Alex fetched her a white envelope from the sideboard drawer. Annie popped the card inside and wrote on the front, then slipped it in her briefcase.

“Did he have any kind of accent?”

“I thought I could hear a bit of Geordie in the way he talked.”

“Was it strong?”

“No, but I think it was just there, in the background like. He just sounded ordinary. Not broad Yorkshire, not posh or anything, either, but just a touch of Geordie.”

“Well, there’s plenty of that around these parts,” Annie said. She picked up her wine, leaned back and said, “Tell me what you think’s going on.”

“Me?”

“Yes. You must have some ideas.”

“All I know is that Michael has gone and that he’s scared. He saw it on the news, about the crash at Belderfell Pass.”

“Really? What did he say about it? Why did he mention it? Can you try to remember everything he said?” Annie put the wine down and took out her notebook.

Alex did her best to recount the conversation she had had only an hour or so ago. “He said someone on the news was saying something about another body being found. Or parts of one.” She shuddered. “Among the animals pieces, like. He said he thought what happened at the hangar and the crash in the valley were connected somehow.”

“That’s interesting. Did he say why?”

“No. I asked him, but he couldn’t say. I don’t know if he even knew. It’s not every day you find a body around here, though, is it? Especially somewhere like that, and mixed in with dead animals. Is it true?”

Annie remembered the scene—­the glistening intestines of animals burst out of black bin liners, the human body cut in half longways, the dreadful smell—­and shivered. It was something that would blight her dreams for a while. And it wasn’t information she was going to pass on to Alex Preston. But why would Michael Lane assume that the body parts mixed with the fallen stock in a Vaughn’s ABP van should belong to Morgan Spencer? Did either of them have a connection with Vaughn’s, with Caleb Ross? She made a note. “Did Michael give any explanation for assuming these rumors were about Morgan Spencer’s body?”

“No. He never even really said that. Just that it was all connected.”

“Connected how?”

“He didn’t say.”

“We think Morgan was killed at the hangar, Alex.”

“Michael would never do—­”

“I’m not saying he did, but you have to understand that until we find him and talk to him, he’s still a suspect. Thinking about what you’ve just told me, I’m guessing that Michael may have witnessed Morgan’s murder, and then he drove off in a hurry. Whoever did it knows he was there, knows who he is and where he lives. That’s why that man came here last night asking about him. He could easily have been the man who killed Morgan.”

Alex paled. “Here, in my home? With Ian in bed? But how could they know who I am, where I live? These ­people? These killers? How could someone like that know about Michael’s life?”

That was a question Annie had discussed earlier with Banks. She had a few possible answers of her own, but none that Alex would like.

But Alex wasn’t stupid. “You’re saying that he worked for them, aren’t you? That he did criminal jobs for them with Morgan. You’re saying Michael was involved.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Annie. “What I would say is that it’s possible that Michael might have been about to get involved. On the fringes, perhaps, on the threshold. You say he wanted a new camera—­”

“He wouldn’t do that. Not Michael. You just don’t understand. You don’t know him.”

“No, I don’t,” Annie said softly. “And that’s what I’m depending on you for. But there’s no point arguing. This won’t be settled until we find him and talk to him ourselves.”

“You’ll put him in jail.”

“Don’t be silly, Alex. Why would we do that? I think it’s time you realized that he stands a far better chance with us than he does with whoever’s after him. ­People who would break a woman’s finger and threaten her child. What do you think they’ll do to Michael if they find him?”

Alex put her hands over her ears. “Don’t. Please, don’t.”

“Be realistic, Alex.”

“I can’t tell you any more. I don’t know any more. I would if I could.”

“That’s OK. I believe you. It’s late now, but what I want to do first thing in the morning is get this man’s card checked for fingerprints. If he’s a habitual criminal, there’s every chance we have his prints on file. I’ll also need you to come in and give us your own prints for elimination purposes. Then we’ll see about the sketch artist. I’ll come over early and drive you to the station after we’ve taken Ian to school. And we’ll fix it with your boss. Will you do that? Maybe you can help us with Morgan Spencer, too? We don’t have any photos or good descriptions of him.”

“OK.”

“In the meantime, I’ll see if I can get a family liaison officer to come over right now—­”

“No. I don’t want a stranger in my house. Why can’t you stay? It’s a let-­down sofa. You’ll be comfortable. Or you can take the bed, if you want. I’ve even got a spare toothbrush. Never been used.”

“I can’t do that, Alex.”

“Why not?”

“I . . . just . . .” Annie could think of no real reason, except that she wanted to go home and be alone. She realized how selfish that was. Here was a young woman in need, and all that Annie had to do was agree to stop the night and settle down on the couch. Besides, she knew she had drunk a bit too much wine to be driving safely. She could always get a taxi home, but that would be expensive.

Alex refilled their glasses. “Seriously,” she said. “I’m really scared. It’ll make me feel a lot better if you’ll stop. I don’t want to be a victim anymore, but I need help right now.”

Then the hall door opened, and a little boy stood there in his striped pajamas rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his hair tousled. “I can’t sleep,” he said in a pathetic little-­boy-­lost voice. “I had a bad dream. Can I sit up with you and watch TV?”

8

IT WAS FAR TOO EARLY IN THE MORNING FOR A POSTmortem, Banks thought as he walked down the high green-­tiled basement corridor of Eastvale General Infirmary.

It would always be too early in the morning for a postmortem like this one, he thought, when he entered Dr. Glendenning’s recently modernized domain and saw the pieces arranged on the stainless steel autopsy table: two sides of a human being, like two halves of a pig in a butcher’s cold room, roughly aligned. The arms had been placed where they should have been joined to the body, and the head, which had been found after dark under a split bin bag containing a stillborn lamb, sat on top. Between the eyes was a ragged hole.

“Ah, Banks,” said Dr. Glendenning. “Glad you could come. Decided to have a lie-­in, did you? You almost missed the show.”

“Pity,” said Banks. For a moment, he longed for the old days, when Dr. Glendenning bent over the body, a cigarette dangling from his lips, spilling ash in open incisions. The days when he could enjoy a cigarette himself, anything to mask the smell of decayed flesh and take his mind off violent death.

No chance these days. Both he and Glendenning had stopped smoking years ago, and a lit cigarette would probably set off every alarm in the building. It was almost unthinkable today how much they used to be able to get away with. Dr. Glendenning didn’t believe in a dab of Vick’s under the nose, either. He thought anyone who did was a sissy, and you didn’t want to be thought a sissy by Dr. Glendenning. Still, this time there wasn’t much of a smell at all. At the crime scene, most of the stink had come from the dead animals, not from Morgan Spencer’s butchered corpse.

“You look a bit pink around the gills,” Dr. Glendenning went on as they approached the body. “Been sitting around brooding and boozing again?”