She followed her out into the car park, digging the VW keys out of her shoulder bag in anticipation of another pursuit. But the young woman ignored the ranks of parked cars and made straight for the exit on to the road. Here she paused and took a mobile out of her pocket and started talking into it. But she hadn’t touched the number pad. She was faking it, Fleur guessed, giving herself an excuse to be standing in the car park.

Fleur worked out the reason simultaneously with having her conclusion confirmed. A man approached the exit on a small motor bike. Most of his features were hidden by his helmet and goggles, but she could see he had a moustache. As he passed the young woman, her gaze followed him. The bike turned left, passing the entrance gap close to where Fleur was standing. She took out a ballpoint and scribbled its number down on the palm of her hand.

Could it be as easy as this? she wondered. She needed to move quick. If, as she assumed, the young woman was working for Tubby, then it would only take a single phone call for her to get all known details of the motor cyclist.

Two could play at that game if you had the right contacts, and one thing Fleur Delay had was the right contacts. The young woman didn’t seem in any hurry to get on the phone. In fact she was standing in the same place, giving every impression of uncertainty over her next move. So there could still be time here to get ahead of the game.

She put a number into her mobile as she walked towards the VW.

‘I need a vehicle check,’ she said. ‘Quick as you can.’

She rang off then speed-dialled her brother.

‘Vince,’ she said, ‘come to the car.’

‘They’re still at the table,’ he protested. ‘And my pudding’s just arriving.’

‘The car, Vince. Now!’

She opened the door of the VW and slid into the driver’s seat.

The young woman was on the phone now but she looked as if she were having a conversation rather than simply making a request.

Vince came out of the hotel, looking sulky.

Fleur’s phone rang.

‘Alun Watkins, Flat 39, Loudwater Villas,’ she repeated.

By the time Vince got into the car, she’d entered the address into her sat-nav.

‘What’s happening, Sis?’ asked Vince.

Fleur started the engine and smiled at him.

‘We may be going home sooner than you think.

12.35-13.15

The Fat Man rarely needed an excuse to be hungry, but this morning he’d been in such a rush that he’d scrimped on breakfast. Now he tucked into his roast beef with relish. And with horseradish too.

Gina on the other hand merely poked her fork at the wafer-thin slices on her plate, but nothing got near her mouth except her wine glass.

Finally she said, ‘If Alex is behind this, then I don’t need to worry about getting his picture in the paper or on the box, do I?’

He said, ‘I’d say not.’

She went on, as if thinking aloud, ‘But I can’t make that assumption, can I? If the photo didn’t come from him, then I’ve got to do everything I can to find him.’

‘Why?’ said Dalziel.

For a second she looked at him as if he’d asked a stupid question. But the look faded as she started to answer and discovered her reasons were not so clear cut as she’d imagined.

‘Because…because I need…because of what we felt for each other…what we went through together…Because I need to know!’

She stared at him defiantly, as if challenging him to ask, know what?

Instead he said, ‘What about him? Mebbe he doesn’t want to be found.’

‘We don’t know that. He may still be in a state of fugue.’

‘Like old Bach, you mean? Thought you said he weren’t all that musical.’

‘I think you know very well what I mean,’ she said dismissively.

Reckons she’s got my number now, he thought complacently. That was OK. He liked dealing with folk who believed they knew how his mind worked.

He said, ‘So if he’s in trouble, all mixed up, don’t know who he is or what’s gone off or owt, you’d like to help him, right?’

‘Of course I would.’

‘And if you find he’s alive, but not in trouble, what then?’

She took another drink of wine then said, ‘I may just kill the bastard!’

She spoke with deadly emphasis. Dalziel pursed his lips as if pondering the idea before nodding in approval. Now her features relaxed into a smile and finally she laughed out loud.

‘Sorry! What am I like? Mixed feelings is putting it lightly, Andy. Can I call you Andy?’

‘Why?’ said Dalziel.

‘Because Mick says it’s your name. Also because anyone overhearing me call you Mr Dalziel will imagine you’re either my boss or my sugar daddy.’

‘And calling me Andy ’ull make them think I’m your toy boy, is that it?’

She laughed again. A couple of glasses of wine had really loosened her up. What might a third do? It occurred to him that if Pascoe was keeping an eye on him, he might be getting the wrong idea about this lunch date. Serve the bugger right!

Gina said, ‘The thing is, Andy, you’re Mick’s idea, not mine. When he suggested contacting you, I thought that probably it would be a complete waste of time.’

‘And you don’t now? Why’s that?’

‘You’re not the only one who’s done some checking up,’ she said provocatively.

‘You’ve been checking on me, you mean? How’d you manage that?’

‘For a start, I spoke to Mick. I asked him to tell me all about you.’

‘Can’t have been that much to tell, we only ever met the once.’

‘Your reputation seems to have spread pretty widely in police circles, Andy. Do you like cowboy movies?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Mick’s a great fan. John Wayne, Clint Eastwood. We often spend a night watching old DVDs. When it’s my turn, it’s The Red Shoes or Tales of Hoffman. With Mick it’s Unforgiven or True Grit. That’s his favourite.’

‘Aye, I’ve seen it. Good movie.’

‘You remember the bit where the girl is looking for a marshal to pursue the man who killed her father? Depends what she’s looking for, she’s told. But if it’s true grit she wants, Rooster Cogburn’s her man. That’s what Mick said about you.’

Dalziel massaged his chins reflectively.

‘I told you already, I don’t kill people, not unless I really don’t like them,’ he said.

‘Same as Rooster, then,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I put together what Mick said with what I’d picked up from you in our short meeting. And I decided I’d be mad not to accept any help you can give me, if you’re up for it, that is.’

Dalziel looked at her over his wine glass. Were Mick Purdy and this woman jerking him around? But he had to admit the True Grit bullshit gave him a warm glow.

‘So what might you want me to do?’ he asked.

She became very businesslike as she said, ‘Well, here’s how I see things. There are only two possibilities that concern me. One, Alex is alive and will want to make contact with me if he knows I’m here. Two, Alex is alive and either won’t want to make contact or isn’t in a fit mental state to recognize me.’

Three, Alex is alive and doing the horizontal tango with some bit of dusky chuff in Buenos Aires, thought Dalziel. Or four, he’s a seven-year-old corpse.

He said, ‘Sounds reasonable. So?’

‘If it’s the first, I can take care of that myself. But if it’s the second, I’m going to have a hell of a job tracking him down on my own. Whereas someone with your experience and resources…’

‘You reckon? Any tips where I might start?’

She produced the envelope containing the page from MY Life.

‘You could start here. There are other people standing around him. I’m sure you’ve got the resources to blow their faces up then set about tracking some of them down. They might remember him, even know him.’

‘Mebbe,’ he said, taking the envelope. ‘Worth a try.’

Though he’d been planning to get the photograph from her so that he could test Purdy’s theory that it was a fake, getting it this way made him feel slightly uncomfortable. But it wasn’t his job to suggest to her that this might all be a put-up job with Mick as the main target. Was it?