Robin looked around. He was in a small reception area with a wooden counter and a stand full of leaflets and brochures. Behind the counter there was a chalkboard with a faded menu written on it—a few months ago, it seemed a cheese ploughman’s was on offer, among other things. To the right of him, there was a cut-through to another room. It seemed the Visitor Centre doubled as a café.

Lining the walls were pictures of Standedge all throughout the years—modern ones, drawings of schematics, old photos of men in mustaches with pickaxes clunking away at rock. There was also a pinboard with pictures of all the Trust staff, although all Robin could discern before the woman came back was that Matthew was not there.

“Taken down,” the woman said, when she saw what Robin was looking at. She had dragged out a mop and bucket full of soapy water. She started sloshing the mop in the water.

“You’ve heard the gossip too?” Robin asked.

The woman tutted as the water sloshed over onto the floor, annoyed, even though Robin was sure that was going to be her endgame anyway. “Don’t need to hear anything. I can read your type like a book. Know what you city people would come to a place like this for.”

“And what am I here for?”

The woman looked up, rested the mop against a wall and folded her arms. “Blood.”

Robin got out his notebook, not even trying to hide it. In a way, he guessed the woman was right—as long as she was talking metaphorically. “Well, so long as the pleasantries are out of the way, I had a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“Not before mine,” the woman said. “Who are you?”

“My name is Robin Ferringham. I’m a...”

“No, I know who you are,” the woman said. Gossip had attached itself to his name. Was it really making the rounds of Marsden already? Where did the chain begin—and did Roger Claypath have something to do with it? “What I’m asking is who you think you are. Waltzing around town with your little notebook like you’re Hercules frickin’ Poirot.”

He opened his mouth to correct her on the name, but shut it again—she didn’t seem like someone who would appreciate it.

“You should be ashamed of yourself. This was exactly what everyone didn’t want—what we were trying to avoid. The Chief said it best—Murder Tourists. That’s what you people are. Want me to take your photo by where McConnell killed them all? Be nice for your wall, wouldn’t it?”

“Wait,” Robin said. There was a lot to unpack and the woman wasn’t about to give him time. He put his notebook back into his pocket, partly for the act of it and partly because he couldn’t write fast enough anyway. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”