Jenny Fuller and Banks had lunch together in the slightly less exotic Queen’s Arms. The place was bursting at the seams with Sunday tourists, but they bagged a small table – so small there was hardly room for two roast beef and Yorkshire pud specials and the drinks – just before they stopped serving meals at two o’clock. Lager for Jenny and a pint of shandy for Banks because he had to conduct another interview that afternoon. He still looked tired, Jenny thought, and she guessed that the case had been keeping him awake at nights. That and his obvious discomfort over Sandra’s pregnancy.

Jenny and Sandra had been friends. Not close, but both had been through harrowing experiences around the same time and these had created some sort of bond between them. Since her travels in America, though, Jenny hadn’t seen much of Sandra, and now she supposed she wouldn’t see her again. If she had to choose sides, as people did, then she supposed she had chosen Alan’s. She had thought he and Sandra had a solid marriage – after all, Alan had turned her down when she tried to seduce him, and that had been a new experience for her – but clearly she was wrong. Never having been married herself, she would have been the first to confess that she knew little about such things, except that outward appearances often belie an inner turmoil.

So what had been going through Sandra’s mind in that last little while was a mystery. Alan had said that he wasn’t sure whether Sandra met Sean before or after they split up, or whether he was the real reason behind the separation. Jenny doubted it. Like most problems, it hadn’t just happened overnight, or when someone else turned up on the scene. Sean was as much a symptom as anything, and an escape hatch. This business had probably been years in the making.

“The car,” Banks said.

“A blue Citroën.”

“Yes. I don’t suppose you got the number?”

“I must admit it never crossed my mind the first time I saw it. I mean, why would I? It was in Alderthorpe and I parked behind it. Coming back from Spurn Head, it always stayed too far behind for me to be able to see.”

“And you lost it where?”

“I didn’t lose it. I noticed it stopped following me just after I got on to the M62 west of Hull.”

“And you never saw it again?”

“No.” Jenny laughed. “I must admit I felt rather as if I was being run out of town. You know, like in those cowboy films.”

“You didn’t get a glimpse of the driver at all?”

“No. Couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman.”

“What next?”

“I’ve some university work to catch up on and some tutorials tomorrow. I could postpone them, but…”

“No, that’s okay,” said Banks. “Lucy Payne’s out, anyway. No real rush.”

“Well, on Tuesday or Wednesday I’ll see if I can talk to Keith Murray in Durham. Then there’s Laura in Edinburgh. I’m developing a picture of Linda – Lucy, but it’s still missing a few pieces.”

“Such as?”

“That’s the problem. I’m not sure. I just get the feeling that I’m missing something.” She saw Banks’s worried expression and slapped his arm. “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll not go putting my intuitions into my profiles. This is just between you and me.”

“Okay.”

“I suppose you could call it the missing link. The link between Linda’s childhood and the possibility of Lucy’s being involved in the abductions and murders.”

“There’s the sexual abuse.”

“Yes, there’s no doubt that many people who were abused become abusers themselves – it’s a cycle – and according to Maureen Nesbitt, Linda was sexually aware at eleven. But none of that’s enough in itself. All I can say is that it could have created a psychopathology in Lucy that made her capable of becoming the compliant victim of a man like Terence Payne. People often repeat mistakes and bad choices. You just have to look at my history of relationships to see that.”

Banks smiled. “You’ll get it right one day.”

“Meet my knight in shining armor?”

“Is that what you want? Someone to fight your battles for you, then pick you up and carry you upstairs?”

“It’s not a bad idea.”

“And I thought you were a feminist.”

“I am. It doesn’t mean I might not fight his battles, pick him up and carry him upstairs the next day. All I’m saying is that chance would be a fine thing. Anyway, can’t a woman have her fantasies?”

“Depends where they lead. Has it occurred to you that Lucy Payne wasn’t the compliant victim at all, and that her husband was?”

“No, it hasn’t. I’ve never come across such a case.”

“But not impossible?”

“In human psychology, nothing’s impossible. Just very unlikely, that’s all.”

“But supposing she were the powerful one, the dominant partner…”

“And Terence Payne was her sex slave, doing her bidding?”

“Something like that.”

“I don’t know,” said Jenny. “But I very much doubt it. Besides, even if it is true, it doesn’t really get us any further, does it?”

“I suppose not. Just speculation. You mentioned that Payne might have used a camcorder when you visited the cellar, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Jenny sipped some lager and dabbed her lips with a paper serviette. “It would be highly unusual in such a ritualized case of rape, murder and interment for the perpetrator not to keep some sort of record.”

“He had the bodies.”

“His trophies? Yes. And that probably explains why there was no further mutilation, no need to take a finger or a toe to remember them by. Payne had the whole body. But it’s not just that. Someone like Payne would have needed more, something that enabled him to relive the events.”

Banks told her about the tripod marks and the electronics catalog.

“So if he had one, where is it?” she asked.

“That’s the question.”

“And why is it missing?”

“Another good question. Believe me, we’re looking hard for it. If it’s in that house, even if it’s buried ten feet down, we’ll find out. We won’t leave a brick of that place standing until it’s given up all its secrets.”

“If it’s in the house.”

“Yes.”

“And there’ll be tapes, too.”

“I haven’t forgotten them.”

Jenny pushed her plate aside. “I suppose I’d better go and get some work done.”

Banks looked at his watch. “And I’d better go see Mick Blair.” He reached forward and touched her arm lightly. She was surprised at the tingle she felt. “Take care, Jenny. Keep your eyes open, and if you see that car again, phone me right away. Understand?”

Jenny nodded. Then she noticed someone she didn’t know approaching them, walking with an easy, confident grace. An attractive young woman, tight jeans emphasizing her long and shapely legs, what looked like a man’s white shirt hanging open over a red T-shirt. Chestnut hair cascaded in shiny waves to her shoulders, and the only flaw on her smooth complexion was a small mole to the right of her mouth. Even that wasn’t so much an imperfection as a beauty spot. Her serious eyes were almond in shape and color.

When she got to the table, she pulled up a chair and sat down without being invited. “DS Cabbot,” she said, stretching out her hand. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Dr. Fuller.” Jenny shook. Firm grasp.

“Ah, the famous Dr. Fuller. A pleasure to meet you at last.”

Jenny felt tense. Was this woman, surely the Annie Cabbot, staking out her territory? Had she seen Banks touching her arm and thought something of it? Was she here to let Jenny know as subtly as possible to keep her hands off Banks? Jenny knew she was not bad when it came to the looks department, but she couldn’t help feeling somehow clumsy and even a bit dowdy next to Annie. Older, too. Definitely older.

Annie smiled at Banks. “Sir.”

Jenny could sense something between them. Sexual tension, yes, but it was more than that. Had they had a disagreement? All of a sudden the table was uncomfortable and she felt she had to leave. She picked up her bag and started rummaging for her car keys. Why did they always sink to the bottom and get lost among the hairbrushes, paper hankies and makeup?