And today, in Rakedale, it was definitely raining. From the state of the roads and the farm entrances, it looked as though it had been raining all year. The village might as well exist under some permanent black cloud that trickled constantly, like a leaky hosepipe.

Cooper crossed the road to a row of four cottages. He knocked on the door of the first house, drew up his collar and readied his clipboard. When you did house-to-house, bad weather was a useful barometer for what sort of people you were dealing with. In parts of Edendale, they’d leave you standing in the rain without a qualm, would rather see you drown in front of their eyes than let you over their threshold. If you were visiting an address on the Devonshire Estate in a downpour, you’d better be carrying a warrant, or an umbrella.

Out here, though, you’d expect members of the public to have a bit of sympathy, and not to watch you dripping on their step without a flicker of concern.

But that was exactly what the first householder did, admitting that she’d heard of the Suttons of Pity Wood Farm, but she knew nothing about them, or anyone who’d ever worked there. At the second house, he got the same response. And at the third.

Cooper paused before calling at the end house, and studied the village. There wasn’t much in the way of Christmas decorations visible in Rakedale, but that was true of many Peak District villages. In Edendale, the streets were strung with lights, and almost every shop had a tree fixed to its upper storey, decorated and ready to be lit when darkness came. The same sort of thing could be found in other places – Castleton or Bakewell, for example.

But there was a difference. Some villages relied on income from tourism for their survival, and went out of their way to bring in visitors. Others had no interest in being tourist spots. Quite the opposite. Those were the places where residents didn’t want members of the public clogging their streets and peering into their gardens. In those villages, there were no visitor centres, no helpful signposts, no tea rooms or picnic sites. You could drive through some of them as often as you liked and find nowhere to park. ‘Keep moving’ was their message.

The last cottage in the row was empty, with green paint peeling off the door. On a side lane, where the woods started, Cooper found a 1950s bungalow strung with Christmas lights, and a chained Alsatian barking in a yard. He thought it looked more promising. But, frustratingly, it was the first property on his list where no one was at home. He made a note on the sheet and turned back towards the Methodist chapel, where he’d left the car.