‘He lives in a caravan?’

‘Yes, down at the bottom of the big field there.’

‘Do you own this farm, sir?’

‘Yes, the name’s Finney. Michael Finney.’

‘So you employ Mr Nichols?’

The farmer grunted as he heaved aside two more posts. ‘I suppose so.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Not for a few days, as a matter of fact.’

‘Is that normal? I mean, if he’s supposed to be employed here.’

Finney straightened his cap and turned to look at Cooper, weighing him up with a shrewd glance.

‘Well, the thing about Simon is, he tends to drink quite a lot. Sometimes he goes on a bender and stays away for a couple of days. Other times, he just sleeps it off in the caravan. But he turns up eventually. He’s a good worker, when he’s sober. That’s why I keep him on.’

‘And he’s cheap, I expect?’

The farmer shrugged. ‘This is unskilled work. He’s never complained about the wages.’

‘Can I take a look at the caravan?’

‘If you like. Let me get the last of this stuff off the truck, and I’ll show you.’

The caravan stood in a corner of a field, almost hidden by weeds and a copse of trees. Cooper had to park his Toyota in a gateway and walk into the field. The eel post of the gate was new enough to swing smoothly on its hinges, but the clap post it closed against was a chunk of weathered timber so black and hard that it almost seemed to have turned to stone.

‘Keep him well out of the way, don’t you, Mr Finney?’

The farmer shrugged. ‘Simon prefers it down here. He likes to keep himself to himself.’

‘There’s often a reason for that.’

‘I don’t know what you’re getting at.’

Behind the caravan, a row of silage bags glistened in black plastic wrappings, pools of water reflecting the branches of the trees. Overhead, the upper boughs were full of dark, untidy shapes – the nest of the rooks Cooper could see flapping restlessly against the sky.

‘Just that some people prefer not to get visitors …’ he said.

‘Oh, I feel that way myself some days.’

‘… and it usually means they have something to hide.’

Finney sniffed sceptically, but trailed after Cooper as he approached the trees. The nearer he came to the caravan, the more Cooper became aware of the silence in this corner of the field. Apart from the rustling of the birds, there was no sound or movement, no sign of life. Surely someone who didn’t like visitors would be alert for a stranger approaching, or the sound of a car parking in the lane.

Cooper stopped and looked around. The field was full of tussocky grass and outcrops of flat, pale limestone. It was enclosed by two walls that snaked across the landscape until they crested a rise. Halfway up the slope, a section of wall had bulged and fallen. The dislodged stones lay on the ground, grass growing over them. This land hadn’t been used to contain livestock for a while – not unless Mr Finney was happy for his animals to scramble over the damaged wall.

‘I don’t suppose Mr Nichols has a car, sir?’

‘A car? No. I give him a lift into town now and then, if he needs to go to the doctor’s or something,’ said Finney. ‘Otherwise, he gets around on that –’

The farmer pointed to an old motorbike propped against one end of the caravan. Cooper hadn’t noticed it until now. It was so decrepit that it seemed to have grown out of the weeds.

‘He uses the bike to get around? Even when he’s out drinking?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘But he isn’t out on it now, is he?’

‘I reckon not.’

With a sinking feeling, Cooper knocked on the door of the caravan. ‘Mr Nichols? Are you in there?’ He knocked again, a metallic clanging as if he was hitting a big tin can. A big, empty tin can. ‘Anyone home?’

‘He might be asleep,’ said Finney.

Faded curtains were drawn across the windows. A pattern of orange flowers, speckled with black dots. By pressing his face close to the glass, Cooper could see a small slice of the interior through a narrow gap where the curtains didn’t meet. He saw the edge of a folding wooden table, a scatter of papers, and two beer cans. Orange cans, to match the curtains. Probably Stone’s Bitter from the supermarket in Matlock. One of the cans had been knocked over, and beer was spilt on the table.

‘Police! Open up!’ called Cooper, more loudly. And he gave the door a couple of good thumps that shook the caravan on its chassis. ‘Mr Finney, the occupant appears to be absent. Do I have your permission to enter this caravan?’

‘Eh? Well, I suppose so – if you really want to. It won’t be very nice in there, you know. Old Simon, he isn’t the cleanest of folk.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t suppose you have a key, sir?’

‘I might have one back at the house. But we probably don’t need one. You could just try –’

But Cooper had already tried. The handle turned in his fingers with a faint scrape of metal. ‘You’re right, we don’t need one.’

He gave the door a yank, but it jammed in the frame where it had warped out of shape. Cooper braced his foot against the step and pulled harder. The soft aluminium began to bend in his hands, and the door screeched as it was forced open. Cooper flinched at the noise, his teeth suddenly set on edge, his muscles tensing instinctively.

With the door open, the two men were frozen for a moment, suddenly reluctant to enter the caravan, or even take a step closer. A fat bluebottle buzzed through the gap and zigzagged slowly past them, too tired and bloated to escape.

Finney drew in a sharp breath, as if he’d been punched in the stomach. His involuntary cry of disgust sent a flock of rooks clattering into the air, cawing with alarm, their black feathers rattling through the branches. Then the farmer made a choking, gurgling sound and staggered towards the wall. He hadn’t reached it before he doubled over and vomited into the grass.

Standing in the doorway of the caravan, Cooper covered his mouth and nose with a hand as he watched a pool of dark, sticky liquid hover on the edge of the step before trickling slowly towards the ground, forming an oily pool on the earth. The sweet smell of it was like a finger pushed down his throat, making him swallow as he fought a surge of nausea.

Cooper didn’t have to look very far to find the source of the smell. He didn’t even have to enter the caravan, which was a relief. Because Mr Finney had been right about another thing. It really wasn’t very nice in there.

20

‘She must have been a stranger,’ said Brian Mullen. ‘I can’t think who else this person would have been.’

Mullen was in the conservatory at the Lowthers’ house in Darley Dale. His father-in-law sat near him, perhaps for moral support. Occasionally, Mullen glanced into the house, where his mother-in-law was keeping Luanne entertained. Fry didn’t have much interest in babies, but this one seemed reasonably civilized and quiet.

‘Did your wife mention meeting her, sir?’

‘No. I knew she’d been out on Saturday, of course. Lindsay left me with the children for a couple of hours. She said she wanted to do some early Christmas shopping, that was all. That was the way she was, you know – she liked to plan ahead.’

‘Which shops did she go to?’ asked Fry.

‘I don’t know. She wouldn’t have told me that.’

‘And she didn’t say anything afterwards?’

Mullen considered it.

‘Come to think of it, I think Lindsay did say she’d chatted to a couple of strangers in a café. I’ve no idea who they were.’

‘Did she mention any names?’

‘No. Of course, she probably didn’t ask them their names, if it was just a casual conversation.’

‘Possibly.’

‘You know what it’s like. You don’t necessarily want to strike up an instant relationship with complete strangers. You’ve no idea what sort of crooks they might be these days. People pretend to be friendly, and they turn out to be con artists after your money.’