‘I heard that the quality of his beer had been deteriorating for some time.’

‘I think that’s right. Hygiene problems, I would imagine. The boss here takes a lot of trouble over hygiene. Take line cleaning – it’s always a chore, but it has to be done every week without fail. If you get dirty lines, you have yeast build-up. I wonder what Maurice’s cellar temperature was like.’

Cooper looked at him, his mouth falling open slightly. Perhaps it was the effect of the beer on his brain, or the fact that he hadn’t recognised Roddy straight away, but he was starting to feel particularly stupid tonight.

‘His cellar?’ he said.

‘It has to be cool,’ explained Roddy. ‘Always between eleven and thirteen degrees Celsius, and constant. Sometimes people leave the cellar door open, or switch off the cooling at night, if they want to save money.’ He shook his head. ‘There are lots of nasties in a cellar that you don’t want getting to your beer. Bacteria, oxygen, moulds, flies, wild yeast, dirt …’

‘I get the picture,’ said Cooper, though in fact his mind was flailing wildly in an attempt to form an image that just wasn’t coming.

‘I’ve worked in a few pubs,’ said Roddy. ‘And the cellar often becomes a dumping ground. You wouldn’t believe the clutter in some places. The ice-maker, the chest freezer, the post-mix machine … People think they’re out of the way yet still handy. I even saw a motorbike once. It was a lovely bike, but imagine the stink of petrol mixing with the smell of beer. That’s a recipe for disaster all right.’

In the middle of the conversation Cooper became aware of a diesel engine outside, the sound of a large vehicle and the crashing of heavy items being delivered

When they left the Hanging Gate, the reason for the noise became evident. A brewery dray was drawn up in the street, and a wooden hatch set into the pavement was standing open for fresh kegs of beer to be lowered in.

‘We must have drunk a lot if they needed to bring in new supplies at this time of the evening,’ said Murfin.

‘It’s probably a regular delivery time.’

As he watched two draymen wearing leather gauntlets for roping kegs into the cellar, Cooper realised he’d always known at the back of his mind that the brewery dray delivered to the pub once a week. That must be true of all pubs, mustn’t it?

He felt like smacking his forehead with his hand.

‘How could I have forgotten that?’ he said.

He fumbled for his phone as they walked down the street.

‘Who are you calling?’ asked Murfin. ‘Not the fiancée? Are you having to report in?’

‘Just something I have to do now before I forget.’

‘You know your trouble, Ben?’

But Cooper had stopped listening to Murfin as he dialled a number and the phone was answered.

‘Josh? It’s Ben Cooper. Detective Sergeant Cooper, you remember? Good. I’m sorry to bother you, Josh, but I wonder if you’d have a bit of time to spare tomorrow? Are you working? If not, I’d like you to come up to the Light House for a while.’

Lane sounded reluctant, and even a little nervous.

‘Yes, I could call in before I go to work. But … am I allowed? Isn’t it a crime scene? Police – do not cross and all that?’

‘You’ll be fine with me. I can arrange it. Shall we say two o’clock?’

‘Okay then. What do you want me to do?’

‘It’s simple,’ said Cooper. ‘I want you to show me the cellars.’

24

When Ben Cooper woke the next day, it was with the scent of smoke in his nostrils. He knew he must have been dreaming, imagining he was in the middle of a wildfire raging across the moors. He couldn’t remember the nightmare, but he must have experienced it. It wasn’t in his memory, but it lingered in his senses.

Gavin Murfin’s brown Megane still stood outside in Welbeck Street. Cooper vaguely remembered Gavin heading off home in a taxi at the end of the evening. He hoped he’d arrived safely. There’d be hell to pay if he hadn’t. Jean would certainly hold him responsible.

Cooper shook his head to try to clear it. He recalled making the appointment to meet Josh Lane at the Light House. And there was something else he ought to remember, too. But, like the dream, it was evading his grasp just now.

The news was bad this morning. The latest bulletins reported more wildfires. And this time they were on Kinder Scout. Cooper stared out of the window of his flat. The street outside looked the same as it always did. But the town wasn’t affected by the fires, except when people complained about soot on their washing. The damage was happening out there, on the moors.

Cooper decided to skip breakfast, drank a quick coffee and went out of the door. He wasn’t due in the office for an hour or so.

This was Kinder Scout, after all. Kinder was the highest moorland plateau in the Peak District, part of a landscape almost unique to Britain, whose importance had only in recent years been fully appreciated. It was said that the expanses of peat on Kinder soaked up excess carbon from the atmosphere, and would continue to act as a carbon sink even if the climate became warmer and wetter, as the scientists predicted.

On the way, he called Liz, conscious that he ought to put things right if she was still unhappy about his night off from wedding planning. But for once she seemed to be the one who was preoccupied.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll fill you in later when I see you,’ she said.

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Of course. Tonight, then?’

‘Absolutely. Or …’

‘What?’

Cooper was thinking that tonight was too long to wait. He’d missed seeing her more than he could admit. Gavin Murfin just hadn’t been a substitute.

‘Well I’ll try to see you for a few minutes during the day, if I can. You’re on duty, aren’t you?’

‘Oh yes. Busy, busy. People keep finding crime scenes for us.’

‘I suppose they do.’

Within a few minutes Cooper was driving through Bradwell into the Hope Valley, phoning in to get the latest update on the operation. He joined the A625 and turned on to a back road by the post office in Hope village. The road snaked its way between the River Noe and the Hope Valley railway line until it finally reached the assembly point in a visitors’ car park near the hamlet of Upper Booth.

As usual there was a problem with rubberneckers. Some members of the public liked nothing better than a good fire. They seemed to treat it as an alternative to daytime TV. As a result, cars were drawn on to the verge and into every gateway along the road. Nearer to the car park, they were lined up as if for a party, with a young man with long hair leaning on his car playing a guitar. Other people were using binoculars or taking photographs with their mobile phones. A middle-aged couple had set up a folding table and were drinking tea. Late arrivals were finding it difficult to get parking spaces.

On the narrowest bend, Cooper found cars projecting so far into the roadway that it would be impossible for anything as large as a fire appliance to get past. Someone ought to be here sorting this out, keeping the access clear. But it would mean taking resources away from where they were needed most. Not for the first time, the public weren’t helping at all.

When he arrived at the assembly point, he was met by a national park ranger in his distinctive red jacket. The rangers were often the first line of defence against the spread of moorland fires. They were out there on the ground every day, and they didn’t worry about working nine to five when there was an emergency situation.

‘What I’m hoping for is that the wind will change direction,’ said the ranger.

‘To stop the fire spreading towards the villages?’ asked Cooper.

The ranger shook his head, and jerked a thumb towards the road.

‘No, so that all the gongoozlers get a face full of smoke. That might make them go home.’