‘That’s an understatement.’

Raised voices in the early hours of the morning was normal for the centre of a town like Edendale. But not out here, with only three or four houses and a couple of farms, and a road that nobody ever used on the way to somewhere else.

‘Let’s go and speak to them,’ said Cooper.

Pilsbury was what they called a shrunken village. Though it claimed to date back to Anglo-Saxon times and appeared in the Domesday Book, the few present-day houses were late-seventeenth or early-eighteenth century. It might have been a busy little spot in past centuries, he supposed. The castle was built to defend a river crossing that had been an important trade route through Pilsbury. But the centuries had passed it by and history had abandoned it. There were other settlements like this scattered around the landscape, some marked only by the bases for houses and garden plots enclosed by half-defined bankings, buried among hawthorn bushes and limestone outcrops.

There was no answer to the door at the elegant three-storey house in Pilsbury. Cooper peered through the front windows, while Irvine walked round the back and checked the garage.

‘It doesn’t look occupied,’ said Cooper.

‘And there are no vehicles. According to what we were told, there should be three cars.’

A farmer passing in a Ford Ranger stopped when he saw them.

‘They’re gone,’ he called. ‘Buggered off. Done a bunk.’

‘When?’

‘Just now. I saw the last bloke going down the road here in his Merc thirty seconds ago.’

‘A Mercedes?’ asked Cooper.

‘Yes, a green Merc.’

‘Do you mean they’ve taken the Hartington road, sir?’

‘Yes, but if you hurry—’

Cooper laughed.

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he said. ‘He won’t get far.’

The farmer laughed too. ‘Aye, daft sod. He left the first gate open. He couldn’t stop long enough to close it behind him, I suppose.’

Cooper knew this stretch of road. Wallpit Lane was a gated single-track road between Pilsbury and Hartington, skirting the eastern bank of the Dove. He recalled there were perhaps five or six iron gates across it between here and Hartington, the first of them right here by Pilsbury Farm, which had now been left standing open.

‘Why did they run, do you think?’ asked Irvine as they passed through the first gate.

‘Presumably they saw all the police activity,’ said Cooper.

‘Guilty consciences?’

‘Yep.’

‘Shall I call it in? We can get units to intercept him in Hartington?’

‘No need. Ten to one we catch up with him before that.’

‘If you say so, Ben.’

‘Well, look – it’s a gated road. I don’t suppose they’re used to them in Manchester.’

Like so many arrangements in the Peak District, the method of closing these gates was a bit random. Some used short lengths of rusted metal bent into a hook to catch the upper bars of the gate. Others relied on a loop of rope to go over the top of the post. One or two were hung so that their own weight kept them open. The rest had to be wedged just right against a strategically placed lump of limestone. You didn’t get to make a quick getaway on this road.

When Cooper came round the next bend, he saw the green Mercedes stopped fifty yards ahead. The driver was out of the car and wrestling with a gate that had been closed across the road. He’d stopped at the gate, only to discover that it swung towards him and his car was in the way, preventing it from opening. The outer bar of the gate was now wedged against his bumper. Cooper could see his mouth moving as he cursed and gesticulated.

The driver turned round and was about get back in to his car to reverse when he saw Cooper’s Toyota approaching. His shoulders sagged and he clung to the door of his car with a disgusted look at the bonnet, as if it had let him down somehow.

‘The first gate opened away from me,’ he said. ‘How was I to know this one would be any different? If they’re going to put gates across roads like this, there should be a proper system.’

‘It isn’t fair. Is it, sir?’

‘No.’

‘Would you be Mr Everett?’

‘I suppose so. Who’s asking?’

Cooper showed Everett his ID. ‘Shall we go back to the house for a while, sir?’

Once inside the house he could see that the group had definitely tried to leave in a hurry. The main lounge was in a state of disarray, with cushions knocked off the sofa and drawers left open. It looked as though the house had been searched by a fairly incompetent burglar.

As they were passing down the hall Cooper stopped and looked into the kitchen, where he could see washing-up left piled in the sink. A silver tray stood out from the rest of the dirty pans and used plates. He turned it over and saw faint traces of a white residue on the smooth base.

‘Are you coming, Ben?’ said Irvine.

‘In a second.’

Cooper pressed the pedal on a bin next to the kitchen units. Among the waste he saw some tiny clear bags, a set of discarded drinking straws and a small plastic rectangle carrying the name of a nightclub in Manchester.

Marcus Everett was leaning against a marble fireplace, trying to look casual and relaxed. He was lean and well groomed, and as Cooper entered he ran a hand over his blond hair to smooth it back.

‘Is this your first visit to the area, sir?’ asked Cooper.

‘No, we were here in September and we really loved it. That’s why we came back with a few friends.’

‘What did you do in September?’

‘We went out with our guns and shot some pheasant.’

‘Did you? What day was this?’

‘It was the second week in September.’ Everett smiled at his expression. ‘Oh, don’t worry. The Glorious Twelfth was well past.’

‘Yes, it might have been,’ said Cooper. ‘But the twelfth of August is the start of grouse shooting season. It isn’t open season for pheasant until October first. So your shooting expedition was still illegal.’

Everett opened his mouth to laugh and seemed to be about to make a smart reply. Then he remembered who he was speaking to.

‘Well … you know,’ he said, ‘it was just a few brace of pheasant. They won’t make any difference. Everyone takes a bird for the pot here or there.’

Cooper didn’t smile, though he’d shot a few brace of pheasant himself. Once October first had passed, those birds lived in jeopardy every minute of their lives.

‘I thought perhaps you didn’t like the Peak District,’ he said.

‘No, it’s great. You have a beautiful area here, Detective Sergeant Cooper. We all love it. We tell our friends how great it is.’

‘So why were you leaving so early, sir? I understand you had the property booked for a few more days yet.’

‘Oh, the weather hasn’t been too good, you know. A bit disappointing. And business to do back in Manchester…’

‘And perhaps the stash ran out?’ said Cooper.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You and your friends were in such a hurry that you didn’t spend enough time cleaning up,’ said Cooper. ‘You’ve left some paraphernalia in the kitchen. It’s funny. I would have expected you to use a credit card and rolled-up fifty-pound notes for snorting the coke. That would have been more in keeping with the image. But the silver tray for cutting the lines is a nice touch.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Cooper shrugged. ‘Shall I make a call? Then we can just sit here and chat while we wait for the sniffer dog to arrive. They’re very good at locating traces of drugs.’

Everett went pale and smoothed his hair again. ‘Is all this really necessary, Detective Sergeant? I have a good job, a nice house, a family. I’m a law-abiding citizen.’

‘Then perhaps you’d like to cooperate a bit more.’

Everett sighed. ‘Look, I’m sorry we decided to leave in a hurry. I realise it might have looked a bit suspicious. But my friends were freaked out by the sight of all the police cars. We had a quick conference and decided to call it a day. I suppose some of the locals have been talking about us. We just came here to have a bit of fun, though. We weren’t doing any harm.’