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told him. ‘She was found buried on the edge of the quarry, near the trees which span the footpath.’
    ‘But that’s terrible! Poor bloody woman! Who is she then? Somebody local?’
    ‘We don’t know,’ Pluke admitted. ‘That is our most important task – to get her identified. Maybe you have some idea? She is about thirty, with blonde hair, average height and build…’
    ‘Could be anybody, there’s plenty of good-looking blondes in these parts,’ muttered Preston. ‘So why do you want to talk to me?’
    ‘Two reasons, Mr Preston,’ said Pluke. ‘First, those wheelshaped bales in the quarry. Do you check them regularly for any reason?’
    ‘No, no need. They’re not going to go anywhere.’
    ‘So when was the last time you paid a visit to the quarry?’
    ‘Weeks ago. I can’t be too accurate but it would be five or six weeks back – I went to see if the plastic covers had been damaged. Folks do use that quarry, campers and courting couples. And Eric doesn’t seem to mind so long as they behave. I’d be more worried about strangers if I was him – I’m not saying they’d all vandalise things, but you can’t be too careful. Even a small cut in them plastic covers would cause problems – I don’t want rainwater seeping in.’
    ‘And you’ve not been since that time?’ Pluke wanted to be sure about this.
    Preston shook his head. ‘Nay, Mr Pluke. So how long’s she been there, this lass?’
    ‘We are not sure, it’s probably a very short time, but she was buried there. It would take some time and effort to do that.’
    ‘Buried? In that quarry? I thought the base was solid rock, that’s why Eric keeps some of his machines there, they won’t sink into the ground.’
    ‘Whoever buried her found a soft patch of earth, a shallow piece,’ said Pluke. ‘So you’ve never noticed anyone in the quarry, say in the last couple of days or late at night? Or a disturbed piece of ground?’
    ‘Sorry, no, Mr Pluke. By gum, this is dreadful… poor lass… what a way to end your life.’
    ‘And the other reason for my visit, Mr Preston, is that I understand you are one of Mr Burholme’s customers. You’ve hired a forage harvester from him recently?’
    ‘Aye, a couple of days back. It’s down my fields now, cutting silage. There’s no problem with it, is there?’
    ‘We want to trace all the machines currently on hire from Mr Burholme,’ said Pluke. ‘And we’d like our officers to examine them. Was yours damaged in any way when you took delivery of it? That was on Saturday morning, I believe? A part missing perhaps? Something like a bolt or a spindle?’
    ‘Took delivery? I collected it myself on Saturday morning, early on. Half-seven or thereabouts. But no, I checked it over before I towed it away. There was nowt wrong with it, no damage, nowt missing.’
    ‘Did you notice anyone else around the premises? Apart from Eric Burholme?’
    ‘No, never saw a soul, Mr Pluke.’
    ‘Thank you. Now, can we have a look at your machine?’ asked Pluke. 
    ‘Aye, if you like. Follow me. It’s a fairish walk.’
    In spite of wearing such a heavy and cumbersome coat, Montague Pluke enjoyed the rapid walk down the fields of Hollins Farm, although it caused Wayne Wain to pant rather more than he would have wished. The open fields provided an extensive view of the moors behind Crickledale, and in time, having discovered that a fairish walk in Yorkshire was a long walk by most other standards, the three men entered a field where a tractor was moving slowly through the long grass. Preston hailed the tractor driver who halted and awaited the arrival of the three oncomers.
    ‘Hang fire a bit, Harry,’ said Preston. ‘These chaps want a look at your harvester.’
    Under the farmer’s guidance, Pluke examined the machine and decided nothing was missing – it wouldn’t have functioned with a part missing – but because the working parts were smothered with chopped grass and other vegetation, it was