could see that more inscriptions had been scratched into the dirt in the centre of the circle, close to the body. The letters were big and bold, and they spelled out ‘STRIDE’. Whoever had made these was less interested in leaving a long-term record of his presence, though. The drizzle was hardly touching the marks, but a couple of heavy showers would wash them clean away.

‘What about those, then?’ said Tailby. ‘You’re not going to tell me those have been there for years?’ ‘No,’ admitted Hitchens. ‘They’ve got to be more recent.’

‘When did it rain in this area last? Properly, I mean?’ Tailby stared around him. The officers gathered nearby looked at each other, then up at the sky. Fry sympathized. They were detectives - they spent all their time buried in paperwork or making phone calls in windowless offices; occasionally they drove around in a car, shuttling from pub to crown court and back again. How were they supposed to know when it had rained? It was well known that DI Hitchens had just bought a new house in Chesterfield. Tailby himself had a ranchstyle bungalow in a desirable part of Dronfield. Most of the other officers lived miles away, down in the lower

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valleys and the dormitory villages. Some of them were from the suburbs of Derby. It could be blowing a blizzard up here on the moor, piling up six-foot drifts of virgin snow, and all these men would see was a faint bit of sleet in the condensation on their kitchen windows. ‘Does it matter?’ said Hitchens. Tailby smiled like a fox with a rabbit. ‘It matters, Inspector, because we can’t say whether the inscriptions were written in the last twenty-four hours or the las two weeks.’ ‘I suppose so, sir.’ Teeth bared, Tailby glared round for another victim There was a shuffling and looking away, a lot o thoughtful glances at the grey blanket of cloud. ‘You useless set of pillocks! Doesn’t anyone know Then find me someone who does!’ Mark Roper finally opened his eyes as Owen Fox parke the Land Rover behind the Partridge Cross briefin centre. The cycle hire staff had closed up for the night’ but there were still a few visitors’ cars left outside. couple were securing their bikes to a rack. It occurre to Mark Roper that one of the cars that still stood dar and unattended probably belonged to the worn whose body lay on the moor. ‘Come on, Mark. Let’s get you inside,’ said Owen. For a moment, Mark didn’t move. Then, slowly, h unfolded his legs and got out. He felt stiff, like an of man with arthritis. His jacket was crumpled, there we grass stains on his knees and black marks on his hand He couldn’t think where the marks had come from, b his hands felt unpleasant and greasy, as if there was something on his skin that would take a long time to remove.

He swayed and supported himself on the side of the Land Rover. Owen moved nearer, not touching him but hovering anxiously. ‘We have to wait while the police come to speak to you, Mark,’ he said. ‘I know.’ ‘Are you up to it?’ ‘I’m all right.’ Owen Fox was a large man, a little ungainly from carrying too much weight around his upper body. His curly hair and wiry beard were going grey, and his face was worn and creased, the sign of a man who spent his life outdoors, regardless of the weather. Mark wanted to draw reassurance from his presence, to lean on his comforting bulk, but an uncertainty held him back. Owen finally took Mark by the arm. But the reassurance failed to come. The contact was safe and impersonal, Owen’s fingers meeting only the fabric of the young Ranger’s red fleece jacket. Mark shivered violently, as if his only source of warmth had suddenly been withdrawn.

‘Let’s get inside,’ said Owen. ‘It’s cold out here. You look to me as though you need a hot drink. A cup of my tea will bring some colour back to your cheeks, won’t it? Green, maybe - but at least it’ll be colour.’ Mark smiled weakly. ‘I’m fine.’ ‘You’re probably suffering from shock. We ought to get a doctor to look at you.’

38 0 39

‘No. I’ll be all right, Owen.’ The briefing centre was empty, but warm. The blackboard on the far wall contained white chalk scrawl that gleamed in the sudden light. The words meant nothing to Mark now. In the corner, the assistant’s desk was scattered with papers - reports and forms, the encroaching paperwork of the modern Peak Park Ranger. Soon, a computer would arrive, even here. Mark needed no encouragement to collapse into a chair near the electric heater. Owen watched him, his face creased with concern, then turned to switch on the kettle. ‘Plenty of sugar in your tea, for the shock.’ Sugar, and a reassuring voice, thought Mark. The things that people needed were simple, really - such as stability and their own part to play in life. But it was Owen he had learned to look to for stability. Now he’ had an inexplicable fear that it would be snatched from his life again. ‘The things people leave on the moor,’ said Owen ‘Litter and rubbish. You’d think they’d at least take thei dead bodies home with them.’ This time Mark couldn’t smile. Owen looked at him. ‘I did tell you to keep in touc Mark,’ he said. ‘I tried, Owen. But I couldn’t get an answer.’ Owen grimaced. ‘Those radios.’ I mustn’t make him feel guilty, thought Mark. Don make him take this burden on himself as well as every thing else. Mark was aware that there were things h didn’t know about Owen, that in their relationshi he only saw the surface of the older man. But there was one thing he did know. Owen needed no more burdens. Ben Cooper jumped at the hand on his shoulder and tensed his body for trouble. He cursed himself for having allowed someone to find him on his own in a vulnerable position. The hand felt like a great weight. The tall student was massively built, with a red, sweaty face and a squashed nose. He leaned down and spoke into Cooper’s ear with a voice that growled like a boulder in a landslide. At first, Cooper had no idea what he was saying. He thought the noise in the bar must have damaged his hearing permanently. He shook his head. The student leaned closer, breathing beer fumes on his neck. ‘You are Constable Cooper, aren’t you?’ ‘Yes.’

‘I said there’s someone on the phone for you. Some daft bastard who wants to know when it rained last.’ Ten minutes later, Cooper slid into the passenger seat of a Ford Mondeo as it scattered gravel on the sports ground car park. ‘It’s a what, Todd?’ ‘A cyclist from Sheffield; said Weenink. ‘She was found in the middle of the stones on Ringham Moor.’ ‘You mean the Nine Virgins?’ ‘That’s the place. You got it in one. I can see why the SCI loves you.’

‘Everybody knows the Nine Virgins,’ said Cooper.

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‘I wish you’d introduce me, then. I can’t find even one virgin where I live.’ Cooper could detect the sweet smell of beer in the car. He wondered if Weenink was fit to drive. It would be ironic if they got stopped by a Traffic patrol. Todd could lose his job, if he was breathalysed. ‘Is Mr Tailby in charge up there?’ ‘He’s SIO until they manage to pull a superintendent in from somewhere,’ said Weenink. ‘He’s not a happy’, man. He’s got a wide-open scene, public access, SOCOs scattered over a space as big as four football pitches. Also, he has a temper on him as foul as my breath o a Saturday night. But we have to report to DI Hitchens And let me tell you, we’re bloody lucky Hitche arrived.’ ‘Yeah?’ ‘Earlier on, it was DI Armstrong at the scene. Th Wicked Witch of West Street.’ ‘Don’t say that.’ ‘The Bitch of Buxton, then.’ ‘Shut up, Todd.’ Weenink stopped at the junction of the A6, an seemed to spend a long time waiting for distant traffi to pass on the main road. Finally, he pulled out behin a tanker carrying milk for Hartington Stilton. ‘You don’t understand, Ben,’ he said. ‘That Kim Ar strong, she’s so scary. I’m frightened she’ll put a spe on me and turn me into a eunuch.’ ‘Will you cut it out?’ ‘No, seriously, Ben. They reckon she cursed Ossi Clarke in Traffic one day, and his balls shrivelled u like cashew nuts. The doctors are baffled. He’s been off sick for weeks.’ ‘Todd ‘ ‘Well, he has, hasn’t he? Eh?’ ‘Ossie Clarke is one of the bad-back brigade. He has a slipped disc.’ ‘That’s the official line. Don’t let it lull you into a false sense of security. Anyway, we’re in luck. They couldn’t spare Armstrong from this paedophile enquiry. Apparently it’s warming up for some arrests. There was the little girl that was killed ‘ ‘Yes, I know.’ ‘So Hitchens has had to come in off leave. And you know he’s just moved into a new house with that redheaded nurse? So he’s not happy, either. It’s a barrel of laughs up there, all right. Couldn’t wait to get away for a bit, myself.’ Weenink was taking the back road past the fluorspar works to avoid the bottleneck in Bakewell. He took the bends gently, as if he was just one more pensioner on a Sunday afternoon outing. ‘Todd? Can’t we go a bit faster?’ ‘Mmm, the roads are a bit slippery with all these leaves,’ said Weenink. ‘Can’t be too careful.’ The atmosphere on the moor was gloomy. It made Ben Cooper feel almost guilty about the buzz of anticipation that had stayed with him even in the car with Todd Weenink. The entire stone circle had been taped off, and lights were being set up to illuminate a small tent in the centre. More tape created a pathway as far as

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