Burley Woodhead is a wide spot in a very narrow back lane. Along the valley bottom run the river Wharfe and the Ilkey to Leeds main road, the A65 - fast, wide and busy. Running roughly parallel to it, winding along the edge of the moors, often with heather sweeping right down to the road on one side, and farm fields on the other, is a country lane. Along that country lane is a short string of stone built farms and houses and a pub that together make up Burley Woodhead. The old school house has become a middle class conversion, as have the old village shop and a couple of barns.
The ‘Bulldog’ is a small pub, not quite turned into a tourist attraction, though doubtless it would see plenty of tourists on summer weekends. Still, DS Gibbs thought it still looked more like a village local.
Gibbs left his car in a small car park and looked around. The moors swept down to wall at the back of a small beer garden, comprised of a couple of picnic tables, a children's slide and swing and a set of goalposts with a sagging net. On the other side of the car park a stream came down from the moors and passed underneath the lane in a small culvert. At least the bed of the stream did: the water itself had disappeared in what was fast becoming a drought. The day was hot and sunny and the sky cloudless.
The detective turned and went inside the low stone building. Inside was rather gloomy but much cooler, with a low ceiling, dark stained oak beams and dark panelling. The bar was highly polished dark oak with towels over one set of pumps and the walls of the saloon were decorated with aged and fading photographs of men with sheep dogs and stern expressions.
Behind the bar the landlord sat reading the Daily Star. The sleeves of his red pinstriped shirt were rolled halfway up hairy arms and his beer belly oozed over the edge of the bar.
"Good Morning," DS Gibbs said, and the man looked up.
"What can I get you?" the landlord asked. He didn't do more than look, but his tone was friendly.
"Just an orange juice, please. I'm working." He flashed his warrant card at the man, put it away and took out his wallet to pay for the drink.
"I was wondering if you could help," Gibbs said as the fat man shook the bottle of juice, levered the cap off and poured. "Do you recognise either of these two," he added, putting down photographs of Rosie O'Conner and the late, unlamented Simon Hunter, on the bar top.
The landlord took Gibbs's note, rang in the price of the drink and counted out the change, before he picked up the photographs to study them.
"Yes," he said. "Quite regular they were one while. They've been in less often recently."
"Was the girl here Saturday?"
"About two or just before, she came in. Looked like she was waiting for someone. Probably him. She stayed on her own, though. She'd be here for an hour, give or take."
"She definitely arrived by two oclock?"
"Just before. Say ten to, but I'm not sure."
"And she was here an hour?"
"Until just after three oclock, I think. Again I'm not certain."
"And she was alone the whole time, you say?"
"I couldn't swear she didn't speak to anybody, because I was coming and going. I wasn't watching her the whole time. But she didn't sit with anyone nor nothing like that."
"If I get that typed up as statement will you sign it?"
"I suppose so, if it's important. Why d'you want to know?"
"If she was here," said Gibbs, "She wasn't murdering the bloke."
"Oh," said the landlord, not seeming all that interested. "Well she was here all right."