“I don’t think Michael Lane is pond life.”

“Maybe not. But that’s another question we want the answer to, isn’t it? How deeply is he involved? And he’s the focal point, too. They want Lane. We have to get to him first. Then Alex Preston becomes irrelevant.”

“Unless they’re the vengeful types,” muttered Annie.

Banks’s phone rang and he excused himself to answer it. The message was brief and he smiled when he ended the call and slipped the mobile back in his pocket.

“Well, at least we’ve made a bit of progress,” he said. “We’ve found Michael Lane’s car. Fancy a trip to the seaside?”

SCARBOROUGH IN season is a delightful and popular place to visit. The ruined castle towers over the seascape, its promontory splitting the town in two: South Bay, with its promenade of amusement arcades, pubs, casinos and fish-­and-­chips restaurants; and North Bay, with its holiday apartments, golf club and Peasholm Park.

But on a cold, blustery March day, even the inhabitants would admit, it is not a place in which you would care to linger long. Marine Drive runs around the base of the promontory and links the two halves. On a rough day, it is often flooded by waves that crash high over the solid seawall, and signposts warn of falling rocks from the steep cliff on the other side of the road. Unfortunately for Banks and Annie, Michael Lane’s car had been found parked in a Pay-­n-­Display area close to the coast guard office, in the old Toll House, with its fairy-­tale brick tower and its witch’s hat of red tiles topped with a weather vane. And this was certainly the sort of day when you didn’t need a weather vane to know which way the wind was blowing. It was blowing straight off the North Sea, wet and freezing, carrying with it a spray that immediately soaked anyone in the vicinity.

The local police had cordoned off the car when Banks and Annie arrived early in the afternoon. Ronald Tanner was still in his cell, and Gerry Masterson was slaving away over her computer with lists of names and companies beside her.

“Nice day for a visit to the seaside, sir,” said one of the uniformed officers cheerfully, as Banks and Annie struggled to keep their raincoats on in the wind, which seemed to be trying to rip off every item of clothing they wore. “Isn’t it funny,” he went on, “the way ­people assume you’re on perpetual holiday when you tell them you’re stationed in Scarborough?”

“Indeed,” said Banks. There was no point in even trying to open an umbrella. Banks could feel the salt spray on his face and taste it in his mouth. It was invigorating, at least for a moment or two, then it just became cold, uncomfortable and downright annoying. “So what have you got?”

The officer, an inspector named Martin Mills, led them to the front of the car, where they could clearly see the parking permit stuck in the window of the ancient gray Peugeot. It gave them the date, which was Tuesday’s, and the time by which the car was supposed to leave, which was 6:14 in the evening. Lane had put in enough money for three hours, which meant that he had parked there at 3:14 on Tuesday, two days after he had “disappeared.” As he had paid until after six, when the parking charges no longer applied, he would have been all right there until eight o’clock on Wednesday morning. In season, the car would no doubt have been towed away quite early that day, but at this time of year, in this sort of weather, it had only attracted a ­couple of parking tickets before one of the more adventurous parking officers had become suspicious. Even so, it was Thursday now. Lane could be anywhere.

Banks tried the driver’s door. Locked. He was eager to find out if there were any clues to Lane’s whereabouts in the car. “Any chance of getting this open?” he asked Mills. The pounding waves and screaming wind were so loud they had to shout to make themselves heard.

Inspector Mills pulled a key from his pocket. “Thought you might want to do that,” he said. “No point just standing around getting wet while we were waiting for you. It’s an old car, no fancy locking mechanism. There’s not even an alarm system. We also checked the fuel earlier with a dipstick. Empty.”

Banks nodded. “Thanks. So he ran out of petrol and couldn’t afford any more?”

“Not surprising at today’s prices,” said Annie. “And Alex said he didn’t have much money with him. But don’t you think it’s a bit strange?”

Both Banks and Mills looked at her curiously. “What? Why?”

She pointed to the windscreen. “Well, that he’s on the run and he dumps his car because it’s run out of petrol and he can’t afford any more, but he takes the trouble to pay and display a parking sticker?”

­“People do odd things when they’re flustered,” said Banks.

“They also do what they’d normally do,” said Annie. “Don’t you think this is a sign of an honest man?”

“I’ll grant you it’s a little odd,” said Banks. “Who was that famous killer who got caught because of a parking ticket?”

“Son of Sam,” said Mills. “And he was caught because of a ticket he got for parking illegally. See, even serial killers don’t pay for parking.”

“But our Michael Lane does,” said Annie. “I still think it’s weird.”

“Shall we have a look inside?” said Banks.

Annie took out her protective gloves.

Mills held up the key. “The garage assures me this should do the trick.” He opened the door. “Voilà!”

“I’ll do the front and you do the back,” Banks said to Annie.

They got in the car and started looking and feeling around. It was a relief to be out of the wind and spray for a while, a haven of quiet and shelter. The interior smelled neutral, and the seats and floor weren’t littered in sweets wrappers or discarded newspapers. The glove box yielded nothing but a dog-­eared manual, a few old petrol station receipts and a pack of chewing gum. There was a dock for a mobile phone, but no phone, also no GPS, which might have been useful for plotting Lane’s travels. There were no maps conveniently open at a particular page, either. There was a box of tissues and a few CDs in the compartment between the seats: Vampire Weekend, Manic Street Preachers, White Denim. Banks reached down the sides and under the seats. Nothing there but a dried-­up chip, one of those long skinny ones from McDonald’s, by the look of it, and a crumpled coffee container from the same establishment.

“Anything in the back?” he asked Annie.

­“Couple of twenty p coins down the back of the seats. A Mars bar wrapper, copy of Beano from last month. Looks like Ian’s been in here. Nothing else.”

“OK,” said Banks. “Let’s get it locked up again and shipped to the forensics garage. See if they can get anything out of it. I’d like Vic Manson on it, too. Prints would help. We’ll see if anyone other than Michael, Alex and Ian have been inside recently.”

“You’d have to take Ian’s prints for elimination purposes, then.”

“He’ll love it,” Banks said. “I know I would have done when I was a kid. In fact, I remember getting my very own fingerprint kit for Christmas one year. I took everyone’s. Even the postman’s.”

Annie rolled her eyes. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“Don’t mock. They came in useful when we nicked him for receiving stolen property later.”

“You never—­”

Banks pointed at her. “Got you there.”

They got out of the car, and a blast of cold wind laced with sea spray hit them again. It was the kind of chilly damp that penetrated deep into Banks’s body and gave his bones an inkling of the aches and pains they would be feeling even on a normal day in a few years’ time. When they had made sure the car was locked, Mills suggested they adjourn to a tea shop across the road and warm up. He even offered to buy.

When they were settled with their cups of tea, Banks rubbed a clear patch in the misted window and gazed out at the bleak gray North Sea heaving in the distance. His mind became lost out there on the almost imperceptible horizon where sea met sky, until he realized that Annie was asking him a question.