Fry could have listened to him talk for a while, his voice was so interesting. She guessed he’d be one of those people who were terribly disappointing when you met them in person, because their faces didn’t match the picture their voices conjured up. Probably he was hatchet-faced, after all.

‘Any idea of a motive for these killings?’ she asked.

‘Certainly. People want money. Sometimes they see a way of filling their pockets and getting away with it.’ From the tone of his voice, she could almost hear Kotsev shrug. ‘And then they get drawn in to events. They mix with the wrong people.’

‘And the law catches up with them.’

‘The law? Not so often.’

Fry didn’t feel able to join in with his chuckle. She turned back to the report on the shooting. ‘Dimitar Iliev was involved in organized crime, is that right?’

‘Yes, we believe so. But Iliev was a very small player in the game, who became greedy, we think. He and Yotova were found in their car on the E83 highway outside Pleven. We don’t know where they were heading.’

‘Tell me what you know about Simcho Nikolov.’

‘Nikolov is aged fifty-five, a native of the Rhodope Mountains. An army veteran. He was a companion of Iliev’s for many years – indeed, they served together as soldiers, but fell on bad times after release from the army. Like so many, these two men turned to crime. For a long time, they were protected from prosecution by their connection with powerful criminal bosses.’

‘But their luck ran out,’ said Fry.

‘Iliev’s did, at least. Simcho Nikolov has been sought ever since. We have had no news of him.’

‘The shooting was a year ago. You don’t seem to have made a lot of progress.’

‘Sadly, that is not unusual in this type of investigation.’ ‘Well, could you keep us updated?’

‘I’ll fax you any relevant information if we have new developments. Would that be suitable?’

‘Yes, excellent.’

Kotsev paused. She thought she heard him drinking, and imagined a cup of decent coffee in his hand. Did they have good coffee in Bulgaria? Just the idea of it was making her mouth dry.

‘And what about you, Sergeant Fry?’ he said. ‘What is your situation?’

‘One of my colleagues is following up a possible lead to Nikolov. In fact, he’s on his way to the address right now. And we’ve identified some associates of Nikolov’s living in the area. Two brothers by the name of Zhivko.’

Sergeant Kotsev seemed to choke over his coffee. ‘Zhivko? Anton and Lazar?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is one of them disabled? In a wheelchair?’

‘I believe so.’

‘You should arrest them immediately.’

Surprised by the sudden urgency in his tone, Fry raised her eyebrows at her colleagues in the office, the way they all did when they had someone strange on the phone.

‘They don’t appear to have committed any crimes here, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘But we’ve got them under surveillance.’

‘They’re dangerous people. And so are their associates. Anton Zhivko was almost killed in an assassination attempt by a rival gang. That was why they left the country.’

‘We’re aware of that. But they seem to be running a legitimate business so far.’

‘That is a joke.’

‘No.’

‘The Zhivkos are desperate men. In fear of their lives, and therefore dangerous.’

‘I’ll mention your concerns to my senior officers.’

There was silence at the other end of the phone for a moment. The line to Pleven was so good that she could hear Kotsev breathing, and even the faint buzz of background conversation, and a door closing somewhere.

‘If you would like for someone to travel to England, it can be arranged,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘To assist in your investigation. We very much wish to help. Co-operation with our European colleagues is encouraged at the highest level.’

‘Well, I don’t think that will be necessary for now, but I’ll pass on your offer.’

‘It’s been a pleasure to liaise with you, Sergeant Fry. I hope we’ll speak again soon.’

‘Goodbye, then.’

‘Ciao.’

Fry put the phone down. Ciao. Was that a Bulgarian word?

Then she noticed Murfin making frantic gestures at her with his phone.

‘What is it, Gavin?’

‘I’ve got that waitress on the phone – the one from Matlock Bath, who came in to do the photofits. I think you’d better speak to her.’

‘OK, put her on.’

Murfin transferred the call, and Fry picked up.

‘Good morning, Miss Rawson. I understand you have some new information for us. What is it? Have you remembered something?’

‘Well, I’ve just seen something really. That woman I saw on Saturday – it’s the one who’s in the papers. The one who was killed.’

Fry was disappointed. ‘Yes, Rose Shepherd. We know that, Tina. It’s the other two people we’re trying to identify.’

‘No, no. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. She’s right here in the paper. I mean the woman she was meeting, the younger one.’

‘Who’s in the paper, Tina? I don’t understand what you’re saying.’

‘Listen, I’m telling you. The woman that Miss Shepherd met at the tea rooms, the one you wanted me to give you a description of – I’ve seen a photograph of her in the paper. It’s her, it’s definitely her.’

Tina took a deep breath, as if realizing that she wasn’t going to make herself understood unless she spoke more slowly.

‘I’m looking at her photograph right now, Sergeant. She’s the woman who was killed in the house fire in Edendale. It says here her name is Lindsay Mullen.’

Almost all the houses in the Bonsall area were built in the local style – limestone walls with contrasting sandstone quoins and door and window surrounds. Derbyshire limestone was notoriously hard to work, so in some places the builders had laid rough stone without any attempt to form courses. Cooper could see small stone buildings scattered across the landscape here. Most of these were field barns, used for storing feed and equipment, or sheltering animals. But some of them were probably disused coes, the huts built by lead miners near their mine shafts.

With a clatter of wings, a flock of racing pigeons took off from a loft and circled Cooper’s car. Pigeon lofts seemed to be a feature of Bonsall, too. And that phone box outside the Barley Mow pub – wasn’t that supposed to have been designed by the same architect who built Liverpool Cathedral and Waterloo Bridge?

Through Bonsall, the road became single track, with a few passing places tucked into the stone walls. The farm where Simon Nichols worked lay on the plateau to the west of Masson Hill. Cooper had to pass through Uppertown, then follow a couple of B roads before abandoning tarmac altogether for a route the maps would call ‘unclassified’. There were no helpful signs, and many of the tracks were old miners’ roads that led past the remains of disused lead workings and took you back to where you’d started from. You had to know where you were going in an area like this.

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.’