“Alex? And Ian?”

“You know them?”

“He mentioned them, that’s all. I mean, I knew about them, but he’d never really talked before. This time I could see he was head over heels. He said he would bring them to see me one day Ollie was out, then . . . all this . . .”

“Well, as long as Michael’s missing, they’re in danger, too. Did you let him stay? Is he here now?”

Denise stiffened. “No. I couldn’t possibly do that.”

“Why not?”

“Ollie was home. He often comes home for his lunch. It’s not far away and it . . . well, it saves a bit of money. You have to understand, Ollie doesn’t know Michael. That’s a part of my other life, and Ollie doesn’t like to talk about that. That’s why he had to be out if they were going to visit.”

Banks was getting the picture. He glanced at Annie, and by her expression he knew that she was getting it, too. “Your other life?” he said.

“Yes. At the farm. We’ve drawn a line under that, Ollie said.”

“And that includes Michael? Alex and Ian?”

Her eyes teared up, and she nodded. “It’s not me. Honest. I would have taken him in in a second, but Ollie wouldn’t have it. Said he wasn’t having no outlaws on the run staying in his house, and Michael should think himself lucky we didn’t just call the police right there and then and turn him in. Michael pleaded with him. I pleaded with him. But it did no good. In the end, Michael got mad and left. Just drove away.” She wrung her hands. “I hope nothing’s happened to him. I’d never forgive myself.”

“We don’t think so, Mrs. Lane,” said Banks. “Not yet. But it’s vital that we find him as soon as possible.”

“Did he say anything about where he might be going next?” Annie asked.

“No. I’m sorry.”

“He didn’t get in touch again? Phone, or anything?”

“No.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us, however insignificant?”

Denise thought for a moment. “When he was going, when we were alone at the front door, I managed to slip him some money we’d been putting by in the hall sideboard.”

“How much money?”

“It was only a hundred pounds, but it was all we had. Our ‘mad’ money. When Ollie found out he went spare.”

I’ll bet he did, thought Banks. A hundred pounds wasn’t very much these days. It might get you mediocre lodgings for three, perhaps four nights, if you didn’t eat, or a ­couple of tanks of petrol. Lane abandoned his car even though he had the money to buy petrol. He had paid for parking because he wasn’t thinking and had simply done what he would normally do. Had the car broken down? Everyone said it was on its last legs. The forensics mechanics would be able to tell him about that. Or was Lane planning to come back for the car later but something had happened to prevent him? He had phoned Alex that evening from York, so he had still been free then.

If he were to hazard a guess, Banks would have said that Lane left the car just to confuse everyone, took a train to York, wandered about there for a while plucking up the courage to phone Alex, then headed for London.

And Montague Havers lived in London.

THE DINNER was delightful, the ser­vice impeccable without being obtrusive, the crispy duck breast cooked just the way Winsome loved it, and Terry said his entrecÔte and frites were spot-­on. For starters, they shared chicken liver pâté, and instead of a sweet, they went for the cheese plate, which was served, as it should be, at room temperature. They drank a simple inexpensive Rioja, nothing outrageous or ostentatious, and Terry had only one glass because he had to drive. The small glass of ruby port he ordered for Winsome later went exceptionally well with the cheese. Their conversation flowed with an ease Winsome hadn’t realized existed. Terry didn’t talk about his experiences in Afghanistan, and Winsome largely avoided talking about her job. As they laughed a lot and told each other stories about their potholing experiences and areas they had explored, they found so many topics in common that they could have carried on talking all night. Terry had even been to Montego Bay on a ­couple of occasions, and had visited the area around Spring Mount and Maroon Town, where Winsome had spent her childhood as the daughter of a local police corporal. His own childhood, he confessed, had been that of an army brat, never staying anywhere long and finding it very difficult to make friends.

The only disagreement arose when it was time to pay the bill, and even that was minor. Terry insisted on paying for the two of them, whereas Winsome insisted on going dutch. In the end, Winsome won, and Terry was gracious in defeat. Winsome noticed that he wasn’t carrying his stick, just an umbrella.

They walked out onto Castle Hill, and Winsome immediately felt the wind and rain bring a chill to her bones. In her mind there flashed a vision of the country they had been talking about, where she had been brought up. Banana leaves clacking in the wind, the long walk to and from church in her Sunday best in the searing heat, out-­of-­season days walking the deserted beaches around Montego Bay, looking for driftwood with her father. She felt herself shiver. For better or for worse, England was her home now.

Terry moved closer with his umbrella and gently put a tentative arm around her, sheltering the two of them under its broad black circle. She felt herself stiffen a little at his touch, but she didn’t shake him off. She could hear the umbrella whipping about in the wind, straining at the metal spokes, and feared it would snap inside out or simply fly off into the sky. Maybe they’d go with it, like Mary Poppins. But Terry managed to keep a grip on it as they headed around the corner and down the cobbled road toward the lights of the town square, the castle behind them tastefully floodlit against the sky. The shops were all closed, but the pubs and restaurants were open and the sounds of conversation and laughter drifted up on the night air along with the sounds of high heels clicking across the cobbles.

“Can I give you a lift?” Terry asked.

“It’s all right,” Winsome said. “I don’t live far.”

“But it’s cold. You’re cold.”

Winsome laughed. “I’m used to that. Thanks,” she said. “It really was a lovely evening.”

“My pleasure.”

They stopped as they entered the top of the square. “Well, I’m parked over there, behind the shopping center,” Terry said.

Winsome pointed the other way. “I’m up York Road a bit.”

“Well, if you won’t let me drive you home, then . . .”

Winsome felt rather than saw him moving toward her, his lips aiming for hers. She felt a surge of panic, of claustrophobia almost, and found herself turning aside, so that his lips grazed against her cheek, then she heard herself saying a curt “Good night” and hurried off toward home, heart palpitating.

She pulled her jacket collar around her throat to keep out the icy needles of wind and hurried along, head down, past the lit-­up shop signs and window displays until she got to her street, on the fringe of the student area. There she turned left, walked up the slight rise for fifty yards and turned into the imposing detached house, with its gables, bay windows and large chimneys, where she had the top-­floor flat.

Once she was inside, she leaned back on the closed door and took stock. What on earth was she thinking of? It was only a good-­night kiss. Was that something to be so frightened of? But she had been. She remembered the tension that ran through her body when she saw him moving toward her, the tightness in her chest.

She made herself a cup of chamomile tea in the kitchenette and thought about what a pleasant evening it had been, how easily their conversation had flowed. When she curled up in her favorite armchair, with only the shaded lamp lighting the room, she realized that she had very little experience of talking to anyone outside her job. Most of the time she talked to other cops, criminals, forensic scientists or lawyers. She had been a shy child and had never found it easy to socialize, and that carried over into her adult life. Was this what her life had come to? But wasn’t she too young to start wondering what had happened to all the promise, the dreams, the young woman who had walked down the jetway at Gatwick, excited as a little child at the life ahead of her in the new country she was about to discover? Marveling at the cars, the huge buildings, the fast motorways and even the unrelenting rain and a sky the color of dirty dishwater.