Cooper flicked through the file for financial details. ‘They both left money in their bank accounts. Quite substantial amounts, too.’

‘The inquiry team were aware of that. They watched those accounts closely for any signs of activity, but there were no transactions other than a few standing orders and direct debits, which kept going out until the bank put a stop on them.’

‘So they didn’t have any money?’

‘On the contrary. From the evidence of fraud and embezzlement that we and HMRC uncovered in David Pearson’s business activities, there’s a large of cash unaccounted for somewhere.’

‘How much?’

‘The best part of two million pounds.’

Villiers gave the low whistle required whenever a large amount of money was mentioned.

‘Wow.’

‘Actually, it isn’t all that much,’ said Irvine.

‘A cool two mil? Not all that much? What do you mean? Your salary must be a lot higher than I thought, Luke.’

‘No, he’s right,’ said Cooper. ‘It’s not enough. Once you’ve paid out for all the forged documents and your new identity, bought your villa in the Algarve or wherever and met all the expenses of setting up a different life from scratch … not to mention lying low for however long is needed.’

‘Yes, the money would have run out by now.’

‘I think so. They would have had to raise their heads above the parapet in some way by this time. And they would have been located.’

‘Unless …?’

‘Well, as Carol said – unless they’re dead.’

In the little office she’d been allocated across the corridor, Fry was looking at the photographs of the Pearsons again. Cooper wondered what she was thinking, why she had that faintly puzzled look. He’d studied the photographs long enough himself, and he hadn’t noticed whatever it was that Fry was seeing, the factor that she found so mystifying.

She looked up when she became aware of him standing near her.

‘Diane, would you agree to me speaking to Nancy Wharton?’ he said.

Fry considered it for a moment, and he thought at first that she was going to say no. It certainly wouldn’t have surprised him. As far as she was concerned, most of his ideas were set up to be rejected out of hand.

‘I suppose it can’t do any harm,’ she said.

‘Thank you.’

‘Why do you think all the public attention focused on David Pearson?’ she asked. ‘Trisha is quite attractive, isn’t she? The press normally go for shots of a photogenic young woman. It draws more sympathy, or something.’

Cooper had to agree. Usually that was the case.

‘But look at David again,’ he said. ‘Remember what I said about the film star?’

‘Oh. Robert Redford, was it?’

‘Yes. He has that look about him. Handsome, dashing, a bit of a rogue. He was tailor-made for the story, especially when his skill as a conman started to come out. The media loved the fact that he was on the run. He was Robert Redford in Butch Cassidy, or Steve McQueen in The Great Escape.’

Seeing Fry’s expression remain blank, he searched desperately for something she could relate to.

‘Oh, I don’t know … Leonardo DiCaprio in Catch Me if You Can.’

‘I’ve seen that,’ she said.

‘Good.’

Fry screwed up her eyes. ‘He doesn’t look anything like Leonardo DiCaprio. Wrong hair colouring altogether.’

‘That’s not the point …’ began Cooper, then gave up. ‘Oh, never mind. Some of the locals are pointing their fingers at this other group of visitors. We have descriptions of them, but no names.’

‘Is there a suggestion that they knew the Pearsons?’ asked Fry.

‘We have no indication what their conversation was about. It might just have been a bit of casual chat, if they realised they were from the same part of the country. Or fellow feeling between outsiders. We can’t say. And there’s no chance of tracing them unless we trawl through the records of every holiday cottage and guest house within twenty miles.’

‘Well, that’s something that wasn’t done at the time,’ said Fry. ‘And now it’s probably too late.’

‘Yes.’

Cooper shut the door a little too hard, just as a gesture, and strode back into the CID room, where his team looked reassuring, and less difficult to deal with.

‘Luke,’ he said, ‘can you dig out everything we have on Ian Gullick, please?’

‘A regular at the Light House?’ said Irvine. ‘I recall the name.’

‘Yes.’ Cooper consulted his notebook. ‘And an associate of his.’

‘Vince Naylor?’

‘Right.’

‘Was that from the old biddy?’ asked Irvine.

‘Surprisingly, yes.’

‘I was wondering,’ said Villiers, ‘why the Pearsons didn’t go to the Light House for an evening meal on that last night. It was closer to their holiday cottage than the George.’

‘The food wasn’t up to much at the Light House,’ said Murfin. ‘It had been rubbish for years. If the Pearsons were bothered about getting a decent meal, they would have gone anywhere else but.’

‘That’s true,’ said Cooper.

‘And in any case, the Light House always closed for a few days over Christmas. They would already have stopped serving food by then, and they never took any bookings for accommodation.’

Cooper knew that its position was what the Light House was most famous for. It vied with the Barrel Inn at Bretton to be known as the highest pub in Derbyshire. On a clear day you could see across five counties, they said. But its location was also a drawback. To find it the first time you had to programme it into your sat nav. It wasn’t a place you passed by accident.

And Murfin was right – for the last few years the food menu hadn’t competed with anywhere. It hadn’t even tried. No seasonal locally sourced produce here like the pheasant, venison and wild boar you might find at the Barrel. From a culinary point of view, the Light House had been stuck in the 1980s. And there had been nothing available at lunchtime except a packet of pork scratchings.

‘By the way,’ said Murfin. ‘Speaking of food, I’ve got a line on Maclennan, the chef. He’s working at a French restaurant in Chapel-en-le-Frith now.’

On the way to Chapel-en-le-Frith, Cooper drove through Sparrowpit, and turned up a lane by the Wanted Inn that would take him towards the A6, where it bypassed the town. He saw a board by the roadside advertising ‘Livery vacancies’. Now, that was a sign of hard times.

He crossed the national park boundary just before he reached the A6, and followed the road that ran through Chapel. He passed the turning for the high school and the railway station on Long Lane. Since he was early and had time to spare, he decided to call at the local police station.

Chapel police station was a little way out of the old part of town, on Manchester Road. It had originally been a couple of old police houses, and was also the base for a traffic policing unit for the north of the county. There was a dog unit parked in the yard outside, and a mobile police office. It had one of the best views of any police station in Derbyshire, with an outlook at the back over rolling farmland towards the National Trust site at Eccles Pike.

Half an hour later, Cooper met Niall Maclennan in the little cobbled marketplace in the oldest part of Chapel-en-le-Frith. Maclennan was sitting on a bench between the corner of the NatWest Bank and the old market cross, under a horse chestnut tree, watching the world going by on the high street below.

Although it was tiny, like all the best marketplaces it seemed to be surrounded by pubs. One of them, he noticed, had a sign outside. Pub for let. Near the traditional stocks was the Stocks Café, advertising itself as Great British Breakfast Winner 2010. Lucky Gavin Murfin wasn’t here.

Niall Maclennan had dark eyes, prominent cheekbones and designer stubble. He was trying very hard to ooze the impression of a TV celebrity chef. At one time his image might have been spoiled by the fact that he was working in Chapel-en-le-Frith, this old market town on the edge of the High Peak. But these days Chapel was claiming to be the gourmet centre of the Peak, thanks to the number of restaurants, cafés and pubs, and a reputation for locally sourced produce.