And even if they had – even if, for whatever reason, all nine of them went out on to the moors that night, and got lost in a drunken haze, or were injured – why hadn’t the police found them in the three searches they’d conducted? Conversely, if someone had come to the house, maybe a group of people, and taken all nine of them against their will – an idea that had to be considered given the length of time they’d been missing, even if it was hard to know what the catalyst for that might be – where was the evidence of it? Where were the tyre tracks from another car? Where were the footprints belonging to other people? Where were the trails on the moors? Where were the signs of a struggle?

And, in the end, all of that ignored something else.

If this had happened straight after – or around the same time as – they’d eaten, why were the houses so tidy? Why were all the bottles of booze already in the Gibbses’ recycling bins, all the food packed up and all the plates washed and put away? It was just about possible to accept that the Perrys, the Daveys and Randolph Solomon and Emiline Wilson might leave their homes totally spotless before heading down to the farmhouse for dinner, but there was no way I could get on board with the idea that they’d then helped clear up at the Gibbses’ after eating – while probably quite drunk – including wiping down kitchen surfaces, and then decided that the perfect epilogue was to head out to the moors with their wallets and phones.

Which was probably why the investigation had ultimately stalled, and why the news stories eventually petered out: the Halloween tie-in made for good copy, but it was largely irrelevant if they had actually left the next morning, not on 31 October, which would also explain how the residents had found the time to clean their houses. There was no explanation for why they left en masse, or where they went, but there were also no signs of a struggle, no upturned furniture, no blood, no damage of any kind. Nothing at the scene implied an actual crime – and to the police, to the media, that was the problem. The crime itself was like oxygen.

When it was there, a case and a story continued to breathe.

When it wasn’t, everything withered and died.

6

Thunder rumbled above the village, a low sound like an old engine trying to fire, and, finally, Ross hurried over to me, shielding his hair from the rain with his coat.

I told him what I’d removed from his parents’ house.

‘Did the police say anything about your dad’s PC?’

‘Just that they didn’t find anything on it.’

I nodded. ‘And you’ve left the house as is?’

Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve kept it tidy but I haven’t changed anything.’