But Edendale cattle market had closed years ago, losing the battle against movement restrictions and competition from the new agricultural business centre fifteen miles away at Bakewell, part of a twelve-million-pound regeneration project. With the loss of the mainstay of their business, Pilkington and Son must have been close to the edge. No doubt it had been Jeremy who pushed for the move towards property auctions. That was still a thriving sector. Booming these days, in fact. But it was ironic that the firm should find itself auctioning off other businesses that could no longer compete.

Pilkington must be well into his seventies now. He was a red-faced man with an expanding belly almost bursting the buttons of his suit jacket. His complexion was just right to allow him to blend in with the farmers and livestock dealers who’d been his customers for all those years. He could have passed for a butcher or gamekeeper. But as a property agent, he was projecting the wrong image.

Cooper escorted him from the cordon via the safe route that had been marked out, and Fry cut across to intercept them, as if she didn’t trust Cooper within fifty yards of the crime scene.

‘My son is dealing with this property actually,’ Pilkington said, confirming Cooper’s suspicion. ‘I don’t know all that much about it. But he’s out of the country at the moment and it seems I’m responsible for it, so I’m the one who was called out by your people.’

‘Can’t you tell us anything, Mr Pilkington?’

‘Well, this is a free house and can be sold with all fixtures and fittings, should someone wish to continue with the current use. Alternatively it can be sold as a development opportunity and could feasibly be turned into residential accommodation, or a bed and breakfast business. Ample parking, et cetera.’

‘The pub was owned by the licensee himself? Not by a brewery or a pub company?’

‘No, Mr Wharton owned the pub outright. Or rather …’

Fry looked at him. ‘What?’

‘Let me consult the file.’

‘Please do.’

After a moment, Pilkington seemed to find the form he was looking for.

‘Yes, here we are. There’s quite a substantial charge against the property. Mmm. Yes, quite substantial. Mr and Mrs Wharton committed themselves to a large refinancing package, with the property as security. It seems they defaulted on payments to the financial institution involved. That’s very unfortunate. It should never have been allowed to get to that stage. I suspect Mr Wharton must have received some bad advice.’

‘So it belongs to the bank?’

‘Well … mostly to the creditors, yes. It seems the Whartons were obliged to sell when the incomings no longer matched the outgoings.’

‘They went bust.’

‘It’s rather a crude term. More of a tabloid journalist’s expression.’

‘But still …?’

‘That’s the gist of it, yes,’ admitted Pilkington.

‘And now it’s a dead duck. Who would buy a failed pub?’

‘It’s an opportunity to regenerate an underperforming business,’ said Pilkington stiffly. ‘An adjustment of the food and drink split, a shift to a more dry-led trading model. The potential incomings—’

‘Save it,’ said Fry.

‘It could be a unique destination food house. We expect to get a good price at auction.’

Fry looked at Pilkington as if she was going to hit him. Cooper was more reluctant to upset anyone in the property business. You never knew how word might get around in a place like Edendale. But Fry didn’t care, clearly. She had no intention of ever buying property in this area. She’d never made any secret of it. Property ownership meant roots. It certainly involved financial ties. All the things Diane Fry didn’t want.

‘This is a landmark property, freehold and free of tie, with function room and guest accommodation. It ought to be an easy sell.’ Pilkington looked faintly apologetic at his use of the phrase. ‘Well, that’s what my son says. A full commercial kitchen, with glass wash and preparation room. Three-bedroom self-contained owner’s accommodation, with four en suite guest bedrooms. Goodwill, plus stock at valuation.’

Cooper recalled reading in the local newspaper that the freehold for another famous landmark inn in the Peak District had sold recently for one and a half million pounds. Who would have that kind of money available to rescue the Light House from its fate?

Pilkington eyed Fry nervously as she walked away. Then he turned to Cooper as if to share a confidence.

‘To be honest, the turnover doesn’t look too good on paper,’ he said. ‘We’re advised by our clients that business was more than acceptable a few years ago, but it began to decline. Potential buyers don’t like to see a downturn on gross profits when they examine the financial records.’

‘No, of course.’

‘There were particular problems here, though.’

‘Oh, were there?’

‘Well, for example – a lot of businesses in the hospitality sector rely on making a profit over the holiday period. It can compensate for flat trading during the rest of the year. But the Light House had developed the practice of closing over Christmas. You can understand it on a personal level, I suppose. We all like to spend time with our families. But from a business point of view, it didn’t help the bottom line at all.’

A scatter of soot on the wind and the acrid smell of burning heather reminded them that a wildfire was burning on the moor not too far away.

‘They need to put that fire out,’ said Pilkington nervously.

‘They’re doing their best, sir.’

‘They need to put it out. It mustn’t be allowed to get any closer to the property.’

‘I’m sure the firefighters will have it under control in a day or two.’

‘A day or two? Are you serious?’

‘These moorland fires can burn for weeks. The fire gets right down into the peat, you see, and then there’s no way of putting it out. It just keeps smouldering away down there, and burning back up to the surface again. That could go on all summer. Or until we get some decent rain, anyway.’

‘That can’t be possible surely.’

‘I’m afraid so, sir. But the firefighting teams will make it a priority to prevent the blaze spreading this way so as to protect your property.’

He turned and looked at the derelict inn as he spoke, the shuttered windows and boarded-up door, the grass growing on the car park, the weeds sprouting from the roof. And he wondered what there was to protect, really.

‘They should have had protection by occupation,’ said Pilkington. ‘My son advised it, but they didn’t take up the option.’

‘A live-in guardian, you mean?’

‘Exactly. Someone who lives on site temporarily for a small rent. It would have worked here, I’m sure. There’s separate owner’s accommodation already in place. A guardian could have looked after the property a bit better, and prevented it from becoming such an eyesore. Not that the right buyer won’t see the potential …’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘There have been a lot of rumours about problems with the pub since it closed. Reports of squatters and drug users, but they turned out not to be true. And word has been going round Edendale that there were major subsidence issues, due to the old mine workings.’

‘Yes, I heard that rumour myself.’

‘Well that isn’t true either,’ said Pilkington. ‘It’s all very unhelpful. That type of story tends to put off a lot of buyers.’

Cooper thought about where the Light House stood. He supposed its original builders hadn’t chosen its position for the views. Until the arrival of the Romantic movement, this landscape would have been considered wild and barbaric, so lacking in civilisation as to be devoid of interest. After all, the eighteenth-century novelist Daniel Defoe had called the Peak District ‘a houling wilderness’. The heather itself had been despised as a symbol of rural poverty.

No, this had been a practical choice of location. Travellers passing over the moors needed somewhere to stop for the night, a place to change or rest their horses. The inn’s lights appearing in the dusk must have been a welcome sight to many thousands of people over the years. It was only much later that they came here for the view.