“Linda Lofthouse’s murderer was caught, and Merchant’s drowning was ruled death by misadventure, right?”

“Right. And Linda’s killer was stabbed in jail, so it’s not as if we can ask him to clear anything up for us. Sounds as if he was deranged in the first place.”

“But ruling out the angry husband or passing tramp theory, that’s the default line of inquiry?”

“Pretty much so. Chris Adams said Barber had a coke habit, but we can’t find any evidence of that. If he did, it obviously wasn’t big-time.”

“Have you got Barber’s phone records yet?”

“We’re working on it, but we don’t expect too much there.”

“Why not?”

“There was no landline at the cottage where he was staying, and he was out of mobile range. If he needed to phone anyone he’d have had to use the public telephone box, either in Fordham or in Eastvale.”

“What about Internet access? You’d think a savvy music journalist would be all wired up for that sort of thing, wouldn’t you?”

“Not if he didn’t have a phone line, or even wireless access. Blackberry or Bluetooth, or whatever it is.”

“Aren’t there any Internet cafés in Eastvale?”

Banks glanced at Blackstone, ate another mouthful of sausage and washed it down with a swig of beer. “Good point, Ken. Apart from the library, which is as slow as a horse and cart, there’s a computer shop in the market square, Eastvale Computes, and I suppose we could check there. Problem is, the owner’s only got two computers available to the public, and I should imagine the histories get wiped pretty often. If Nick Barber used either of them, it’d have been a couple of weeks ago, and all traces would be gone by now. It’s still worth a try, though.”

“So what next?”

“Well,” said Banks, “there are a few more people to talk to, starting with Tania Hutchison and Chadwick’s daughter, Yvonne, when we find her, but for the moment, I’ve got a CD collection with a lot of holes in it, and Borders is beckoning just up Briggate.”

Annie got Banks’s phone call from Blackstone’s office in Leeds late that afternoon and welcomed the break from the dull routine of statement reading. Kelly Soames was still holding her own and would most likely be discharged the following day. They still hadn’t found her father.

Before Annie left the squad room, Winsome came up trumps with Nick Barber’s mobile service, but the results were disappointing. He had made no calls since arriving at the cottage because he had no coverage there. He could, of course, have used his mobile in Eastvale, but according to the records he hadn’t. If he had been up to anything at all, he had kept it very much to himself. That wouldn’t be surprising, Annie thought. She had known a few journalists in her time, and had found that they were a secretive lot, on the whole; they had to be, as theirs was very much a first-come, first-served kind of business.

Templeton had just got back from Fordham, and Annie noticed him watching closely as she leaned over Winsome’s shoulder to read the notes. She whispered in Winsome’s ear, then let her hand rest casually on her shoulder. She could see the prurient curiosity in Templeton’s gaze now. Enough rope, she thought. And if he knew that she had stayed at Winsome’s the other night, who could guess what wild tales he might take to Superintendent Gervaise? After her talk with Banks, Annie’s anger had diminished, though she still blamed Templeton for what had happened. She knew there was no point confronting him; he just wouldn’t get it. Banks was right. Let him crucify himself; he was already well on his way.

Annie picked up a folder from her desk, plucked her suede jacket from the hanger by the door, said she’d be back in a while, and walked down the stairs with a smile on her face.

A cool wind gusted across the market square and the sky was quickly filling with dirty clouds, like ink spilled on a sheet of paper. Luckily, Annie didn’t have far to go, she thought, as she pulled the collar of her jacket around her throat and crossed the busy square. People leaned into the wind as they walked, hair flying, plastic bags from Somerfield’s and Boots fluttering as if they were filled with birds. The Darlington bus stood at its stop by the market cross, but nobody seemed to be getting on or off.

Eastvale Computes had been open a couple of years now, and the owner, Barry Gilchrist, was the sort of chap who loved a technical challenge. As a consequence, people came in to chat about their computer problems, and Barry usually ended up solving them for free. Whether he ever sold any computers or not Annie had no idea, but she doubted it, with Aldi, and even Woolworth’s, offering much lower prices.

Barry was one of those ageless young lads in glasses who looked like Harry Potter. Annie had been in the shop fairly often, and she was on friendly enough terms with him; she had even bought CD-ROMs and printer cartridges from him in an effort to give some support to local business. She got the impression that he rather fancied her because he got all tongue-tied when he spoke to her and found it hard to look her in the eye. It wasn’t offensive, though, like Templeton, and she was surprised to find that she felt more maternal toward him than anything else. She didn’t think she was old enough for that sort of thing, but supposed, when she thought about it, that she might, at a pinch, be old enough to be his mother if he was as young as he looked. It was a sobering thought.

“Oh, hello,” he said, blushing as he looked up from a monitor behind the counter. “What can I do for you today?”

“It’s official business,” Annie said, smiling. Judging by the expression that crossed his face and the way he surreptitiously hit a few keystrokes, Annie wondered if he’d been looking at Internet porn. She didn’t have him down as that type, but you never could tell, especially with computer geeks. “You might be able to help us,” she added.

“Oh, I see.” He straightened his glasses. “Well, of course… er… whatever I can do. Computer problems at the station?”

“Nothing like that. It’s Internet access I’m interested in.”

“But, I thought…”

“Not for me. A customer you might have had maybe a couple of weeks ago.”

“Ah. Well, I don’t get very many, especially at this time of year. Tourists like it, of course, to check their e-mail, but most of the locals either have their own computers, or they’re just not interested.” Not to be interested, the way Barry Gilchrist said it, sounded infinitely sad.

Annie took a photograph from the folder she had brought and handed it to him. “This man,” she said. “We know he was in Eastvale on Wednesday two weeks ago. We were just wondering if he came in here and asked to use your Internet access.”

“Yes,” said Barry Gilchrist, turning a little pale. “I remember him. The journalist. That’s the man who was murdered, isn’t it? I saw it on the news.”

“What day of the week did he come in?”

“Not Wednesday. I think it was Friday morning.”

The day he died, Annie thought. “Did he tell you he was a journalist or did you hear it?”

“He told me. Said he needed a few minutes to do a spot of research, that there was no access where he was staying.”

“How long was he on?”

“Only about fifteen minutes. I didn’t even bother charging him.”

“Now comes the tricky part,” said Annie. “I don’t suppose there’d still be any traces of where he went online?”

Gilchrist shook his head. “I’m sorry, no. I mean, I said I don’t get a lot of customers this time of year, but I do get some, so I have to keep the histories and temporary Internet files clean.”

“They say you can never quite get rid of everything on a computer. Do you think our technical unit could get anything if we took them in?”

Gilchrist swallowed. “Took the computers away?”

“Yes. I hardly have to remind you this is a murder investigation, do I?”