Despite what he’d told the DI, Cooper didn’t really know where he was going. This meant he had to stop to consult his OS map, and try to interpret the spider’s web of black and green lines that crammed the spaces between the B roads. To his left he could see the curious bumps in the landscape that indicated the covered shafts and overgrown spoil heaps of a long-abandoned mine. But he had no idea whether it was Low Mine, Whitelow Mine, or Beans and Bacon Mine. Or even one of half a dozen sites marked on the map simply as Mine (disused).

Finally he found himself driving down a stony track, looking for a farmhouse that had been promised by a worn sign half a mile back. But before he found Lea Farm, he came across a pick-up truck and a middle-aged farmer unloading posts for fence repairs.

‘Good morning. DC Cooper, Edendale Police. I’m looking for a Mr Simon Nichols.’

‘Simon? He’s not here. He’ll probably be holed up in his caravan.’

‘He lives in a caravan?’

‘Yes, down at the bottom of the big field there.’

‘Do you own this farm, sir?’

‘Yes, the name’s Finney. Michael Finney.’

‘So you employ Mr Nichols?’

The farmer grunted as he heaved aside two more posts. ‘I suppose so.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Not for a few days, as a matter of fact.’

‘Is that normal? I mean, if he’s supposed to be employed here.’

Finney straightened his cap and turned to look at Cooper, weighing him up with a shrewd glance.

‘Well, the thing about Simon is, he tends to drink quite a lot. Sometimes he goes on a bender and stays away for a couple of days. Other times, he just sleeps it off in the caravan. But he turns up eventually. He’s a good worker, when he’s sober. That’s why I keep him on.’

‘And he’s cheap, I expect?’

The farmer shrugged. ‘This is unskilled work. He’s never complained about the wages.’

‘Can I take a look at the caravan?’

‘If you like. Let me get the last of this stuff off the truck, and I’ll show you.’

The caravan stood in a corner of a field, almost hidden by weeds and a copse of trees. Cooper had to park his Toyota in a gateway and walk into the field. The eel post of the gate was new enough to swing smoothly on its hinges, but the clap post it closed against was a chunk of weathered timber so black and hard that it almost seemed to have turned to stone.

‘Keep him well out of the way, don’t you, Mr Finney?’

The farmer shrugged. ‘Simon prefers it down here. He likes to keep himself to himself.’

‘There’s often a reason for that.’

‘I don’t know what you’re getting at.’