‘We suspect that Pity Wood Farm was being used for some kind of illegal activity, Mr Farnham,’ she said. ‘We think this was happening during your period there as a partner or farm manager, whatever you want to call yourself.’

‘If anything was happening, you can’t prove I was involved.’

‘The circumstances look very suspicious.’

‘Well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you to your speculation. I congratulate you on your imagination, Sergeant. But I don’t have much time for flights of fancy myself.’

‘The evidence is there at Pity Wood, Mr Farnham. Once we have a tight enough case against you, we’ll be back.’

‘Look, I’m not so stupid that I’d leave evidence lying around, if I’d committed a crime, now, am I? So if there was evidence left lying around, that proves that I didn’t do it, right? That is clearly the action of somebody with much less ability for planning ahead and foreseeing all eventualities than I am. So it’s psychologically wrong, don’t you see?’

‘Mr Farnham, we only deal with the facts, not with psychological theories.’

‘OK, you do that. You won’t find any evidence that connects to me. It just isn’t possible.’

Fry was frowning as they left Farnham’s house. Within a mile or two, her frown had turned to an expression of outrage, and she turned on Cooper.

‘Imagination?’ she said. ‘Imagination? Moi?’

‘So how do we go about finding Martin Rourke?’ asked Cooper.

‘Check the PNC and pray for an accurate address?’

Cooper ran the check when they got back to the office. The PNC could give him convictions, distinguishing marks, place of birth. But that wasn’t enough. He logged into the criminal intelligence system and looked for aliases, changes of address or known associates. No sign of Martin Rourke.

That left only one option. He put a call in to liaison and got a contact for the Garda Síochána in Dublin. Oh, yes, said the officer. They’d do everything in their power to help their colleagues in Derbyshire locate Mr Martin Rourke.

Cooper thanked him, and rang off. Oh, yes? Well, it would take the luck of the Irish.

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty

That afternoon, the yellow skull recovered from Tom Farnham’s garage was packed up and sent off to Sheffield University for the anthropology team to examine. Dr Jamieson would report on its provenance, in due course. But this was Saturday, so Fry knew she couldn’t expect any results for a few days.

She looked across the CID room, where Cooper was at his desk.

‘You know, this is a case that has to be all about the victims,’ she said.

‘Isn’t every case about the victims, Diane?’