‘So much for the idea that they were out dogging, then,’ said Cooper. ‘I think you need a few more participants, don’t you?’

‘Exactly. And it’s the wrong time of year anyway.’

‘What do you think they were up to?’

‘I wish I knew, Ben. But now that Elder has a confirmed connection with Tom Farnham, he’s involved in a murder enquiry. We’ve got to dig out what his involvement is.’

Cooper shook his head. ‘If they were just meeting at Godfrey’s Rough, we won’t be any the wiser.’

‘They were a long time, according to the log,’ said Fry. ‘The patrol logged their registration numbers at six twenty-five p. m., and again at eight fifteen. That’s more than just a quick chat.’

The car was constantly ploughing through seas of muddy water. Not floods exactly, just a general consequence of wet weather, the result of rain pouring down from the hillsides on to the roads. Here, the dry-stone walls were held together by a sheath of green moss.

A hundred yards in front of them was an Arla Foods milk tanker, heading for one of the dairies at Manchester or Ashby de la Zouch after its daily farm collections. Cooper felt these limestone areas of the White Peak were a more friendly landscape than the moors further north. It felt lived in, shaped by human activity. The White Peak was a particularly satisfying landscape, somehow. Psychologically satisfying.

‘But what else is there at Godfrey’s Rough?’ asked Fry. ‘What would have taken the two of them there for so long?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Cooper. ‘We’ll have a look round when we get there.’

Seeing that his tank was getting close to empty, Cooper took a diversion through Hartington and pulled into a little filling station – old-fashioned personal service, and just two pumps to choose from, unleaded or diesel.

When he was getting his wallet out to pay for the petrol, Cooper found an envelope in his inside pocket that he’d forgotten about.

‘Oh, by the way, Diane, with all the excitement, I didn’t get round to showing you this.’

‘What is it? A photograph?’

Cooper got back behind the wheel and drove out of Hartington, glad that he was familiar with the locations of remote filling stations in this area.

‘I borrowed it from the heritage centre,’ he said.

Fry studied the photo. ‘I can see three men standing in a farmyard. Is that Pity Wood?’

‘Yes. It was taken in the 1960s. When I went to the heritage centre, I wasn’t really looking for anything that old, but still … It was a bonus.’

‘Why?’

‘There’s a caption on the back. Names and a date – I wish more people did that. Here on the right is Raymond Sutton, standing in the doorway of the barn. See him?’

‘Yes.’