Oh, why, she told herself, after running through the list of reasons for turning down Gilchrist’s offer, didn’t she just admit the truth: that she was attracted to him, and that the feeling frightened her. Then she heard her mother’s voice in her mind, as she so often did. “Get a grip on yourself, you foolish girl.” It wasn’t easy, but she made herself stop thinking of Gilchrist and concentrated on the road.

IT HAD been a useful meeting, Banks thought, as he tossed his briefcase on his computer desk, picked up the post and hung his coat up on the rack behind the door, but he still felt that he lacked a coherent picture of recent events. No defining pattern had emerged from the vast collection of data and pooling of ideas.

Vic Manson’s contribution had probably been the most valuable: the identification of the man who had threatened Alex Preston. He would see the complete file in the morning, but he already knew the man’s name was Ronald Tanner, and he had a string of arrests for breaking and entering, and one for GBH. He had served two prison sentences, one for six months and the second for eighteen. What his connection was with the rural crime gang and Morgan Spencer’s murder remained to be seen, but they would certainly be a step closer to finding out when they got Tanner in custody. The local police had agreed to pick him up before dawn and deliver him to Eastvale. It was the most likely time to find him at home, and they would certainly have the element of surprise on their side, which could make all the difference if he were in possession of a weapon.

Banks walked through the hall passage to the kitchen. There was a small dining-­table-­cum-­breakfast-­nook that could seat four, in a pinch, and a TV on one of the shelves on the wall beside it, where he usually watched the news or listened to the radio as he drank his breakfast coffee. He flicked on the remote, found nothing of interest and switched it off again, then he poured himself a glass of wine and sat at the table in silence.

The post was uninteresting, apart from the latest issue of Gramophone, which he flipped through idly as he drank. Then he realized he was hungry again. The only thing he had to eat in the fridge was some leftover pizza with pork, apple and crackling saved from the quick lunch he and Annie had grabbed at Pizza Express at the back of the Corn Exchange in Leeds. He put it in the convection oven, where it would hopefully crisp up a bit, and went back to his magazine. When the bell dinged, he took his wine, pizza and Gramophone into the conservatory. Dense clots of black cloud fringed the top of Tetchley Fell on the horizon, but above them, the starry night was a clear dark blue, with a thin silvery crescent of moon. Banks sat in the wicker chair and watched its slow-­moving arc as he ate his pizza. The crust was dry, and still a bit too cold. He decided he wasn’t hungry anymore and put it aside. When he had finished, the moon had disappeared behind the fell.

The headache that Banks had first felt during the meeting began to get worse when he concentrated on thinking about the case. He left his wine for a moment and went into the entertainment room to pick some music, finally settling on Agnes Obel’s Aventine. The gentle, repetitive piano figures and cello and violin accompanying her soaring voice would soothe him better than paracetamol.

But even with the music playing, he felt restless; random thoughts continued to swirl around his mind, and his head throbbed steadily. He thought of breaking the pledge and ringing Oriana to ask if she wanted to meet up for a quick drink, but soon changed his mind. They had a great relationship, he felt, as long as neither of them tried to push it too far. Right now, even if her body was still in Eastvale, her mind would already be in Australia.

He could always wander down to the Dog and Gun, he supposed. There was bound to be someone he knew in there, maybe even Penny Cartwright. But he didn’t particularly feel like company, he realized—­other than Oriana’s, of course. Ever since Sandra had left him and the kids moved out, he had become more and more attuned to his solitude—­to the point where he actually enjoyed being alone. Maybe he didn’t eat healthily enough or work out at the gym, and perhaps he drank and brooded too much, but on the whole, he enjoyed his life. It wasn’t necessarily a psychologically healthy state of affairs, he thought, but there was a lot to be said for solitude. Some ­people even climbed distant mountains to be alone. The world was often far too much with him, the hustle-­bustle always just around the corner. In the end, he decided to pour himself another glass of wine and go watch a DVD in the entertainment room. The latest James Bond movie had been lying around for a while unopened, mostly because Oriana didn’t like James Bond.

Banks had just started attempting to remove the cellophane wrapping when his phone rang. It was Joanna MacDonald.

“Alan, I think I might have something for you.”

Banks put the DVD aside, picked up his wine and sat down. “Fire away. Every little bit helps right now.”

“I can’t be specific about visits to the hangar, or anything like that, but basically we have someone on our radar who’s come off or on the A1 at Scotch Corner or Darlington.”

“It’s a start.”

“He made a visit to the area on the Sunday in question. We’ve had our eye on him for a while—­Operation Hawk, that is. He’s involved in international investments, but he’s often seen visiting rural areas. He also has a lot of overseas contacts, Eastern European in particular. Some of them are not entirely wholesome. Frequent traveler to the Balkans and Baltic states. Knows all the palms to grease. He calls himself Montague Havers, but his real name’s Malcolm Hackett.”

“Maybe he’s expecting a knighthood for ser­vices to crime?” Banks suggested. “I think the ‘sir’ would go better with Montague, don’t you?”

Joanna laughed. “Much better.”

“What time did he leave the A1 on Sunday?”

There was a pause as Joanna consulted her notes. “He came off at Scotch Corner and took the Richmond road at 2:35 Sunday afternoon. He drives a silver BMW 3 Series. Nice car, but not too ostentatious. Doesn’t attract too much attention. And to be fair, he does have relatives in Richmond.”

“That’s not far north of Eastvale or Drewick, but it’s a bit late for what we’re looking at,” Banks said. “Still, he wouldn’t be the trigger puller. If he’s southern based, the odds are he’s one of the top brass and would want to keep himself as far away as possible from the rough stuff. And if for some reason he had to get there from London in a hurry, maybe he was there for the mopping up. Do you know when he set off back?”

“He entered via the Catterick junction at 3:05 on Tuesday afternoon.”

“Tuesday? That’s just after Caleb Ross’s van went over the pass. Anything definite on Mr. Havers?”

“No. That’s the problem. The NCA are working with us on this, too.”

“Can I talk to him?”

Joanna paused. “Normally we’d say no, in case you scare him off. But Monty doesn’t scare easily. We’ve questioned him on a few occasions, as have agents of the NCA, and he’s always ended up as cocky and squeaky clean as ever. Maybe a fresh face would be a good thing. I doubt he’ll give anything away, though. He’s too canny. And don’t beat him up. He knows his rights.”

Banks laughed. “As if I would. Thanks, Joanna. Can you give me his details?”

“He works out of an office building just off the Euston Road. That dodgy part to the north between St. Pancras and Regent’s Park.” She gave Banks an address. “Apparently he used to be something in the City back when the Conservatives took away all the trading restrictions in the eighties.”

“What a coincidence. Just like John Beddoes. How does rural crime come into it?”