carved by the vast, white scars of opencast mining called rakes. Some were abandoned now, great gashes in the landscape as if a series of earthquakes had split the ground open. But open-cast mining was still active here, on a big scale. Longstone Edge had been the subject of a long-running campaign protesting against the extent of limestone extraction, thirteen million tons of Peak District hillside trucked away every year for roadworks and building projects.
He could see graded piles of chippings awaiting collection near the new haulage road to Cavendish Mill. Some abandoned workings had filled with water, forming the kind of small lake known locally as a flash, its surface seething with rain.
Putting his head down, Cooper carried on walking. If he remembered rightly, the mere names of the tracks in this area were redolent with history. At one time, Black Harry the highwayman had terrorized travellers crossing the moors around Longstone and Birchlow. His activities had gone on for years before they were cut short on the gibbet at Wardlow Mires. But his name still lived on in Black Harry Lane, Black Harry Gate, and Black Harry House. His memory was preserved forever on the White Peak sheets of the Ordnance Survey map.
In fact, with so many clues to Black Harry’s whereabouts, it was funny that the highwayman had taken so long to catch.
Fry found Wayne Abbott loading some equipment back into his vehicle. Abbott was lucky enough to have been given a 4x4 to drive and had managed to get near the scene without having to hike across the fields.
‘Those hoof marks,’ said Fry. ‘When were they left?’
‘Ah, I expect you mean pre-or post-mortem? It’s difficult to say.’
‘Still –?’
The crime-scene manager shrugged. ‘No, really – it’s too difficult to say. Unless we find a hoof mark underneath the body, or some other conflicting trace …’
‘Let me know soonest if you do.’
‘Of course.’
‘So we still don’t know how he got from dinner at the Le Chien Noir to a field near Birchlow,’ said Fry thoughtfully.
‘On horseback?’ suggested Murfin. ‘Since we have all these hoof marks.’
Fry shook her head. ‘It seems pretty unlikely to me, but forensics will be able to tell us when they get his clothes in the lab.’
‘Well, how else do the horses come into it?’
‘I don’t know. But there are an awful lot of the hunting fraternity hallooing about down there with their fancy jackets and strangled vowels.’
‘Ah. The fox-hunting re-enactment society, I call them.’
‘I prefer “the unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable”,’ said Fry.
‘That’s not one of my quotes.’
‘No, it’s Oscar Wilde.’
Fry hated not knowing more about the victim. Was he a saboteur? Could his killers have been members of the hunt? But he didn’t look the type to be an animal rights protestor. No mohican, no sabbing equipment. And none of the genuine sabs had any knowledge of him. Or they weren’t willing to admit they had. But why were horses’ hoof marks found? There had to be a reason for their presence, and the hunt were the obvious suspects.
She turned at the sound of clumsy footsteps clattering on the rocks. She was met by a startled gaze and a snort of alarm from a black muzzle.
‘Those damn sheep.’
Then she looked up at the sky in surprise. Well, at least it had stopped raining at last.
Cooper had reached the outer cordon, where blue-and-white crime-scene tape was strung between two gate posts and across the path. He gave his name to the officer at the cordon as he passed through, and saw Fry and Murfin walking back across the field from the body tent. Fry looked cold and tired, her coat and hair filmed with rain.
‘Ben – I didn’t think you were serious,’ she said when he got nearer.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘Nobody comes out of a nice dry office on a day like this, if they can possibly help it.’
‘But I said I’d come, didn’t I? Why would I say that, if I
He could see graded piles of chippings awaiting collection near the new haulage road to Cavendish Mill. Some abandoned workings had filled with water, forming the kind of small lake known locally as a flash, its surface seething with rain.
Putting his head down, Cooper carried on walking. If he remembered rightly, the mere names of the tracks in this area were redolent with history. At one time, Black Harry the highwayman had terrorized travellers crossing the moors around Longstone and Birchlow. His activities had gone on for years before they were cut short on the gibbet at Wardlow Mires. But his name still lived on in Black Harry Lane, Black Harry Gate, and Black Harry House. His memory was preserved forever on the White Peak sheets of the Ordnance Survey map.
In fact, with so many clues to Black Harry’s whereabouts, it was funny that the highwayman had taken so long to catch.
Fry found Wayne Abbott loading some equipment back into his vehicle. Abbott was lucky enough to have been given a 4x4 to drive and had managed to get near the scene without having to hike across the fields.
‘Those hoof marks,’ said Fry. ‘When were they left?’
‘Ah, I expect you mean pre-or post-mortem? It’s difficult to say.’
‘Still –?’
The crime-scene manager shrugged. ‘No, really – it’s too difficult to say. Unless we find a hoof mark underneath the body, or some other conflicting trace …’
‘Let me know soonest if you do.’
‘Of course.’
‘So we still don’t know how he got from dinner at the Le Chien Noir to a field near Birchlow,’ said Fry thoughtfully.
‘On horseback?’ suggested Murfin. ‘Since we have all these hoof marks.’
Fry shook her head. ‘It seems pretty unlikely to me, but forensics will be able to tell us when they get his clothes in the lab.’
‘Well, how else do the horses come into it?’
‘I don’t know. But there are an awful lot of the hunting fraternity hallooing about down there with their fancy jackets and strangled vowels.’
‘Ah. The fox-hunting re-enactment society, I call them.’
‘I prefer “the unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable”,’ said Fry.
‘That’s not one of my quotes.’
‘No, it’s Oscar Wilde.’
Fry hated not knowing more about the victim. Was he a saboteur? Could his killers have been members of the hunt? But he didn’t look the type to be an animal rights protestor. No mohican, no sabbing equipment. And none of the genuine sabs had any knowledge of him. Or they weren’t willing to admit they had. But why were horses’ hoof marks found? There had to be a reason for their presence, and the hunt were the obvious suspects.
She turned at the sound of clumsy footsteps clattering on the rocks. She was met by a startled gaze and a snort of alarm from a black muzzle.
‘Those damn sheep.’
Then she looked up at the sky in surprise. Well, at least it had stopped raining at last.
Cooper had reached the outer cordon, where blue-and-white crime-scene tape was strung between two gate posts and across the path. He gave his name to the officer at the cordon as he passed through, and saw Fry and Murfin walking back across the field from the body tent. Fry looked cold and tired, her coat and hair filmed with rain.
‘Ben – I didn’t think you were serious,’ she said when he got nearer.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘Nobody comes out of a nice dry office on a day like this, if they can possibly help it.’
‘But I said I’d come, didn’t I? Why would I say that, if I
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