‘This case in Paris,’ said Cooper. ‘Raw horse meat from Poland – It’s . . .’

Words seemed to fail him.

‘I know,’ said Fry.

She had begun to feel even sicker when she read the details of that case. An infected horse head had entered the human food chain. Not just meat, but the head. The number of people infected was explained by a high concentration of larvae in the horse’s carcass, and by the custom of mixing meat from several horses’ heads, to be eaten as raw mince.

Worst of all, the originating farm entered on official documents did not exist. No one would ever know where that outbreak of trichinosis had come from.

Fry looked up at Cooper when he’d finished reading. He looked just about as sick as she felt.

‘Will you take the abattoir, Ben?’ she said.

‘Oh, how did I guess? What about you?’

‘I’ll go where the meat is.’

THE THREE MEN were on their weekly hike. They were three retired police officers, puffing a little as they reached the top of the track on the remaining unspoiled stretch of Longstone Moor.

Inquisitively, one of them diverted away from the path towards the deep gash of Watersaw Rake, the abandoned opencast quarry workings. There was a fence around the hole, but it was low enough to step over.

‘Careful, Jack,’ called one of his friends. ‘We’re not carrying you home if you break your leg.’

‘You’d think they’d do something with this,’ he said. ‘Fill it in, or whatever.’

‘They’ve certainly wrecked the hillside with their quarrying.’

‘It employs local people, though. That’s the important thing.’

His friends came to join him at the fence, pushing their way through the heather to find a rabbit track wide enough for their boots.

‘Come on, Jack. What are you doing?’

‘He still thinks he’s on the job. Always wants to know what’s going on.’

But the first man wasn’t listening to them. He was over the fence and looking down into the rake. The sides were steep and lined with shattered rock. The bottom was fifty feet below, littered with debris from the quarrying.

‘There’s something down there,’ he said. ‘Right on the bottom of the rake.’

‘Just rocks. Or a dead sheep.’

‘No. That’s not what it is.’

Chapter Twenty

THE SNAKE PASS had been closed between Glossop and Ladybower for several weeks after another landslip. The floods in January had also burst an old mining adit, the build-up of water cracking a hole the size of a railway tunnel in the side of Drake Hill.

It was proof, if anyone still needed it, that too much rain could change the landscape dramatically. If you watched the hills after a heavy downpour, you could see the smallest streams gushing into brown cascades as they tumbled into the valleys, washing down peat from the moors and loose stones from the hillsides.