He allowed a moment for that fact to sink in. Officers in the room shuffled their feet uncomfortably, as if they were already being told that this inquiry had failed.

'So,' said Mackenzie, 'it looks as though our only hope of progress is to concentrate on the victims.'

'Didn't we do that last time?' asked someone.

Mackenzie hesitated for a second. 'Yes. But now we're going to do it again.'

Cooper glanced across at Fry, but she wasn't meeting anyone's eye. Not on this side of the room, anyway. He knew she would be feeling in her element now. Forensics aside, it was the piecing together of the final minutes, hours and days of the victims that was the foundation of a modern murder investigation. Fry would already be working through in her mind the procedures to be followed, the files to be reopened, the potential leads to be a.n.a.lysed and followed up. Murder investigations these days were a world away from the TV stereotype of two detectives rolling up to the crime scene.

Many lessons had been learned from botched inquiries like the Stephen Lawrence fiasco. These days, the tactic was to flood a crime scene with officers to maximise the chance of uncovering vital early clues.

The original inquiry had tasked more than thirty officers to cover all the possible angles. Some had been a.s.signed to the family, others were involved with the forensic examination. Uniformed officers had conducted house-to-house inquiries, while detectives spoke to witnesses. The Senior Investigating Officer had logged all his decisions a and after twenty-eight days, because there was no breakthrough, a review team had been called in to provide a fresh pair of eyes. Every decision had been recorded and was open to review.

It was known as victimology a the picture that a murder inquiry tried to build up of the relationship between the deceased, the location and the suspects who came into the picture.

As a result of the strategies and protocols put in place, the clear-up rates for murder in England and Wales were very high a more than ninety per cent of suspicious deaths were detected, meaning someone was either convicted, or charged and later cleared.

Yes, there were a few unsolved murders. Derbyshire Constabulary had ten of them on the books. No one wanted another one to add to the tally, and especially not two. The initial inquiry had failed to produce a result, but now they had another chance.

The trouble was, within a few days Divisional CID would get sidelined, and they'd all be back on burglaries and stolen postboxes.

'If local officers could help us by reviewing the original inquiry into the disappearance of the Pearsons, going over the ground to see what might have been missed, it would be greatly appreciated,' said Mackenze. 'I think we could also use another physical search, but over an expanded area. I realise this will tie up some resources at an operational level.'

Branagh nodded her agreement, and Cooper knew his workload for the next few days had just been doubled.

'Of course, our big piece of luck,' continued Mackenzie, 'is the find on Oxlow Moor. These are believed to be the Pearsons' belongings.'

Now there was a stir of interest in the room. They were no longer going over old territory that had already proved fruitless. This was something new. Police officers were only human. They were motivated by the prospect of making genuine progress and achieving results. It was what gave them that frisson of excitement.

Mackenzie indicated large photos fixed to the whiteboard behind him.

'So a first we have a couple of matching Levi's anoraks in bright orange, with chambray linings. Not my style, but nice and visible in bad conditions, I'm told. As you can see, the larger of the two garments has staining on the left shoulder and left arm, here and here. Confirmed as human blood.'

The stains were clearly visible in the scenes-of-crime photos, dark against the orange fabric of the anorak, which had been laid out on a table under powerful lights. Some forensic expert would even now be trying to a.n.a.lyse the direction of the spatter, the force of the spray, calculating angles and the position of the wearer.

'Then there's a small Italian leather rucksack. This purple doesn't seem to go with the anoraks, but what do I know? All three of these are items the Pearsons were seen with during their visit to Castleton on that last evening, and have been confirmed as their possessions. And even if we didn't have those ...' The DCI gestured at two more photos. 'This is David Pearson's wallet, containing a little over two hundred and fifty pounds in cash, three credit cards, his own business cards and several membership cards a gym, AA, frequent flyer points and so on. Obviously this leaves us in no doubt. All of these items, ladies and gentlemen, were deliberately buried in peat on Oxlow Moor, about a mile from the cottage where the Pearsons were staying.'

Cooper studied the photographs carefully. The items might leave no doubt about identification, but they certainly left room for speculation about motive. If David and Trisha Pearson were attacked and killed, why weren't they robbed too? In particular, why would anyone leave that amount of cash?

'Fingerprints?' someone was asking.

'Working on it.'

That was a given. No expense spared, probably. After all this time, there would be an all-out effort to get forensic results. But it could take time.

'Luckily,' said Mackenzie, 'a complete forensic sweep of the cottage was done at the time. No sign of a break-in, or of any violence taking place there. But after some work by the lab, they did manage to obtain enough DNA from tooth-brushes, used clothing, follicles on hairbrushes and so on to build DNA profiles for the victims. I mean, for David and Trisha Pearson, of course.'

'If they are victims.'

'Absolutely. Meanwhile,' Mackenzie looked towards Fry, 'we'll also be concentrating on making some early progress on the fresh incident. Let's see if we can confirm a connection between the two.'

There was a hesitant murmur of agreement.

Mackenzie cast his eye round the room. 'Everyone up to speed? Good. Form your teams. There's a lot of work to do.'

Cooper looked round in amazement as the meeting broke up. He caught DI Hitchens by the arm as he pa.s.sed on his way to the door.

'Wait a minute,' said Cooper. 'The body at the pub?'

Hitchens nodded towards the front of the room, where Fry had her head down talking to DCI Mackenzie.

'Sorry, Ben,' he said. 'EMSOU a MC are keeping that to themselves.'

A few minutes later, Villiers turned to Cooper with a puzzled expression.

'What did he mean about the wrong kind of wheels on the snow?' she said.

'Oh, that?' Cooper smiled. 'The dog handlers in Derbyshire are equipped with adapted Vauxhall Zafiras, which are underpowered anyway. They're also front-wheel drive, and with all the weight of equipment and dogs at the back, they don't go anywhere in snow.'

'So what happens?'

'Well, for four or five weeks in the average winter, our handlers are reduced to operating on foot, or begging a lift from a traffic officer in a four-wheel drive. Not many of the traffic boys like the idea of having a salivating long-haired German Shepherd sitting behind them on the back seat of the car, though.'

'I can't blame them really,' said Villiers.

'You don't like dogs?' asked Cooper in surprise. He wasn't sure why, but he'd got an idea in his mind that Carol was a dog person. Horses, dogs, anything related to the outdoors.

'Not when they remind me too much of a wolf,' said Villiers.

Hitchens took Cooper aside for a moment.

'Ben, Mr Mackenzie has asked us for a DC to work with DS Fry. Short term, of course.'

'One of ours?' said Cooper.

'Yes. Who would you suggest?'

Cooper ran quickly through his team in his mind, dismissing Gavin Murfin immediately, following him closely with Luke Irvine. Fry would eat Irvine alive. Carol Villiers, or Becky Hurst? Both could cope with the a.s.signment, and one of them would benefit from it tremendously.

'DC Hurst,' he said. 'Shall I tell her?'

Hitchens nodded. 'Yes, Ben. Good choice. And someone needs to liaise with the firefighters. Find out exactly what they saw.'

Cooper looked round. 'Gavin, can you do that?'

'I dare say it's within my capabilities.'

Cooper turned as the DI left, and saw Fry scooping up the photos of the Pearsons. Murfin gave her a mock bow as he moved out of her way.

Fry nodded at him brusquely. 'Gavin.'

'Don't mind me,' he said. 'I won't be in the way. I'm off to talk to Trumpton.'

Fry turned to Cooper with a raised eyebrow.

'Trumpton?' she said. 'Do police officers still talk like that in the middle of the twenty-first century?'

'I didn't hear it,' said Cooper.

'I see.'

In fact, it was the first time he'd ever heard Murfin use that expression, though it had been common at one time as a derogatory reference to the fire service. The children's TV series had, after all, finished decades ago. He hoped Murfin wouldn't address the Edendale crew as Captain Flack, or Cuthbert, Dibble and Grub.

Murfin was proving difficult enough these days, but Cooper had never been able to figure out Diane Fry. Never. And he didn't think that was ever going to change now.

When she'd gone back to Birmingham to resolve the issues that had been haunting her for years, he'd imagined there might be some kind of closure for her, that she would be able to put the past behind her and start living a more normal life. Yet still he sensed a dark shadow in her life, one whose cause he couldn't even guess at. She was far too complex for him to comprehend, and he was past the point where he wanted to keep trying. It was like grasping at smoke and expecting it to stay in one place. No matter what you did, or how hard you tried, it always slipped through your fingers and left you holding nothing.

'Wait,' said Cooper. 'Diane, could you let me see those photographs again?'

Fry looked at him curiously for a moment, but flipped open the file. Cooper could sense her watching him closely. She had never known quite what to expect of him, but he couldn't blame her. Right now, he didn't know what to expect of himself.

The man in the photo was about thirty. He was leaning on a sports car, smiling at the camera with the sort of intimate smile that suggested he knew the photographer very well. He wore faded jeans and a white T-shirt with a slogan that had been made illegible by the angle of his arms stretching and folding the fabric. Cooper thought he could see a 'the'. Perhaps it was the name of a band.

In the background, familiar hills and the glint of water. One of the major reservoirs in the Upper Derwent. Howden, he guessed. The picture could have been taken at one of the pull-ins along the single-track road that skirted the edge of the reservoir.

'Do they look like hikers to you?' asked Cooper.

'I think Trisha was the outdoors type. She had a couple of horses back in Surrey, member of the RSPB, donated to animal charities.'

'A bit of an odd couple, do you think?'

'Not necessarily.'

'Had they been to the Peak District before?'

'Yes. They'd even stayed in the same cottage, but during the summer of the previous year.'

'I see.'

'And?' said Fry impatiently.

But Cooper ignored her. There was something familiar not only about the background, but about the stance of the man, the intimate expression. But most familiar of all was the face a blue eyes, a shock of fair hair. Yes, a young Robert Redford, with a hint of Brad Pitt.

'Do you fancy him, or what?' said Fry.

'No,' said Cooper. 'But I remember him.'

'So when did you see David Pearson?'

'I'm not sure.'

She glanced at him suspiciously. 'You never were a good liar, Ben.'

He shrugged. 'It might just be that I've seen the photographs before. In connection with the missing persons inquiry. I don't know.'

Fry was silent, forced to accept it as a possible explanation. But he could tell that she still wanted to ask more questions.

'He's distinctive,' she said at last. 'Looks like a film star. I can't quite remember which one ...'

'Robert Redford.'

'Oh?' She seemed to think about it for a moment. 'Before my time, I think.'

'Butch Ca.s.sidy and the Sundance Kid? All the President's Men?'

'I can't quite picture-'

'Think of Brad Pitt, then.'

'I suppose so. I prefer Johnny Depp myself.'

Cooper shook his head. 'Wrong type altogether.'

'So a you'll be going over the ground again in the Pearson inquiry. Where are you heading first?'

He looked at her vaguely.

'Back into the past, I think,' he said.

'I suppose I shouldn't say it ...'

'What?'

'Best place for you,' said Fry.

'No, you shouldn't.'

Murfin was beaming at them from his desk, his phone poised in mid-air. He seemed reluctant to let Fry leave the office without a parting jibe.

'Happy to be back among the sheep again, Diane? I bet you've been missing the little woolly darlings.'

Fry spun on her heel, an angry glower on her face.

'Once I drive away from Edendale for the last time, I'm never going to leave civilisation again. Trust me, I'll be happy if I don't have to see another d.a.m.n sheep ever in my life.'

As an exit line, it wasn't bad. It was certainly one Cooper would remember.