‘That’s very cynical.’

‘Take a look at the real world, Diane.’

Fry was thoughtful as they returned to the car and drove out of Foxlow.

‘Georgi, what do you think of our methods so far?’ she said.

‘Very interesting. But your enquiries are in the wrong direction, Diane.’

‘What do you mean?’

He waved a hand out of the window at the cottages they were passing. ‘You are wasting your time with these Albanski reotani.’

‘Who?’

‘These . . . slow-witted country people.’

‘Hold on, I’ve got another call.’

This time, it was Hitchens himself. ‘Where are you, Diane?’

‘Just approaching Matlock.’

‘Great. We’re at Darren Turnbull’s house in South Wingfield, but his wife says he’s driven down into Matlock to go to the bank. His car should be parked by the railway station.’

‘OK, we’ll be there in a couple of minutes.’

‘It’s a blue Astra. You’ve got the reg?’

‘Yes, leave it to us.’

A few minutes later, Fry coasted her Peugeot into the station car park at the bottom of Dale Road. They found the Astra almost immediately.

‘OK, now we have to wait for him to come back.’

She parked where they had a clear view of the vehicle, looking along a line of parked cars towards the station.

‘Tell me again why we want to talk to this man,’ said Kotsev.

‘Darren Turnbull’s car was seen in Foxlow on Saturday night, at about the time Rose Shepherd was shot. I mean –’

‘Rosica Savova.’

‘Yes. Well, Turnbull doesn’t live in the village, so we need to know what he was doing there, and what he might have seen. And why he didn’t come forward in response to our appeals.’

Kotsev eased his legs with a sigh. ‘If I had seen Rosica Savova’s assassin, perhaps I would not come forward and tell the police either.’

‘Why, Georgi?’

‘It could be dangerous.’

Fry looked at him, surprised all over again. He was like some oversized alien sitting in her car, a visitor from another world.

‘He can’t possibly have known it might be dangerous,’ she said. ‘Turnbull is just an engineer in an aircraft engine factory.’

‘It depends what he saw,’ said Kotsev. ‘In my experience, many people see things that they keep quiet about, for their own safety.’

‘Maybe.’

Kotsev suddenly sat up straight. ‘Is this the man?’

‘Let’s see which car he goes back to.’

A man was strolling along the line of vehicles. He was in his thirties, sandy-haired, wearing a black parka. The hood was down, which gave them a good look at his face. He stopped, hesitated as if he wasn’t quite sure which was his car, then pulled a key from his pocket and approached the blue Vauxhall.

‘Yes, that’s him. Let’s go.’