Fry stared at him. ‘Hey, you don’t have to look too far for nutters round these parts, do you?’ she said. ‘The real loonies can be right there in front of your eyes.’

Cooper read the newspaper article over her shoulder. ‘They quote Stride as saying the wind chimes and tree sculptures will keep away the vengeful spirits of the moor.’

‘Why do they print that crap?’

‘It gives them a chance for a funny headline: “Tate for tat? Quarry dwellers’ art is more than just rock and roll-ups”.’

‘Very clever. At least they don’t mention Simon Bevington’s history.’

‘No,’ said Cooper. ‘But I think they might have done enough.’

‘All the attention might persuade them to leave the quarry. That would be no loss, in my opinion.’

‘They’re all right. They’re the sort of people we should be protecting.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You remember. That oath we took. “I do solemnly and sincerely declare and affirm . . .”’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

‘“. . . and prevent all offences against the person and properties of Her Majesty’s subjects.”’

‘Ben, do you realize you’re the only copper in the country who can still quote his oath more than two minutes after his swearing in?’

‘Maybe I happened to check on it the other day.’

‘What the hell has that got to do with those two van people, anyway?’

‘I think they’re at risk. Just like the others.’

‘What others?’

‘Well, like Jenny Weston and Maggie Crew. Like Will Leach and his brother, little Dougie. Their mother as well. Even their father, in a way. And, well . . . others. They’re our responsibility.’

‘Ben, it’s a big mistake to think you’ve been recruited as one of the Knights of the Round Table. They don’t issue shining armour these days. And your name isn’t Sir Galahad.’

Cooper shook his head. ‘Maybe I’m a bit old-fashioned and quaint. The fact is, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t try to do something for the people who need protecting. What a joke, eh?’

And he began to walk off, scuffing the loose stones, so that they left white marks on the toes of his shoes.

Ben Cooper remembered very well reading and rereading the oath on the back of his father’s warrant card as a small boy. Whenever he had seen his father in his uniform, he had asked to read it again. He must have been a terrible pest. But, at the time, it had seemed the most noble and meaningful sentence in the world, a hero’s vow of honour. He had regarded it with the superstitious awe and respect that only an over-imaginative child can produce. Though his hero had faded, and finally died a futile death, the power of the words had left a lasting impression. What was he here for, except to protect the innocent?