She had it all rehearsed. If the man with the puppy-dog eyes answered the door, she was going to lift up her clipboard and tell him she was doing market research on neighborhood shopping habits: how often did he use the local supermarket, that kind of thing. Under no circumstances, Banks had said, was she to enter the house. As if she would. As her mother used to say, she wasn’t as green as she was cabbage-looking.

But the heavy knocks just echoed in the silence. She listened. Nothing stirred inside. All her instincts told her the house was empty. She relaxed and moved on to number forty-nine.

“Yes?” An old lady with dry, wrinkled skin opened the door, but kept it on the chain.

Susan kept her voice down, even though she was sure Jameson wasn’t home. She showed her card. “DC Susan Gay, North Yorkshire Police. I’d like to talk to you about your neighbor Mr. Jameson, if I may.”

“He’s not at home.”

“I know. Do you know where he is?”

The face looked at Susan for some time. She couldn’t help but be reminded of reptile skin with slit lizard eyes peeping out of the dry folds.

The door shut, the chain rattled, and the door opened again. “Come in,” the woman said.

Susan walked straight into the small living room, which smelled of mothballs and peppermint tea. Everything was in shades of dark brown: the wallpaper, the wood around the fireplace, the three-piece suite. And in the fireplace stood an electric fire with fake coals lit by red bulbs. All three elements blazed away. There might be a chilly breeze outside, but the temperature was still in the mid-teens. The room was stifling, worse than Pratt’s office. As the door closed, Susan suddenly felt claustrophobic panic, though she had never suffered from claustrophobia in her life. A heavy brown curtain hung from a brass rail at the top of the door; it swept along the floor with a long hissing sound as the door closed.

“What’s Arthur been up to now?” the woman asked.

“Will you tell me your name first?”

“Gardiner. Martha Gardiner. What’s he been up to? Here, sit down. Can I get you a cup of tea?”

Susan remained by the door. “No, thank you,” she said. “I can’t stop. It’s very important we find out where Mr. Jameson is.”

“He’s gone on his holidays, that’s where. Has he done anything wrong?”

“Why do you keep asking me that, Mrs. Gardiner? Would it surprise you?”

She chuckled. “Surprise me? Nowt much surprises me these days, lass. That one especially. But he’s a good enough neighbor. When my lumbago plays me up he’ll go to the shops for me. He keeps an eye on me, too, just in case I drop dead one of these days. It happens with us old folk, you know.” She grabbed Susan’s arm with a scrawny talon and hissed in her ear. “But I know he’s been in jail. And I saw him with a gun once.”

“A gun?”

“Oh, aye. A shotgun.” She let go. “I know a shotgun when I see one, young lady. My Eric used to have one when we lived in the country, bless his soul. Young Arthur doesn’t think I know about it, but I saw him cleaning it through the back window once. Still, he’s always polite to me. Gives me the odd pint of milk and never asks for owt. Who am I to judge? If he likes to go off shooting God’s innocent creatures, then he’s no worse than many a gentleman, is he? Ducks, grouse, whatever. Even though he says he’s one of that green lot.”

“How long ago did you see him with the shotgun?”

“Couldn’t say for certain. Time has a funny way of moving when you’re my age. Couple of months, perhaps. Are you going to arrest him? What are you going to arrest him for? Who’ll do my shopping?”

“Mrs. Gardiner, first we’ve got to find him. Have you any idea where he went?”

“How would I know? On his holidays, that’s what he said.”

“Abroad?”

She snorted. “Shouldn’t think so. Doesn’t like foreigners, doesn’t Arthur. You should hear him go on about the way this country’s gone downhill since the war, all because of foreigners taking our jobs, imposing their ways. No, he’s been abroad, he said, and had enough of foreigners to last him a lifetime. Hates ’em all. ‘Foreigners begin at Calais, Mrs. Gardiner, just you remember that.’ That’s what he says. As if I needed reminding. My Eric was in the war. In Burma. Never the same, after. England for the English, that’s what Mr. Jameson always says, and I can’t say I disagree.”

Susan gritted her teeth. “And all he told you was that he was going on holiday?”

“Aye, that’s what he told me. Likes to drive around the English countryside. At least that’s what he’s done before. Sent me a postcard from the Lake District once. He wished me well and asked me to keep an eye on his place. You know, in case somebody broke in. There’s a lot of that these days.” She snorted. “Foreigners again, if you ask me.”

“I don’t suppose he left you a key, did he?”

She shook her head. “Just asked me to keep an eye out. You know, check the windows, try the door every now and then, make sure it’s still locked.”

“When did he leave?”

“Late Thursday afternoon.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Just before he went. About four o’clock.”

“Was he driving?”

“Of course he was.”

“What kind of car does he drive?”

“A gray one.”

“Did he take his shotgun with him?”

“I didn’t see it, but he might have. I don’t know. I imagine he’d want to shoot a few animals if he’s on holiday, wouldn’t he?”

Susan could feel the sweat itching behind her ears and under her arms. Her breathing was becoming shallow. She couldn’t take much more of Mrs. Gardiner’s hothouse atmosphere. But there were other things she needed to know.

“What make was the car?”

“A Ford Granada. I know because he told me when he bought it.”

“I don’t suppose you know the number?”

“No. It’s new, though. He only got it last year.”

That would make it an “M” registration, Susan noted. “How was he dressed?” she asked.

“Dressed. Just casual. Jeans. A short-sleeved shirt. Green, I think it was. Or blue. I’ve always been a bit color blind. One of those anoraks – red or orange, I think it was.”

“And he drove off at about four o’clock on Thursday.”

“Yes, I told you.”

“Was he alone?”

“Aye.”

“Do you have any idea where he was heading first?”

“He didn’t say.”

Susan needed to know about any friends Jameson might have entertained, but she knew if she stayed in the house a moment longer she would faint. She opened the door. The welcome draft of fresh air almost made her dizzy. Banks would want to question Mrs. Gardiner further, anyway. They would need an official statement. Any other questions could wait. They had enough.

“Thank you, Mrs. Gardiner,” she said, edging out of the door. “Thank you very much. Someone else will be along to see you soon to take a statement.”

And she hurried off down the street, heels clicking in the silence, to where Banks and the rest waited in their cars in the Tesco car park off the main road.