‘There’s something I want to know. I thought you and your friend might be able to help me.’

Cal eyed her suspiciously. ‘Leave us alone. We’ll be out of here by Monday morning. What’s the point of hassling us now?’

‘No hassle. Just a question.’

‘One question? OK, go ahead.’

Fry turned her jacket collar up against the water trickling on to her neck. ‘It’s wet out here,’ she said.

‘Yeah. It’s the rain that does it.’

‘Can I come in?’

‘Is that the question? ’Cos the answer’s “no”.’

‘I can’t hear you, because of the rain in my ears.’

A voice came from inside the van, lazy and amused. ‘Hey, let her in, Cal. She sounds fun.’

Cal hesitated, but pulled open the door. Inside the van, Fry squeezed into a space next to the chest of drawers, sitting on a cushion that smelled of Indian spices. Stride watched her through the blonde hair that had fallen over his face. He smiled, like an Arab prince welcoming her to his tent.

‘Our last visitor. I hope you bring us luck.’

‘Yes, they’ll have you out of this quarry tomorrow.’

‘We know.’

‘If it were me, I’d be glad to leave. There’s nothing here. What sort of life can it be?’

‘You want to know what we do all day? Is that the question?’

‘Not really.’

‘We talk. We think about things. You could try it. It doesn’t hurt.’

‘You’re young. You should be out in the world enjoying life,’ said Fry. ‘This place is so empty and bleak.’

‘No. All you see is a landscape of rocks and heather,’ said Stride. ‘But the moor is a living thing. It has moods; it has desires.’ He grinned at Fry, and his voice hushed. ‘It has secrets.’

‘Stride’s right,’ said Cal. ‘The moor was here long before us. The Fiddler will still be playing long after we’ve gone.’

‘The who?’

‘The Fiddler. Don’t you know the story?’

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Have you seen the stones?’ said Stride. ‘Don’t you know what they are? Nine virgins, turned to stone for dancing on a Sunday. Punished for their sin. They desecrated the Sabbath with their dancing. But that single stone, outside the circle . . . They say that’s the Fiddler, who played the tune for the dancers. He was turned to stone, too. But he wasn’t dancing. Do you think the Fiddler got justice?’

‘What nonsense.’

‘Is it? Don’t underestimate the power of nature. The spirits don’t forget.’

Fry was concentrating on the manner of the two travellers as much as on their words. She already knew she was never going to be able to ask the right questions, no matter how long she stayed here. There was something rehearsed about their performance that only reinforced her scepticism.