“Do you know if Donald kept in touch after Linda left?”

“I doubt it. He made himself scarce after he found out our Linda was pregnant, then just after the baby was born he became all concerned for a while, said they should get married and keep it, that it wouldn’t be right to give his child up for adoption. That’s how he put it. His child.”

“What did Linda say?”

“She gave him his marching orders, then not long after that, she was gone herself.”

“Do you know if he ever bothered her at all?”

“I don’t think so. She never said, never even mentioned him or the baby again.”

“Did he ever come here after that, asking about her?”

“Just once, about three weeks after she’d left. Wanted to know her address.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I didn’t know. Of course he didn’t believe me, and he made a bit of a fuss on the doorstep.”

“What did you do?”

“I sent him packing. Told him I’d set Jim on him if he came back again, and shut the door in his face. He left us alone after that. Surely you don’t think Donald could have…?”

“We don’t know what to think yet, Mrs. Lofthouse. We have to look at all possibilities.”

“He’s a bit of a hothead, anyone will tell you that, but I very much doubt that he’s a murderer.” She dabbed at her eyes again. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I still can’t seem to take it in.”

“I understand,” said Chadwick. “Is there anyone you’d like me to get to stay with you? Relative? Neighbor?”

“Mrs. Bennett next door. She’s always been a good friend. She’s a widow, like me. She understands what it feels like.”

Chadwick stood up to leave. “I’ll let her know you want her to come over. Look, before I go, do you have a recent photograph of Linda I could borrow?”

“I might have,” she said. “Just a minute.” She went over to the sideboard and started rummaging through one of the drawers. “This was taken last year, when she came home for her birthday. Her father was a bit of an amateur photographer.”

She handed Chadwick the color photograph. It was the girl in the sleeping bag, only she was alive, a half-smile on her lips, a faraway look in her big blue eyes, wavy blond hair tumbling over her shoulders. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll let you have it back.”

“And you’ll keep in touch, won’t you? About the arrangements.”

“Of course. I’ll also send someone to drive you to the hospital and back to make the formal identification.”

“Thank you,” she said, and stood with him at the door, holding a damp tissue to her eyes. “How can something like this happen to me, Mr. Chadwick?” she said. “I’ve been a devout Christian woman all my life. I’ve never hurt a soul and I’ve always served the Lord to the best of my ability. How can He do this to me? A husband and a daughter, both in the same year?”

All Chadwick could do was shake his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I wish I knew the answer.”

“Just outside Sheffield” turned out to be a quaint village on the edge of the Peak District National Park, and the house was a detached limestone cottage with a fair-sized and well-tended garden, central door, symmetrical up and down mullioned windows, garage and outbuildings. In the Dales, Annie guessed, it would be valued at about half a million pounds these days, but she had no idea what prices were like in the Peak District. Probably not much different. There were many similarities between the two areas, with their limestone hills and valleys, and both drew hordes of tourists, ramblers and climbers almost year-round.

Winsome parked by the gate and they made their way down the garden path. A few birds twittered in the nearby trees, completing the rural idyll. The woman who opened the door to them had clearly been crying. Annie felt grateful she hadn’t been the one to break the news. She hated that. The last time she had told someone about the death of a friend, the woman had actually fainted.

“Annie Cabbot and Winsome Jackman from North Yorkshire Major Crimes,” she said.

“Yes, come in,” said the woman. “We’ve been expecting you.” If the sight of a six-foot black woman surprised her at all, she didn’t show it. Like many others, she no doubt watched crime programs on TV and had got used to the idea of a multiracial police force, even in such a “white” enclave as the Peaks.

She led them through a dim hallway where coats hung on pegs and boots and shoes were neatly aligned on a low slatted rack, then into an airy living room with French windows that led to the back garden, a neatly manicured lawn with stone birdbath, white plastic table and chairs and herbaceous borders. Plane trees framed a magnificent view over the fields to the limestone peaks beyond. The sky was mostly light gray, with a hint of sun hiding behind clouds somewhere in the north.

“We’ve just got back from church,” the woman said. “We go every week, and it seemed especially important today.”

“Of course,” said Annie, whose religious background had been agnostic, and whose own spiritual dabbling in yoga and meditation had never led her to any sort of organized religion. “We’re very sorry about your son, Mrs. Barber.”

“Please,” she said. “Call me Louise. My husband, Ross, is making some tea. I hope that will be all right?”

“That’ll be perfect,” said Annie.

“You’d better sit down.”

The chintz-covered armchairs all had spotless lace antimacassars, and Annie sat carefully, not quite daring to let the back of her head touch the material. In a few moments a tall, rangy man with unruly white hair, wearing a gray V-neck pullover and baggy cords, brought in a tray and placed it on the low glass table between the chairs and the fireplace. He looked a bit like a sort of mad scientist character who could do complex equations in his head but had trouble fastening his shoelaces. Annie admired the framed print of Seurat’s Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte over the mantelpiece.

Once tea had been served, and everyone was settled, Winsome took out her notebook and Annie began. “I know this is a difficult time for you, but anything you can tell us about your son would be helpful right now.”

“Do you have any suspects?” Mr. Barber asked.

“I’m afraid not. It’s early days yet. We’re just trying to piece together what happened.”

“I can’t imagine why anyone would want to harm our Nicholas. He was harmless. He wouldn’t have hurt a fly.”

“It’s often the innocent who suffer,” said Annie.

“But Nicholas…” He let the sentence trail off.

“Did he have any enemies?”

Ross and Louise Barber looked at one another. “No,” Louise said. “I mean, he never mentioned anyone. And like Ross says, he was a gentle person. He loved his music and his books and his films. And his writing, of course.”

“He wasn’t married, was he?” They had not been able to find a record of a wife, but Annie thought it best to make sure. If a jealous wife had caught wind of what Barber was up to with Kelly Soames, she might easily have lost it.

“No. He was engaged once, ten years ago,” said Ross Barber. “Nice girl. Local. But they drifted apart when he moved to London. More tea?”

Annie and Winsome said yes, please. Barber topped up their cups.

“We understand that your son was a music journalist?” Annie went on.

“Yes,” said Louise. “It was what he always wanted. Even when he was at school, he was editor of the magazine, and he wrote most of the articles himself.”

“We found out from the Internet that he’s done some articles for MOJO and written a couple of biographies. Can you tell us anything else about his work? Did he write for anyone in particular, for example?”

“No. He was a freelancer,” Ross Barber answered. “He did some writing for the newspapers, reviews and such, and feature pieces for that magazine sometimes, as you said. I’m afraid that sort of music isn’t exactly to my taste.” He smiled indulgently. “But he loved it, and apparently he made a decent living.”