But whatever had happened inside this pub, it wasn’t senseless. At least two people had come together here, if only for a short while. There had been a reason for the killing.

Murder, or the idea of murder, wasn’t all that unfamiliar a concept to a lot of people, most of them ordinary, law-abiding citizens. It had been a part of human experience since Cain killed Abel. Normally it all went wrong with the disposal of the body. The killing itself was easy. It didn’t take much thought – a red mist in front of the eyes, a violent swing of the arm, and it was done. But a corpse on the floor was a different matter. There were bloodstains on the walls, one of your hairs on their clothes, a fragment of your skin caught under their fingernails. And perhaps a witness who had seen both of you arrive but only one of you leave. From that point, it took a lot of thought. And who was thinking straight in those circumstances? Most people just panicked and ran.

They’d interviewed some of the firefighters, and a couple of rangers who’d been in the vicinity. But the interviews had produced little of any use. Understandably, their attention had been on the fires, not on the pub. And that was a shame. Given the location, they were the only potential witnesses available.

‘The last landlord, you said?’

‘Mad Maurice,’ repeated Murfin. ‘Moved back down into Edendale with his family when the pub closed. Name of Wharton.’

‘Why do they call him Mad Maurice?’ asked Fry.

‘Because he used to get mad a lot,’ said Murfin. ‘There were loads of things he couldn’t stand. Mobile phones, children, people who just came into the pub to use the loo or ask directions. Anything like that, he’d get mad about. Maurice became a tourist attraction in his own right.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, folk used to come in the pub just in the hopes of seeing him get mad. They thought it was funny. “Let’s go and see Mad Maurice,” they’d say. Where other landlords called the traditional “Time gentlemen, please”, Maurice’s shout was “Come on, you buggers, clear off. Haven’t you got homes to go to?”’

‘Charming.’

‘It was just his way.’

‘If he shouted that at me, I’d never go back there again.’

‘Well that’s the point. If you couldn’t put up with a bit of abuse, he didn’t want you in his pub anyway. It meant you were the wrong sort of customer.’

‘Good grief. It’s no wonder the place went bust, if he chased away all his custom like that.’

‘On the contrary, it was one of the pub’s unique selling points. People used to go there because of Maurice. It’s a bit like customers going to Gordon Ramsay’s restaurant hoping to hear him say the F-word. You know what I mean.’

‘Gordon Ramsay is a celebrity chef who’s always on the telly. He’s famous.’

‘Well so was Mad Maurice, in his own way. He was a local celebrity. For every customer he banned from the pub for a using a mobile phone or talking too loud, he’d get ten more coming in to see him do it.’

‘A clever marketing ploy on his part, then.’

‘No,’ said Murfin. ‘He just got mad a lot.’

Hurst took a call, and turned immediately to Fry.

‘We got an ID,’ she said. ‘Name of Aidan Merritt, a thirty-five-year-old teacher from Edendale.’

‘A teacher? What was he up to at the Light House?’

‘Dunno. But here’s the interesting thing. His name came up in HOLMES in connection with the Pearson inquiry.’

10

Ben Cooper parked his Toyota by the little green in the centre of Castleton and opened his Ordnance Survey map. It was a well-used, heavily creased copy of Outdoor Leisure 1, the Dark Peak.

As usual, the area he wanted went off the edge of the map and crossed into the White Peak. That was just to make things more difficult.

Above the town, a team of officers were attempting to follow the route that the Pearsons might have taken from Castleton on the night they disappeared. It had been done before, but DCI Mackenzie had insisted on it being done again. The scope of the search had been widened, taking in a broad sweep of the moor right over to Speedwell Cavern and Winnats Pass on one side, and including the Limestone Way itself on the other.

In most parts of the country it would be impossible to imagine how two people could simply disappear in open countryside like this. But Cooper was aware of what lay underneath his feet. The whole of this landscape was hollow. It was one huge lump of porous limestone, scooped out over millennia by running water to form endless caves and tunnels and passages.

The Peak Cavern system alone ran for more than ten miles before it emerged at Speedwell, and it included the deepest shaft in the UK, twice the size of St Paul’s Cathedral. Rain falling on the surface in Cavedale found its way through to the show caverns below and fell as lime-stained waterfalls on the heads of tourists.

Even Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had once said: ‘All this county is hollow. Could you strike it with some gigantic hammer it would boom like a drum.’ In that wider context, it was far too easy to imagine anything disappearing.

Cooper glanced out of the car window. Up Castle Street, he could see the sign outside the George, directly opposite the parish church. He dialled Carol Villiers’ mobile number, and she answered after three or four rings.

‘Where are you, Carol?’

‘Still at the George.’

‘Anything?’

‘No. The story stays the same, right down to the details. Except the details are becoming a bit vague by now. I’ve been going through the names of the other people who were eating here that night. I know it’s been done before …’

‘Hasn’t it all?’ said Cooper.

‘Well … anyway, they’re all in the clear. No connection with the Pearsons, so far as I can tell. One couple were from Sussex, which I suppose is not a million miles from where the Pearsons lived.’

‘Did they speak to each other?’

‘Not that we know of. Not that anyone saw.’

‘A washout, then.’

‘Of course, we don’t have all the names,’ said Villiers. ‘Some of the customers are unaccounted for. So there are gaps.’

Cooper sighed. ‘I know. Thanks, Carol.’

‘I’m leaving the George in a few minutes. I’m going to go past the Green.’

‘Fine.’

Details of the Pearsons’ movements towards the end of that night were sketchy, and had to be partly speculation. What was known for certain was that they’d arrived at the George, where they’d booked a table for dinner at seven thirty. Since their Range Rover III was still standing outside The Old Dairy next day, the presumption was that they’d walked to Castleton. The owner of the cottage confirmed they were keen walkers – that was why they came to the Peak District, they’d said. At the George, staff who’d served them remembered that they’d come in wearing outdoor clothes and walking shoes. It wasn’t at all unusual; Castleton was a centre for walkers at any time of the year.

Cooper thought about the photographs of the Pearsons again. You couldn’t always tell the outdoor types, of course. And the Peak District had enough variety to attract anyone. But personally, he wouldn’t have pegged David Pearson as the kind of man to be hiking over the moors in the middle of winter. The activity had its attractions, without a doubt, but it was minority appeal. Most people would have jumped into the car and driven to Castleton. Almost everyone, in fact, even if they hadn’t bothered to check the local weather forecasts. It was one of the factors that had fuelled theories that the Pearsons had set the whole thing up. If you looked at it that way, it was the unlikeliest element of the scenario. Yet from the evidence, that seemed undoubtedly to be what had happened.

Okay, so the meal had gone off uneventfully. The mushrooms in peppercorn sauce, the Bantry Bay mussels, the honey-glazed ham shank. The Pearsons’ table hadn’t been close to the windows, so they might not have noticed the weather deteriorating. It was only a bit of sporadic sleet anyway. A few wintry showers. What was that to a couple of determined, experienced walkers with the right gear?