“Will do, sir. I’ll draw up a list from the one Vaughn’s gave us and make a few visits.”

Banks turned to Stefan Nowak again. “Thanks, Stefan,” he said. “Anything else?”

“Nothing to report, really. The accident lads will be there all night again, by the looks of it. They’ve found no traces of tampering and don’t expect to at this point, but they still have a lot of other ground to cover. My lads are about done and should be able to get away tomorrow. It’s bloody freezing out there.”

“Anything more from the hangar?”

“Some partial prints. We might be able to come up with some matches, but nothing that would stand up in court.”

Banks turned to Gerry Masterson. “Anything more on Beddoes’s finances?”

“Nothing dodgy at all as far as I can make out, sir. All in order. He’s not rich, but he gets by. He’s got plenty of investments, mostly low-­risk—­he’s no gambler—­and the farm makes a small profit on paper. You ought to see the prices for some of those oils and pork chops!”

Banks laughed. “Maybe when this is all over, Beddoes can take us all out for dinner.”

“Only if we find his tractor, sir. I can do a more thorough check, if you like.”

“We’ll see how things go. You’re going to be busy tomorrow, Gerry. We need workups on Venture Properties, for a start. I’ve got a ­couple of lists to get you going there.”

“Yes, sir. By the way, I did manage a brief glance at Terry Gilchrist’s military record and it’s without blemish. Quite the opposite, really. Most distinguished.”

“Thanks, Gerry,” said Banks. He looked at Winsome, who had her head down and her pen in her hand.

“Perhaps most important of all is this,” Banks went on. He turned to the whiteboard and pointed to the image of the bolt gun. “I know it looks like one of those ray guns aliens use in old science-­fiction movies, but it’s not. It’s what’s called a captive bolt pistol, or gun, and it’s used for stunning animals in abattoirs. There are essentially three versions. The first is nonpenetrating, in which a retractable bolt is fired either by compressed air or by a blank round. This bolt hits the animal’s skull but doesn’t penetrate it, causing unconsciousness. The second type is a penetrating bolt gun, in which the bolt is pointed and penetrates the skull, destroying brain tissue. There’s also a noncaptive free bolt type, in which the bolt is actually fired like a bullet. In this case, we’re dealing with the penetrating bolt gun. If it had been free bolt there would have been much deeper internal damage, and we would have found the bolt somewhere, unless the killers took it with them. Dr. Glendenning assures me that was not the case, and the wound indicates a typical penetrating bolt gun.”

“Would the blow have been enough to kill Spencer?” asked Gervaise.

“Probably,” said Banks. “We can’t be a hundred percent certain, but such a blow is usually fatal to humans. The only thing that makes the bolt pistol a rather awkward weapon, and perhaps why it isn’t used so often, is that you have to be close up to the victim to use it. You can’t shoot from a distance because the bolt never actually leaves the gun. Which explains why someone had to hold Spencer’s arms. He’d hardly be likely to just stand still and take it.”

“How do you get hold of one?”

“Like many such things,” said Banks, “you order it over the Internet.”

“Don’t you need a license?” Annie asked.

“No,” said Gerry. “I checked. At least you don’t need a firearms license. You’d need a slaughterman’s license, though.”

“And how do you get that?” Annie asked.

“Pass the course. The slaughterman course.”

“Sick,” said Annie.

“Penetrating bolt pistols are very much discouraged these days,” Gerry went on. “Not because they’re inhumane, but because by initiating contact with the animal’s brain, they could become a conduit for disease. Mad cow, that is, for the most part. Free bolts are rare, only used in an emergency if you can’t restrain the animal.”

“I suppose the top and bottom of it is,” said Banks, “that while they’re not easy to get, and they can be expensive, they’re a hell of a lot easier to get your hands on than a regular handgun.” He looked at Gerry. “Again, it looks as if you’re going to have to do a bit of tracking down here. Purchases. Thefts. The usual suspects. And I think first of all you should see if you can find out whether there have been any crimes with a similar MO in the last ­couple of years. Start locally, then move out to the rest of the country.”

Gerry nodded.

“And we need to have a close look at the abattoir business in these parts,” Banks said. “Everyone knows illegal and unregulated abattoirs exist, along with legitimate establishments, and they can take many shapes and sizes. It’s true that the prime season for stealing lambs is August, when they’re nice and plump and ready to eat, but someone has been picking off the odd field of sheep or cows around the dale for a while now, and I doubt they’ve all been shipped to Romania or Bulgaria, no matter what the Daily Mail would have us believe. Cattle are especially difficult to sell, as they have electronic ID tags and passports, whereas sheep only have easily removable ear tags. But if your intention is to get the animal cut up as soon as possible and sell it locally, off the back of a lorry, none of that matters too much. There’s a big enough market at home for a bit of cheap meat, no questions asked.” Banks turned to Annie: “Maybe you and Doug can start checking out the local abattoirs tomorrow? We want any hints of illegal operations, any objects stolen, especially bolt pistols, any disgruntled employees recently fired and maybe setting up on their own, that sort of thing.”

“But I’m a vegetarian,” protested Annie. “Yuck.”

“I know,” said Banks. “It’s a dirty job, but . . .”

Annie pulled a face, and the others laughed, then there was a tap at the door followed by Vic Manson, a buff folder in his hand. “Thought you’d like to know,” he said. “We’ve got a result.”

WHEN TERRY Gilchrist opened the door, he looked surprised to see Winsome again. “DS Jackman,” he said. “What a pleasant surprise. Come in. Please. Take your coat off.” She hung up her coat on a hook in the hall and followed him through to the living room. He was walking without his stick, but he seemed able to manage all right unaided, though she noticed that he rested his hand on the back of the sofa to hold himself up for a moment when he got to the living room, and she thought she saw a grimace of pain flash across his features.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Fine. Just the occasional twinge. The doc said I’d get them for a while.”

“I’m sorry to call so late. It’s been one of those days.”

“Then sit down. Take the weight off.”

Winsome sat and smoothed her skirt. It was a chilly evening, with a brisk cold wind gusting outside, and Gilchrist had a wood fire burning in the fireplace. Peaches lay stretched out asleep in front of it. Winsome felt the warmth permeate and envelop her. “That’s nice,” she said, reaching out her hands to feel the heat.

“One of life’s little luxuries. And you can see Peaches loves it. Drink?”

“Not for me, thanks. I’m driving.”

“Tea, then? Or I can offer you a cappuccino.”

“That’d be lovely, if it’s no trouble.”

“No trouble at all.”

The room seemed different after dark. Perhaps it was the wood fire. Winsome absorbed the warmth and the sound of crackling logs as she listened to the hissing and grinding of what sounded like an espresso machine. Peaches was still breathing slowly and peacefully in front of the fire. She stirred and growled once, as if disturbed by a dream, then stuck out her tongue and settled back down again. Soon Gilchrist was back with two cappuccinos. He handed one to Winsome.

“Another of life’s little luxuries?”