Then she remembered as her finger touched the last name on the list. Mr. Wythers, of Garsley Farm, the last place Ross had called at before his accident, had let drop in passing that Ross had refused a cup of tea and a biscuit because he said he had just eaten his lunch. Winsome had checked all the places on his route, and he hadn’t eaten in a pub, so he must have taken a sandwich and flask with him, as Vaughn said he often did. Assuming that Ross had already eaten before he arrived at Wythers’s farm, which he left just after one o’clock, what was he doing between one and two? Garsley was the end of the road, as Winsome had seen for herself. “Beyond this point be monsters,” she thought, remembering the old maps on the classroom walls at school. Well, perhaps there were. Or perhaps there was at least one monster who shot a young man with a bolt pistol and skinned and dressed him like a slaughtered lamb.

She headed for the station library, where they kept the Ordnance Survey maps of the county.

Alex: You’ve got to talk to them, Michael, tell them everything. A clean slate, it’s the only way.

Michael: I can’t. Don’t you see? Whatever I say, they’re bound to pin something on me. I’ve got a record. I’d be a perfect fit-­up. Case closed.

A: Not if you tell the truth. I’ve spent a bit of time with one of them. Annie Cabbot. She was looking after me when you were away and . . . you know . . . that man came. She’s not bad. She helped me. Talk to her. You’ll get a fair deal.

M (snorts): That’s what I love about you, Al. All the knocks life’s given you, and you’re still the eternal optimist. Pollyanna.

A: Don’t, Michael. You know I don’t like it when you call me that. And I’m not. I’m being realistic. If you’ve done nothing wrong, you’ve got nothing to fear from them. It’s the others they’re after, the ones that killed Morgan, that stole Beddoes’s tractor. Not you. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. You saw something you shouldn’t have.

M: You can say that again. And heard. But try and get them to believe that. Especially after I ran. (He reaches out and takes her hand. No physical object passes between them.) I’m sorry. It’s my fault that man came and hurt you. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.

A (smiles): Nothing’s going to happen, silly. Not if you tell them the truth. They already got the man who came to the flat. You can help them catch the others.

M: But they had to let him go, didn’t they? I mean, he’s still out there, on the streets. Maybe there is a court order against him coming anywhere near the flat again, I don’t know, and maybe he is on bail until his trial, but that doesn’t stop ­people like him, ­people like them. He’ll be back.

A: And a fat lot of use you’ll be if you’re still in here. Besides, the police will get them.

M: And let them go, and lock up ­people like me. (Shakes his head.) No, love. My best chance is to keep shtum. Say nothing. Get a good brief. If I do that, they’ve got nothing on me.

A: Don’t be childish. You’re acting like a fool. You can’t keep silent forever.

M: It’s my right.

A: But they hold it against you now. I’ve heard that. And you know we can’t afford a good lawyer. If you don’t explain yourself and then you try to get out of it later, it looks bad in court.

M: It doesn’t matter.

A: Don’t be so negative. (She squeezes his hand.) Look, let’s put all this behind us. A brand-­new start. Me, you and Ian. We can go on a holiday or something first. I’m sure Mr. Evans at the agency will give us a deal on something. Then we can move if you want, a new life. Somewhere else. By the sea.

M: But we’re just getting started on this life.

A (snatches back her hand): Oh, for God’s sake, Michael. Anyone would think you didn’t want us to be together again, that you didn’t want things to be right again. Sometimes I even wonder whether you weren’t up to something, whether you don’t have something to hide. Is that why you don’t want to talk to them? Afraid they’ll find out your secret?

M: I don’t have any secrets. I just think they’ll do me for it anyway. That’s what they’re like. ­People like me, we’re scum to them.

A: You’re doing it again, behaving like a child.

M: And you’re being all Pollyanna.

A: Pollyanna didn’t get such a great deal, you know.

M: Whatever.

A: Stop sulking. Do you want to get out of here and be with us again? Wherever we are, it doesn’t matter to me, as long as the three of us are together.

M: I . . .

A: Do you?

M: Of course I do. You know I do.

A: Then act like it. Talk to them.

M (hangs head. Seconds pass. Finally he looks up again, into Alex’s eyes): All right. (resignedly) All right, I’ll talk to them. I’ll tell them what I know.

A (takes his hand): I’ll stand by you, Michael. Whatever happens, we’ll stand by you, Ian and me.

M (nods): I said I’ll talk to them.

END

Banks turned off the computer display. After letting Michael Lane stew in a holding cell overnight, he and Annie had granted his request that he be allowed to talk to Alex and had listened to their conversation. Now they wanted to review the video recording for body language before starting the interview.

“Well,” said Banks, leaning back in his office chair. “If they’ve got some kind of secret code, I’d have to say it’s a damn good one. I didn’t see anything in there that struck me as suspicious.”

“Me, neither,” said Annie. “Though I should imagine they knew we’d be listening, if not watching, too. It’s hardly a hidden camera.”

“True. But it didn’t look like acting to me. He’s obviously terrified. For himself, of course, but for her and the kid, too.”

“Alex and Ian.”

“What I meant. Sometimes he seems more afraid of us than of them.”

“Seems reasonable for him to be,” said Annie. “We can be scary. Everyone knows we’re evil bastards who go around fitting up innocent ­people to fudge the crime statistics.”

Banks smiled. “Of course. I’d forgotten.”

“Alex already knows what to be afraid of. I’ll bet her finger still hurts.”

“He knows what they’re capable of, too, if he witnessed Morgan Spencer’s murder.”

“Terry Gilchrist saw a car matching the description of Michael Lane’s Peugeot driving away from the scene.”

“Which also means he could have done it.”

“Oh, come on, Alan. You’re playing devil’s advocate for the hell of it. Where’s that famous gut instinct of yours? That kid’s no killer.”

Banks scratched his chin. He needed a shave. He had gone a ­couple of days without. His gut instinct did tell him that Michael Lane hadn’t killed anyone, Lane could help them find out who had and his girlfriend had persuaded him to talk. Now they had to act.

“OK,” said Banks. “We send Gerry Masterson over to babysit Alex Preston, and we go in with an open mind. We don’t waste time throwing accusations at him. All right?”

“Fine with me,” said Annie.

“And Alex and Ian are our trumps. You saw the two of them there; he’d do anything for her. Even lie.”

“Look,” said Annie, “maybe he helped Morgan occasionally. I don’t know. But are we going after him for that, or are we after the ­people who killed Spencer?”

“Mainly the latter, of course. But we’ll take what we can get.”

Annie stood up. “Fine. I’m ready.”

Banks followed suit. “Let’s go, then.”

THE LIBRARY at Eastvale Police HQ wasn’t much more than a standard-­size office with a few bookshelves mostly full of law reference books and a desk and chair. There was no librarian, and everyone was responsible for reshelving whatever reference they had used. As a result, the shelves were chaotically arranged, and it was hard to find anything. Winsome sometimes even wondered how many of her colleagues knew the alphabet. The library did, however, boast a magnificent selection of local Ordnance Survey maps in just about every scale you could imagine.