“Do you remember me?” Annie said, when Denise opened the door. “Annie Cabbot? This is DCI Banks. Can we come in?”

Denise hadn’t fully opened the door, and she was still hesitating nervously. “It might be important, Mrs. Lane,” Banks said. “It’s about your son.”

“I guessed as much.” She opened the door a few inches more. “You’ve found Michael?”

“Not exactly, no,” said Annie. “But we’ve found his car. Can we come in?”

Denise stood back, looked up and down the street, and gestured to them to enter, then she led them through the hall to the living room. A mirror hung over the tiled fireplace, reflecting the candy-­striped wallpaper and the gilt-­framed painting of a little waif standing by the seashore on the opposite wall.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting a cup of tea,” Denise Lane said over her shoulder.

“No, that’s all right,” said Banks, sitting on one of the armchairs. “Just a quick chat. That’s all.”

Denise eased herself into a chair slowly, as if her bones were aching, and immediately started rolling and unrolling the hem of her unbuttoned cardigan. “Ollie’s out,” she said, “but he’ll be back soon. You’d better be quick.”

“Why?” said Banks, frowning. “Is there something you want to keep from him?”

“No. He just wouldn’t like me talking to you, that’s all.”

“Why? Not a fan of the police?”

“You’re twisting my words. He hasn’t done anything wrong, if that’s what you’re getting at. He doesn’t have a record or anything. He’s just . . . well, private. We’re both very private. We just want to get on with our lives.”

“I can appreciate that,” said Banks. “We’re all entitled to a little privacy to get on with our lives. But this is a murder investigation, and I’m afraid that does call for more special circumstances.” Banks could see why Annie had described Denise Lane as attractive after their first meeting. She was long-­legged and shapely, looked good in the tight jeans she was wearing. She clearly visited the gym regularly, kept her blond hair neatly trimmed and layered and had a naturally pale, unblemished complexion. Her blue eyes radiated suspicion and, if Banks wasn’t mistaken, more than a trace of guilt. Though guilt about what, he had no idea. There was also a lack of confidence evident in her posture and body language. She slumped, slouched; her fingernails were bitten to the quick. Had life with Lane sapped all the energy from her, or was it life with the “private” Ollie? She certainly seemed nervous because he wasn’t present, but Banks got the impression that she would be even more so if he were in the room.

“Why don’t you want us to talk to Ollie, Denise?” Annie asked.

“Has he hurt you?” said Banks. “Does he hurt you?”

Denise’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, no. It’s nothing like that at all. Ollie wouldn’t do anything to harm me. We love each other. You’re getting me all wrong.”

“Then why are you so on edge?” Banks asked.

“On edge? I’m not on edge. What makes you think that?”

“You’re fidgeting, you can’t sit still, your eyes are all over the place. Need I go on?”

Denise Lane looked even more self-­conscious. Her complexion turned red and her upper lip quivered. Banks thought she was going to cry. “It’s not fair to talk to a person like that,” she said. “You come here, into my house and you . . . you bully me, insult me.”

“How are we insulting you, Denise?” Annie asked, passing her a tissue. The waterworks had started now.

Denise sniffed. “By saying horrible things.”

Banks leaned forward in his chair and clasped his hands on his thighs. “Can we start again, Denise?” he said. “Nobody meant to upset you. Far from it. DI Cabbot and I are concerned about you. We sense there’s something wrong, but you won’t tell us what it is. Now, wouldn’t it be better all around if you told us? We can probably help, you know. I understand you want all this to go away, whatever it is. You have a lovely house, a partner you love and you want to get on with your lives. But Morgan Spencer can’t get on with his life. He’s dead. Murdered.”

“Morgan Spencer.” She spat out the name. “He’s a creep. A pervert.”

“Maybe so, but he didn’t deserve what happened to him. DI Cabbot told me you had a problem with him. But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it?”

“I still feel scared and angry when I think about it.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Annie. “Things like that don’t go away.” She paused. “Believe me, I know.”

Denise looked at her, and for the first time the recognition of a kindred soul, or at least an empathetic one, came into her eyes. “You do? Really?”

Annie nodded. “But you’re lucky. You fought him off. You made him leave.”

“Yes.”

“It’s really Michael we’re interested in,” said Banks. “We found his car abandoned in Scarborough. We’re worried about him. Scarborough’s not far. We were wondering if you’d seen anything of him.”

“Scarborough? Is that where . . . ?”

“Is that where what, Mrs. Lane?”

“Nothing. I . . . I meant is that where you found it?”

“You’re not a very good liar, Mrs. Lane.”

Denise Lane glared at him again, then burst into tears once more. Annie handed her another tissue and put a comforting arm over her shoulder. “Ollie will be back soon,” Denise said between sobs. “Then you’ll have to go.”

Banks didn’t want to get into the Ollie business again, and his patience was wearing thin. “What do you know, Denise? What is it you’re not telling us? Have you seen Michael? Has he been here?”

“I’m not a bad mother. Really, I’m not.”

“Was he here?”

Denise quivered and quavered a bit, then said in a barely audible voice, “Yes. Yes, he was here.” She was tearing the tissue into shreds with her stubby fingers.

“That’s better,” said Banks. “See how it feels much better to get it off your chest?”

Denise gave him a weak smile. “I don’t know about that.”

“Tell us what happened,” Annie said. “As much detail as you can.” She took out her notebook.

“It was on Tuesday, lunchtime.”

Before he phoned Alex from the pay phone, Annie thought, and shortly before he’d parked the car in Scarborough. “The day after my colleague and I visited you at Tesco?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you call us?”

“I . . . I . . .” Denise Lane just shook her head.

“Was it because he’s your son?” Banks said. “And no matter what he might have done, you’ll take care of him?”

Denise looked heartbroken at that. “Yes,” she said. “But I didn’t. I mean, I don’t think he’s done anything. He’s a good boy. I really believe that. But he was scared and cold. I think he’d been sleeping rough, maybe in the car on the moors. It gets cold out there. And he hadn’t eaten. He said he didn’t have much money with him, and he couldn’t use his credit or debit cards because you’d be able to trace him. His mobile, too. He was just keeping it switched off.”

“So what happened?”

“He asked if he could stay for a while.”

“Did you tell him about my visit?” Annie asked.

“Yes. Well, I had to, didn’t I? He deserved to know you lot were after him.”

“How did he react?”

“He wasn’t surprised. It didn’t seem to bother him. I mean, he didn’t run off or anything.”

“How did he appear? Was he upset, frightened, worried?” Banks asked.

“Of course he was. All of those.”

“Did you notice . . . I mean, did he have any blood on him anywhere?”

Denise’s eyes widened again. “Blood? Good Lord, no. Why would Michael have blood on him?”

“Never mind,” said Banks. “What did you do?”

“I gave him a cup of hot sweet tea and something to eat, some cake. He wouldn’t say anything else—­said it was better if I didn’t know—­but I could see he was in trouble. I said he should just go and see you, the police, like, and explain that he hadn’t done whatever you think he has, and you’d sort it all out, but he wouldn’t.”

“We don’t know that he has done anything,” said Banks. “It’s for his own safety, and that of his partner and her child, that we want to find him as soon as possible.”