“So where do you think he is, then?”

“He parked here just after three on Tuesday and he rang Alex from a public telephone in York on Tuesday evening. You can catch a train to almost anywhere from York, even connect to the Eurostar. He could be on the bloody Riviera by now.”

“Remember,” Annie said, “he’s got no money. And we’d know if he used any of his credit or debit cards. Besides, he doesn’t have his passport with him.”

“Somewhere still in England, then. Or maybe he took a train north to Scotland?”

“But what about the money, the abandoned car, the empty petrol tank?”

“Maybe they were designed to throw us off the scent. We’re assuming that he had no money, but we don’t know it for a fact, do we? We’re just basing our assumption on Alex Preston’s word. We’re making a lot of guesses about his motives, too, but maybe it’s just blind fear that’s driving him, and there’s nothing to be read into it. Is he just a scared kid or a seasoned criminal on the run? He could have money on him that Alex doesn’t know about.”

“A private stash?”

“Why not? Especially if he was involved in criminal activities.”

“Happens all the time,” said Mills. ­“People don’t always tell their partners about financial matters, especially cash. Look at those blokes who spend a fortune on prostitutes. Do you think they use their credit cards?”

“These days, probably yes,” said Banks. “It no doubt appears on the statements as dry cleaning or something.”

Mills laughed.

“But seriously,” Annie went on. “OK, let’s say he does have money with him.”

“I can think of three, maybe four ways he might have got it,” said Banks. “First off, he was prepared to go from the start and took his own private funds Alex didn’t know about. Second, he could have got it at his meeting with Spencer. We don’t know what happened there except that someone’s tracking him down because of it. Maybe it was a meeting to split proceeds, or a payoff? Couldn’t he be on the run because he made off with someone’s money?”

“But Alex said he was running because he saw something he shouldn’t have seen at the hangar.”

“But again we only have her word for what he said, and even if she’s telling the truth, we don’t know that he is. And don’t forget, if Lane was involved with ­people who knew about overseas smuggling routes, he might not need a passport to get out of the country. If they needed to get him out, they’d get him out. And he’d hardly tell her about a pile of money he’d nicked, or received for criminal activities, would he?”

“What’s the third and fourth?” asked Mills.

“He could have nicked it or someone could have given him it.”

“Does he have any friends here in Scarborough?”

“Not as far as we know.”

“There is one more possibility I reckon we should follow up on while we’re in the area,” said Annie.

“Lane’s mother and grandparents?”

“Right. They live in Whitby, which is just a few miles up the road. We need to head over there and have a word.”

Banks turned to Mills. “Thanks, Inspector. Sorry to put you to such trouble on a miserable day like this. Someone from forensics will be over for the car before long.”

“You don’t think we should leave it here and keep it under surveillance in case he comes back for it?” Mills asked.

Banks thought for a moment, then said, “Have a patrol car keep an eye out until our men come. But I don’t expect he’ll be back now. He’s left it here for two days already. And like I said, it’s a red flag. Even he must know that. He’s not coming back for it. We’ll learn more from forensics than we would by leaving it here.”

“You’re the boss. We’ll guard it with our lives till they come.”

Banks smiled. “I wouldn’t go that far.” Then he looked at Annie. “Come on, then, let’s have a ride up to Whitby. With any luck it’ll be teatime when we’ve finished and we can grab some fish and chips and salvage something out of this day.”

11

IT WAS A DAMP GRAY AFTERNOON WHEN WINSOME SET out from Eastvale west into the dale to make a few inquiries at the farms on Caleb Ross’s route.

She stopped in a lay-­by just outside Helmthorpe and consulted her Ordnance Survey map. Through her potholing and walking experience, she already knew the area. She had also become adept at reading maps, and could visualize the landscape as it was laid out on paper, in contours, broken lines and arcane symbols. As she had suspected, the next call, near the hamlet of Mortsett, was halfway up the daleside to her left, then the farms grew fewer and farther between as she moved on past Helmthorpe and Swainshead into the high Pennines.

Thus far, she had heard nothing but praise for Caleb Ross and the job he did, and the fallen stock on the farmers’ copies was just as it was described on Neil Vaughn’s master document. On the surface, this was the sort of job Banks could have sent a DC or even a ­couple of PCs in a patrol car to do, but on the other hand, he had told Winsome he needed the instinct of a seasoned detective, someone who could read the nuances, give voice to the unspoken. Winsome was trying to dig, or see, under the surface, look for the unconscious signs and signals others might miss. There hadn’t been any so far, and she didn’t expect it to be any different this time as she pulled into yet another farmyard. Her boots were already caked with mud and worse, and she feared she would never be able to wash the farmyard smell out of her hair and her clothes, or scrub it from her skin. The farmer, Reg Padgett, according to Winsome’s list, was working in the yard in his donkey jacket, flat hat and wellies, and he came striding over to Winsome as she pulled up.

“I know who you are,” he said, beaming as she got out of the car and held out her warrant card.

Winsome smiled shyly. “So my fame precedes me?”

“I’ll say it does. Rugby tackles and dropkicks. We could do with you on the England side.”

“I don’t think I’m quite up for that. And it wasn’t strictly a dropkick.” Winsome was referring to the rolling push with which she had sent a three-­hundred-­pound drug dealer flying over a third-­floor balcony on the East Side Estate a year or two ago. “The papers got it all wrong.”

“Never mind, lass,” said Padgett. “Whatever it was, it got the job done.”

Indeed it had. Winsome’s action had put the person in question in the hospital for nearly a month with numerous fractures and abrasions, and earned her a reprimand for excessive force, which she thought was excessive in itself.

“I’ve come about Caleb Ross,” she said. “He had a pickup here last Tuesday morning, didn’t he?”

“Indeed he did,” said Padgett, lifting up his flat hat and scratching his head. “Poor Caleb. I heard about what happened. A real tragedy. Treacherous, that place, even on the best of days. But surely you don’t think there’s anything suspicious about the accident?”

“No, it’s nothing like that,” said Winsome, taking out her copy of Vaughn’s list. “It says here that you were his fourth call of the day.”

“I wouldn’t know about that, but he did seem in a bit of a hurry.”

“A hurry?”

“Yes. Usually he stands around and chats for a while, you know, just passes the time of day.”

“But not on Tuesday?”

“No. He seemed to just want to get the job done and go. Two stillborn lambs. Too many of those at this time of year. Keeping him busy, I suppose.”

“Did he act as if there was anything bothering him?”

Padgett chewed on his lower lip for a moment, then said, “No-­o-­o, I wouldn’t say that. He just seemed distracted. In another world, like.”

“As if he was thinking about something else?”

“That’s right. As if his mind wasn’t on the job. He seemed cheerful, though. I mean, I wouldn’t say he seemed anxious or depressed or anything like that. You don’t think . . . ?”