And she turned out to be right, of course. Like so many other sites, there was nothing left at Pilsbury but a series of mounds and hollows, and a fragment of crumbling stone wall that only an archaeologist could have identified as a castle. Well, if it wasn’t for the interpretation boards anyway. You could read about the history, even if you couldn’t see it.

Apart from the forensic examiners and some uniformed officers, the only CID presence when she arrived was DC Luke Irvine. She’d been Irvine’s sergeant when she was serving in Edendale. She knew he was loyal to Ben Cooper. But that hardly mattered now.

At the inner cordon Fry found the crime-scene manager, Wayne Abbott, stripping off his mask and pulling back the hood of his scene suit. He grinned when he saw her. His face was slightly flushed, either from the warmth of the suit or the physical exertion of his task, or perhaps for some other reason entirely. He seemed unusually cheerful this morning, she thought. In fact, he was almost giggly. In other circumstances she might have said he was a bit tipsy. But surely not even Abbott would come on duty like that.

‘So what have you found?’ she asked when she reached the CSM.

‘Oh, eight million fingerprints,’ said Abbott breezily.

He laughed and Luke Irvine joined in. If Abbott had made a joke, Fry didn’t find it very funny. Not for the first time, she felt as though she were missing out on some aspect of everyday conversation. She hated the use of obscure allusions whose meaning seemed to be shared by relative strangers, but not by her.

‘Exactly eight million?’ she said, with a frown.

Abbott sighed and shook his head. ‘Never mind.’

Fry looked at Irvine for an explanation, as she often did when she was baffled by something like this.

‘It’s a popular culture reference, Diane,’ he said patiently.

‘Oh. Don’t tell me – a TV show?’

‘Yes. Homeland. I suppose you’ve never heard of it?’

‘Some kind of property programme?’

‘No, Diane.’

Irvine seemed reluctant to explain it any further, so she left it at that. It didn’t matter anyway. Whatever Homeland was, it couldn’t be of any importance.

‘It looks as though your victim took a header off the crag up there,’ said Abbott. ‘There’s a bit of scuffling and more than one set of shoe marks. And we found a rip in the sleeve of the victim’s jacket, which doesn’t look as though it was caused by his collision with the tree.’

‘Anything else?’

‘The victim probably came in through the gate there,’ said Abbott. ‘His prints are on it, but then so are, well…’

‘Eight million others?’

‘Something like that. It may have been an exaggeration the first time.’

‘What about the information board?’ asked Fry.

‘Lots of prints on there too. It’s amazing how many people seem to read with their fingers.’

‘But not the victim’s prints?’

Abbott shook his head. ‘Not that we can confirm. But there are so many partials, it’s asking the impossible to get a definite negative.’

‘Understood.’

Fry cast her eye over the body. The man was aged around fifty or fifty-five, his hair still dark but showing signs of hereditary baldness from the gleam of scalp on top of his head. He was also a couple of stone overweight, she guessed, though it was difficult to tell given the extent of post-mortem bloating on the torso and limbs. The visible skin was badly discoloured, a series of ugly shades from red to green. The victim was wearing dark trousers, like the bottom half of a business suit, but sensible stout shoes and an expensive-looking padded jacket.

‘A tourist?’ she said.

‘No,’ replied Irvine promptly.

Fry looked up. ‘Do we have an ID already, then?’

‘Yes, the victim’s name is George Redfearn,’ said Irvine. ‘A company director. He’s listed as being on the board of Eden Valley Mineral Products.’

‘And what do they do?’

‘Oh, small-scale limestone quarrying. Mr Redfearn has an address over at Taddington.’

Fry waited. Irvine shouldn’t need asking. He’d worked with her before, so he ought to know that she didn’t carry a map of the Peak District in her head, the way some officers did.

‘That’s about seven miles away, if you know where you’re going and take the Flagg road,’ said Irvine.

‘And how many miles is it the way I’d go?’ asked Fry.

‘Ten.’

‘What about a car?’

‘There’s a black BMW parked by the road just down there at Pilsbury. I did a check on the number plate and confirmed it’s registered to Mr Redfearn.’

‘Yes, I saw it on the way here,’ said Fry.

‘It even has a personalised number plate,’ said Irvine. ‘The last three figures are GR8. That’s his initials, you see. George Redfearn. But you can say it as “great”.’

‘Yes, thanks, I got it,’ said Fry. ‘But Pilsbury I don’t get. I saw two or three houses…’

‘That was it,’ said Irvine.

Fry noticed Irvine’s attention slip past her and over her shoulder, along with an expression of relief. She turned and saw Ben Cooper and Gavin Murfin arriving, just passing through the outer cordon and giving their names to a uniformed officer guarding the scene.

‘Oh, by the way, any ghosts or spirits seen in the area?’ asked Fry with a smile.

‘Spirits?’ said Abbott.

‘Yes, didn’t you know?’

‘Who’s talking about spirits?’ asked Murfin as he lumbered up. ‘I wouldn’t mind a nice drop of Scotch myself right at this moment. A ten-year-old malt, for preference. Is there a pub in the neighbourhood?’ He looked around him, as if noticing the landscape for the first time. Then he sighed. ‘No, I didn’t think there would be.’

‘Actually,’ said Cooper, ‘we’re only a stone’s throw from Crowdecote. The Pack Horse Inn.’

Murfin screwed up his face. ‘Crowdecote? Isn’t that near a bridge?’

‘Yes, the nearest road crossing over the Dove is at Crowdecote. In fact, it’s the only one on this stretch of the river between Hartington and Glutton.’

‘Speaking of gluttons,’ said Fry. ‘Some around here could do with taking up a more healthy diet.’

‘I get my five a day,’ said Murfin defensively.

‘When they say that, they don’t mean five meals a day, Gavin. They mean five portions of fruit and vegetables.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

Ben Cooper wasn’t surprised to see Fry at Pilsbury Castle before him. It was inevitable now.

‘The Major Crime Unit will be taking over after this, I suppose,’ he said.

Fry just nodded. Well, it was only what he’d anticipated. He’d been expecting it ever since Fry first appeared at the Corpse Bridge. In fact, it was almost as if he’d had a premonition when he thought about the Devil manifesting at a crossroads. Diane Fry might not quite be Satan, but she made a good stand-in when required.

‘So what do you think now about blaming all this on someone with a grudge against Earl Manby and his family?’ she said.

‘It’s still … possible,’ said Cooper, feeling immediately defensive.

‘It’s just a theory, Ben. A theory is no good on its own. When you think that’s all you’ve got, you want to hang on to it at all costs. It can affect your judgement. You lose objectivity.’

Cooper watched her leave. He reflected that Diane Fry had honed into a positive talent this ability to walk away from a conversation with the last word hanging in the air as it left her lips. Often her final shaft of wisdom was spot on, an accurate barb that struck his heart.

But she wasn’t right this time. Yes, there were some things he’d wanted to hang on to in his life. Things he’d wanted desperately to cling to, but had lost anyway.

Cooper looked at the body of the latest victim lying at the foot of a tree. His theory about the grudge wasn’t something he felt so desperate to hold on to that it would affect his judgement. Well, was it?

Instinctively, Cooper took a step closer to the body, until Abbott put a hand up to stop him. He wasn’t wearing a scene suit.