‘Country people can seem like an alien race, you know. They’re very, er … conservative, in some ways. In others, their activities are way out on the edge. Their lives seem to revolve around the church and the village pub.’

‘Rather than the office and the bistro, you mean?’ said Goodwin.

‘And a lot of them really do like shooting things, I’ve found.’

‘We have that in Manchester, except they shoot people instead of foxes and grouse. But at least they make you feel part of a community out there, don’t they?’

‘You haven’t visited Rakedale, then?’ asked Fry.

Goodwin paused. ‘We didn’t make the decision lightly. There are some questions you have to ask yourself before you move to the country.’

‘Oh, yes. Like whether you can cope with mud and the stink of a freshly fertilized field.’

‘I was thinking of whether you’ll be able to survive without theatres and nightclubs. But perhaps you never had to ask yourself those questions, Detective Sergeant.’

‘Not really.’

There was a moment’s silence, and Fry had a suspicion that the solicitor was only half listening, perhaps taking the chance to read a file before his next client arrived.

‘Mr Goodwin, are you at all aware of the history of Pity Wood Farm?’

‘Its history? What do you mean? The estate agent’s details mentioned the date the house was built. Late eighteenth century, I believe.’

‘You must know something about the previous owners. Did you ever meet them?’

‘No, never. The property was already empty when we viewed it.’

‘Are you sure? What about Mr Raymond Sutton?’

‘Sutton is the name on the deeds, that’s all I know. Why do you ask?’

‘I wondered if you’d visited Pity Wood some time previously.’

‘Oh?’

‘I thought you might have had your eye on it as a suitable property if it ever came up for sale. It’s the sort of thing people do when they have a plan, like yours for keeping horses. They see the ideal place, and they keep it in mind for the future.’

‘Yes, I suppose they do. But that wasn’t so in our case. To be honest, Sergeant, I’m not all that familiar with the Peak District, let alone Rakedale.’

Fry had to accept that it sounded like the truth. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Now that you mention the farm’s history, though …’ said Goodwin.

‘Yes?’

‘This murder case gives it rather an interesting history, doesn’t it? Bodies buried in the farmyard and all that.’

‘We don’t actually know for certain –’ began Fry.

‘No, no, of course. But it’s rather a selling point.’

‘A selling point? It won’t put you off the place, then?’

‘Not at all. It adds a macabre charm. Something to tell our friends when they come to visit.’

‘You’re really looking forward to living at Pity Wood Farm, aren’t you?’ said Fry. ‘You really are.’