Marilyn Robb and Karen Tavisker had been friends for years. Twelve months previously, Marilyn and her husband had moved away to Herefordshire when Alan had been transferred to a new financial services centre at Ludlow. Now Marilyn was back for a visit with her old friend at Karen’s home in Mickleover – and the first thing she wanted to do was go for a walk in the Peak District, as they always had done before she moved away.

‘Where shall we go?’

‘Have you still got the OS maps?’

‘Of course. They’re right here. Dark Peak or White Peak?’

‘Hmm. Normally I might be feeling a bit dark. But today . . .’

She looked out of the kitchen window. A brisk wind was tossing the dead leaves of the sycamores around the garden.

‘Yes, you’re right,’ said Karen. ‘It’ll be pretty wild up there today. Best to play safe.’

It might seem bright and breezy now, here in the leafy streets of Mickleover, but by the time they reached Buxton they would have climbed fifteen hundred feet and the climate would be totally different. On the tops, anything could be waiting for unwary walkers. In November, the hills of the Dark Peak could be merciless, with wind, rain and sleet ripping furiously across the shelterless stretches. Both women shivered as they contemplated it.

‘Somewhere in the White Peak then. It’s nearer, anyway.’

‘Why don’t we just set off and see where the car takes us?’

‘Why not? We’re ladies of leisure, after all.’

‘And a nice pub for lunch.’

‘Perfect.’

Like everyone else, Karen had heard of the women attacked on Ringham Moor. The Jenny Weston case had been in the papers for a few days, but other stories had replaced it now. There were always other, more newsworthy murders taking place somewhere around the country. Karen knew the police had been warning lone women to stay off the moor. But time had passed, and it had begun to feel safe again. And two women together? Surely they would be all right.

By the time they were dressed and had collected their boots and anoraks, they were becoming quite silly, like two schoolgirls on an outing. They found an old Bruce Springsteen tape at the back of the glove compartment in Karen’s car, and they sang along to the familiar tunes from fifteen years before, when they had been much younger and had enjoyed life together. They deafened each other with the chorus of ‘Dancing in the Dark’.

Marilyn began to talk about the people they had both known, years ago. Karen laughed, her spirits lifted by the company of her friend. She hadn’t decided consciously where they would go. But when they reached Ashbourne, she indicated left and turned on to the A515 towards Ringham Moor.

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