‘And imagine,’ he said, ‘how easy it would be to bury a murder victim here.’

Fry took a call on her mobile. ‘That was the DI,’ she said. ‘They’re setting up a HOLMES incident room for the Farnham killing.’

‘I suppose that’s no surprise.’

‘No. A high-profile shooting takes immediate priority over our old remains at Pity Wood. So all the expertise will be arriving from Ripley, even as we speak. At least that means a lot more resources – there’ll be separate teams concentrating on the new lines of enquiry.’

‘Pity Wood is ours, then?’ said Cooper.

‘Pretty much. So we’d better get back to the farm.’

A few minutes later, as they got close to Pity Wood, Cooper saw a solitary figure walking along the edge of the road, trying to stay off the muddy verge. A young man in his twenties, dark hair, medium height. A black padded jacket. ‘You know, you see asylum seekers wearing them when they get pulled off the EuroStar.’

‘I’m going to pull up. Let’s check this guy out.’

When he heard the car slowing down, the man looked as though he was about to start running. But he slipped on the mud, thought better of it, and slowed to a walking pace again.

He didn’t look round to see who was in the car until it stopped just ahead of him, and Cooper got out.

‘Police, sir. DC Cooper, from Edendale CID. Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble, but could you tell me your name?’

‘My name is Mikulas Halak.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘Slovakia.’

The young man was carrying a small rucksack over his shoulders, and his skin was a shade or two darker than most Derbyshire folk. In some places, that would be enough to put him under suspicion. Fry got out of the car and came to stand on the other side of Halak.

‘And what are you doing in Derbyshire, Mr Halak?’

‘I’m doing no harm. I’m looking for my sister. She was working here, in this place.’

Cooper and Fry looked at each other.

‘In Rakedale?’ asked Fry. ‘Your sister was working in Rakedale?’

Halak pointed out Pity Wood in the distance. Even from here, the police vehicles were visible, and one of the crime scene tents was flapping damply in the breeze.

‘I believe she had work at the farm, there. I’ve seen it on the television. I believe Nadezda was there. Look, I have a photograph.’

‘Get in the car, please, sir,’ said Fry. ‘We need to talk to you back at the station.’

When Mikulas Halak had been provided with coffee and seated in a free interview room, they checked his documents. He carried a Slovak passport, issued since the country had become a member of the European Union, and everything looked to be in order.