And then, just after 1 p.m., Malcolm Kaufmann came out of the building and spent some time locking the door behind him.
Kaufmann bad on a long black overcoat over a pink polo shirt. Macbeth followed him to a crowded, chromium pub where Kaufmann ordered chicken sandwiches and, to Macbeth's dismay, sat down to eat them with two other guys he obviously knew.
Macbeth said shit a few times under his breath, ordered up a sandwich and a beer, sat as far away from Kaufmann as he could while still keeping him in view, and began to eat very slowly.
There were many women in the bar. Macbeth passed some time debating which one he'd make a move on if he hadn't been an investigator on a case. There was one in a dark blue velvet top who had to be wasted on the guy she was with; he was drinking too much and talking to other guys, she was on Diet Coke and probably only here to drive him home.
She had long, dark hair. Which, of course, was nothing at all to do with Macbeth picking her out, no way.
He was getting to thinking he would make a move, if only to make the woman's lunchtime more memorable, when Malcolm Kaufmann came swiftly to his feet, said a rapid goodbye to his pals and made an exit, weaving through the crowd with such practised agility that Macbeth almost lost him.
Couldn't be sure Kaufmann wouldn't get into a car or taxi and head off home, so he called after him in the street, and Kaufmann turned at the edge of the sidewalk and raised an
eyebrow.
'Mr Macbeth. How very strange to see you.'
'We have to talk, Malcolm,' Macbeth said, trying to sound tough.
'Of course. We must arrange a time.'
'Like, now.'
'Oh, dear,' said Kaufmann. 'This sounds serious. What can the fair Moira have been up to?'
Macbeth walked right up to him. There was a cab idling not ten yards away, and he was taking no chances. 'We need to talk about a man,' he said, 'name of John Peveril Stanage.'
Ashton thought he should tell her himself, maybe test the water a bit. Also, he liked a pint around Sunday lunch when he got the time - unable, despite his divorce, to shake himself out of the feeling that Sunday lunchtime was special.
And he couldn't deny he was becoming quite fascinated by this place, a bit of old England only twenty miles from factories and warehouses, muck and grime and petty crime.
He drove Across the Moss in his own vehicle, the Japanese sports car which was his first independent purchase with the bit of money left over after paying off his wife. A gesture.
Ashton realised now that Gillian was probably right, it was bloody pathetic to buy a car like this at his age. Lump of flash tat, and he could never even remember what bloody make it was.
'Oh,' she said, looking up to serve him. it's you.'
No curiosity, he noticed But then, if they had recovered anything from that grave, be all over the village, wouldn't it?
'Just thought I should officially inform you, Mrs Castle,' he said confidentially, across the bar, 'that we didn't find what we were looking for. I'm sorry we had to put you through this.'
There were no more than a dozen customers in The Man. Some had looked up when he came in. Made a change; most pubs, they could smell a copper the same way he could scent illegal odours amidst tobacco smoke. Always somebody in a pub with something to hide, whether they'd been flogging nicked videos or their MOT was overdue.
'You have your job to do,' Lottie Castle said. She seemed weary, strained, nervy. Still looking good, though, he'd not been wrong about that. Tragedy suited some women. Something about recent widows, murder victims' wives especially; stripped of all need for pretend-glamour, they acquired this harsh unadorned quality, the real woman showing through.
Sometimes this excited him.
Must be getting warped, price of thirty years in the job.
'I had the feeling yesterday,' he said, 'that you thought we might have found something.'
She said, 'Wouldn't have surprised me either way. The bog body, wasn't it?'
'Somebody told you.' He wondered why she should make him think of murder victims' wives.
'Call it intuition,' Lottie said. 'What you having?'
'Pint of Black?'
'You'll be the only one,' she said.
When he raised an inquiring eyebrow she told him another bunch of jobs had gone, working men replaced by men in white coats brought in from Across the Moss. Rumours that Gannons might even close the brewery altogether, transferring all production of Bridelow Black to their new plant outside Matlock.
'Never,' said Ashton. 'How can you brew Bridelow Black in Matlock?'
'How can you brew German lager in Bradford?' said Lottie.
'People don't care any more. They've got the name, that's all that matters.'
'Thought the lads here were looking a bit cheesed.' Ashton nodded at the customers.
Lottie said, 'Gannons have apparently got tests showing the local spring water doesn't meet European standards of purity. Cost a substantial amount to decontaminate it. Added to which the equipment's antiquated. Where's the business sense in preserving some scruffy little dead-end village brewery on the wrong side of a bog?'
'Bloody tragic,' Ashton said, and meant it. 'Just about finish Bridelow, I reckon.'
'People've got to have work,' Lottie said. They'll move out. School'll shut. Church'll be operating every fourth Sunday. Still want this?
'Better make it a bottle of Newcastle,' Ashton said. 'I wouldn't like to cause an incident.'
'The rot's already set in, I'm afraid,' Lottie said, pulling a bottle from under the bar. 'General store closed last week. Chip shop's on its last legs. How long the Post Office'll keep a sub-office here is anybody's guess.'
'Not good for you either. Dozen customers on a Sunday?
'Be a few hikers in later,' Lottie said listlessly.
'I was told,' Ashton said smoothly, raising his voice a little, that some folk reckon all the bad luck that's befallen this village is due to that bogman being removed from the bog.'
Behind him, conversation slowed to a trickle.
'That's stupid,' Lottie said.
'You see, that's why we thought somebody might've had the idea of bringing it back to Bridelow. And where better to put it than at the bottom of an existing grave? Done it before, apparently, according to my source.'
'And who might that be?' asked Frank Manifold Snr from behind his half of draught Bass.
Ashton didn't turn round. 'Surprising as it may seem, Mrs Castle, I can understand it, the way people might be feeling. Problem is, we're talking about a prize specimen here. Experts from all over the world made plans to come and see it. It's almost unique. Invaluable. And so, you see, the police are under quite enormous pressure to get it back.'