‘She panicked?'

‘Yes, inspired by half-digested sex-education lessons and a vivid imagination. And with all the stories that have been in the papers, the first thing that occurred to her was to shout rape.'

‘Not the first time that's happened.’

Fry shrugged. 'We all know there are more false rape allegations than there are actual rapes. The boyfriend's fifteen, by the way.'

‘But why did she claim it was Harry?’

Apparently the two of them had some sort of encounter in the village shop earlier in the day. Harry must have come out of it best, because she hadn't forgotten it. And she'd heard all the talk in the village, so she reckoned she'd be believed. Anyway, she said he was a miserable old bugger and he deserved anything that happened to him. Funny how their minds work sometimes.’

And what was it she said, exactly, when the PC found her?’

As I recall, her words were: "It was the old man."' Cooper nodded, not surprised. 'It was the old man.' He thought of the old lead miners' saying, their hushed stories about the spirit they called 't'owd mon', who lurked in the unlit shafts of the mines. 'The old man' was blamed for everything that went wrong in the mine, from unexplained sounds in the dark to unproductive veins and fatal accidents. But he was also its guardian, a collective spirit of long-dead miners and of the mine itself. What the girl had said was an echo of the myth. 'It was the old man, the old man.' An ancient mantra of superstition.

‘She'll be on the False or Persistent Rape Allegation file now. Silly little cow. They've sent her home too, with a "morning after" pill. A WPC went to talk to her parents. Let them sort her out, if they can.'

‘What about Harry?' asked Cooper.

‘What about him?'

‘Was he all right?'

‘Him? He'll be all right. Tough as old boots, if you ask me. And too proud by half as well. What are you worrying about him for?'

‘It's not a pleasant experience, being pulled in as a rape suspect.’

Fry shrugged. 'Tough.'

‘Did anybody explain it to Gwen?'

‘He can explain it himself, can't he?'

‘I don't think he will,' said Cooper thoughtfully. 'I don't think he'll be making any excuses.'

'Like I said, too damn proud.'

‘It's not just that. I think he wants as much attention as he can get. According to one of the team who went to pick him up, he seemed to be expecting them. He was waiting for them to arrive. He said: "It didn't take you long." Now why would he say that?’

Fry set down her coffee cup thoughtfully. 'You're thinking about your link, aren't you, Ben? Have you still got that diagram?'

‘Yes.’

He put the diagram on the table, straightening out the creases to show the connecting lines.

‘I drew it for Mr Tailby after we sent Dickinson back to his cell,' said Fry.

‘Did you? And?'

‘I told him what you said. That the old man would protect someone for the sake of the family. But who might that be? That's the question. And Mr Tailby agreed with you on that.’

Cooper waited tensely, watching her face.

‘But he definitely doesn't think it's Simeon Holmes,' she said.

He sighed, his shoulders slumped. 'That's what I was afraid of,' he said.

He finished his coffee, and contemplated going back to detecting car crime.

‘Diane, do me a favour, though?’

She nearly said 'another one', but held her tongue. 'What's that?'

‘Talk to the bird-watcher again.’

She sighed. 'You've got an obsession about him.’

Cooper found the words hard to say, but knew he had to say them. For some reason, it was important enough.

‘Please, Diane.’

*

The atmosphere at the Mount had passed through every mood and emotion that Graham Vernon could think of, with the exception of the good ones.

For several days, Charlotte had succeeded in working her way up towards a brittle pitch of nonchalance that had shattered dramatically after the visit by the woman detective the day before. Now there was barely a word or a response to be had from her. All day she had clutched to her chest the photograph of Laura which had finally been returned by the police.

As for Daniel, once the shouting was over, an uneasy peace seemed to have descended. This morning, Graham had even begun to feel that he and his son might actually understand each other a bit better after this business was done with. But when would it be done with?

‘What the hell are they doing now?' said Daniel. 'God knows,' said Graham. 'They don't tell me what they're thinking.’

They were missing the village gossip that Sheila Kelk would normally have been delighted to pass on to Charlotte. The only other person that might have known what had been happening was Andrew Milner - but there was no way Graham was going to ask his employee for information of that kind.

Father and son stood together by the French windows in begrudging unity. Graham was glad that Daniel had at least cleaned himself up. His hair had been washed, and somehow he had found fresh clothes in the house. Even the kitchen had been cleaned recently, and Graham was sure that Charlotte hadn't done it. He was surprised, really, that his son was still in the house. And he watched Daniel for clues to his reasoning, fearing another rebellious gesture he would fail to understand.

But Daniel was staring into the garden, his eyes following the methodical movements of the dark shapes in the conifers that grew by the bottom wall.

‘What are they looking for, Dad?'

‘I just don't know,' said Graham.

They watched the police team assemble for a few minutes on the lawn, brushing the soil off their knees as they discussed their next move. Then the officers dispersed again. They pulled on their gloves and approached the densely planted bushes on the eastern border of the property, gradually getting nearer the gate that led on to the Baulk. And they started looking again.

That afternoon, Cooper left Edendale to visit a family from East Anglia who were holidaying in a cottage near Bakewell. Their Mitsubishi had been taken from the roadside near one of the show caves at Castleton, full of the usual items - a camera, binoculars, mobile phone, a wallet and cheque book locked in the glove compartment. They were fortunate that their insurance allowed them to get a hire car to finish their holiday, but he had a feeling they wouldn't be coming back to Derbyshire again. However, one of the family thought they might have caught a glimpse of the thieves near their car as they had headed for the cave. It was a very small clue in a hopeless task.

From Bakewell, he drove up the A6 as far as Ashford in-the-Water. There were clumps and wisps of yellow straw lying all along the roadside, swirling in the blasts of air from passing traffic and settling to the ground again like broken shreds of sunlight.

The schools were still on holiday for another week, and the main roads throughout the Peak District were choked with cars and caravans. If the hot weather held a bit longer, the tourist honey pots would be at a standstill again at the weekend, with thousands of people sweltering in narrow, gridlocked lanes surrounded by the stench of exhaust fumes and hot tarmac.

In Ashford, the streets were lined with cars and the bridge over the weir was packed with people watching the ducks paddling in the shallow water or the families picnicking on the grassy banks. There was a small car park behind the church in the middle of the village, but it was overlooked by houses and relatively safe. Cooper drove on.

Through Ashford a road ran up to Monsal Head, where the spectacular view of the old railway viaduct crossing the wooded valley of the Wye attracted many motorists to stop. The railway line here had long since been dismantled and was now used as a footpath. Across the other side of Monsal Dale was the parish of Brushfield and a plateau scattered with more of the hundreds of disused mine shafts that littered the landscape. He was deep in White Peak country here, a land of glittering streams and green pastures, where narrow side-valleys had elbowed their way through the prehistoric fossil sea bed to form craggy gorges.