to be elsewhere.

‘Is there … anything I can do, Diane?’ he said instead.

She looked at him then, as if he’d just appeared at her side.

‘No. You’ve done well.’

‘Oh, thanks.’

Cooper turned aside, hoping to get more sense out of Wayne Abbott. At least he wouldn’t be so patronising.

‘Who was that?’ said Fry suddenly.

Cooper stopped and turned back in surprise. ‘Where?’

‘Didn’t you see them? Running across the moor.’

‘Towards the fire?’

‘Into the smoke, anyway. It was only a second, then I lost sight of him again.’

‘Him?’

‘Well … I can’t be sure. It was so quick it could have been anybody, I suppose.’

Cooper had automatically taken a step towards the hill, but she grabbed his arm and held him back.

‘There’s no point, Ben. Let’s warn the firefighters to keep an eye out for them.’

He stopped, accepting her decision without question, and surprised at himself for it. He looked at her hand on his arm, wondered why he was so struck by her use of his first name. It sounded odd after all these months.

Fry dropped her hand.

‘You’re getting married soon,’ she said.

‘Yes.’

Small talk now? Surely not.

‘Good.’

Gavin Murfin appeared, trudging up the track in his green anorak with an armful of files. He wheezed, dropped the files on the ground and threw a mock salute.

‘Messenger boy reporting, ma’am. They said you wanted these.’

‘Thanks,’ said Fry. ‘But I don’t know why they sent you. Any uniform would have done. A PCSO could have managed the job.’

Murfin smiled cheerfully. ‘In view of my vast experience as a detective, they thought I might be of some use to you.’

‘I doubt it.’ Fry picked up the files and began to turn away.

‘So how’s life at the East Midlands Special Operations Unit?’

‘Interesting,’ said Fry sharply.

‘Have you got an acronym for yourselves yet? EMSOU – MC doesn’t have much of a ring to it, does it?’

Fry turned to him with a sour expression on her face. At one stage in their relationship, a look like that from her would have quelled Murfin without a word being spoken. It didn’t seem to have any effect now.

‘Don’t you have work to do?’ she said. ‘I heard you had an urgent inquiry involving stolen postboxes to deal with. Or has that proved beyond your capabilities?’

Murfin chewed thoughtfully.

‘You know they’re giving me a medal, don’t you?’ he asked.

‘They ought to give you a brain scan,’ said Fry over her shoulder.

‘Why?’

‘Well, someone needs to carry out a proper examination of your pathological behaviour.’

‘Hold on,’ called Murfin as she walked away. ‘Are you calling me a pathologist?’

Fry gritted her teeth, told herself to hang on. Her own DCI would be here in the morning to take charge as senior investigating officer. Until then, it was a question of holding the fort. Grin and bear it. Except she didn’t feel much like grinning.

It would actually be a whole lot better if she could just get rid of some of these people cluttering up the scene. Almost all of them, in fact.

She looked at the firefighting operation still continuing on the moor, the road closure below. There was only one road in, and one road out. That was good. The crime scene was protected, and the evidence collected. Nothing was going anywhere until morning. She knew DCI Mackenzie would back her up.