‘But what do you believe in?’ she said, voicing the real question that was on her mind.

‘Stride talks to the Fiddler at nights, sometimes,’ said Cal. ‘He tells him about things like that. The Fiddler knows the truth.’

‘The truth? And what truth is it you’re looking for?’

Stride only smiled. The smile became wider, and turned into a laugh that filled the van. He leaned forward, and laid a hand on Fry’s knee. She flinched, but was unable to pull back from his touch in the confined space. Stride’s hand lay still and steady, as if he were trying to calm her thoughts, to transfer some of his own contentment by direct contact.

‘How can you know the truth until you find it?’ he said.

For a moment he stared directly into her eyes, as if seeking a shred of understanding, willing her to share a bit of enlightenment. But she kept her face expressionless, resisting. Even Stride finally realized the futility, repulsed by the rigidity of her muscles beneath his hand.

Then Cal stepped in. ‘Stride believes there may be a vengeful spirit of the moors, driving intruders away.’

‘And what the hell does that mean?’ said Fry angrily.

Cal didn’t even seem to have heard. He looked at Stride, who was still staring at Fry and seemed to be attempting to drive his thoughts into her head by willpower.

‘Well, if you find this vengeful spirit has a physical body and a face, let us know,’ she said.

Stride looked unperturbed. ‘It’s the Fiddler himself,’ he said. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? It’s the Fiddler who makes the women dance.’

Ben Cooper turned right at the Fina petrol station and dropped the Toyota down a gear to go up the steep street. He wasn’t familiar with this estate on the southern edge of Edendale. It was a fairly recent one, with cheap housing built to provide somewhere that local people could afford to live without having to move out of town. The houses were small stone semis, with narrow alleyways and car ports.

The homes on Calver Crescent looked like all the others, and the only thing that distinguished number 17 was a slightly neglected air. The paintwork on the front door was starting to peel, and part of the car port’s Perspex roof had come loose and split, leaving a gap plugged by a sheet of polythene that flapped and rattled in the rain.

Mark Roper was waiting outside, under the light of a bare bulb. He ran down the short drive and climbed into Cooper’s car. He was wearing jeans and a denim jacket, and Cooper hardly recognized him.

‘Can we go somewhere?’ asked Mark.

‘Sure. Anywhere in particular? A pub?’

‘No, somewhere quiet, where we can talk. I’ll show you where.’

‘OK.’