‘We don’t see much of the village people,’ said Mrs Brindley, setting out a tray with a welcome cup of tea for her visitors. ‘Not that we aren’t village people ourselves, but you know what I mean.’

‘Not really,’ said Fry.

‘Well, Rakedale … there’s no reason to go there, not as far as we’re concerned. Yes, even though it’s only half a mile away. It’s not as if it has any shops, or a post office. Or a church.’

‘Just the Primitive Methodist chapel.’

‘Exactly.’

Mrs Brindley was a slender, mannered woman with a carefully casual style that suited her. Both she and her husband were in their forties, pleasant and friendly. Fry wouldn’t normally have put much store in those qualities, but this was Rakedale, and they were a relief.

‘Our lifestyles send us further afield, I’m afraid, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘We need shops, restaurants, theatres. And sports facilities for the children. You won’t find any of those in Rakedale. So unless we’re feeling really lazy and decide to call at the village pub, we never go there. We head off to Hartington for the church, Buxton or Ashbourne for shopping and that sort of thing.’

In addition to the couple themselves, there was a teenage boy in the room, who Fry hadn’t been introduced to when she arrived. About eighteen, possibly a bit younger. She was finding it more difficult to tell these days. He said nothing, but his unblinking stare was a bit disconcerting. Presumably he was one of the reasons for the Brindleys’ lifestyle.

‘So you wouldn’t know the Suttons at Pity Wood Farm?’ asked Fry.

‘That’s across the other side of the village, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Brindley. ‘We’ve probably heard talk of them.’

‘Probably? Who from?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Who would you have heard talk from, if you don’t go into the village?’

Mrs Brindley looked at her husband, confused. ‘Alex?’

‘There’s a kind of communication by osmosis in a place like this,’ he said. ‘People know things without you having to tell them. If you’ve already been to the village, I bet they knew you were coming long before you arrived.’

‘Yes, that was the impression I got.’

Brindley smiled. He was a good-looking man, tall and dark, but relaxed and co-operative in a way that she’d come to regard as uncharacteristic of people in this area. It must come from meeting too many criminals.

‘Well, it seems to work for us, too,’ he said. ‘We’re aware of the Suttons, yes. Two brothers, wasn’t it? But one of them died, not long ago. It was in the local paper, and they had his funeral at the Methodist chapel.’

‘Yes, that was Derek Sutton.’

‘But they were farmers, you see … We weren’t on visiting terms. We wouldn’t have much in common, I imagine.’