“Yes. Ingleborough from Hornby Castle Terrace. Hasn’t been seen since the turn of the last century. It fetched a record price when it was sold at Christie’s in 1881 to a certain W. Law, Esquire. Two thousand guineas, in fact. It would be nice to find it and complete the set, of course, but it’s not as if they’re all collected in one place.”

“Real Antiques Roadshow.”

“You may well laugh, but it happens more often than you think. That dusty old frame in the attic. The ugly landscape old Aunt Eunice’s grandad hid away in the cellar.”

Annie laughed. “You could hardly call the Turner ugly.”

“Of course not. But somebody thought little enough of it to bury it under a couple of layers of insulation.”

As they ate their meals, they talked about paintings and films they liked, and Annie discovered that they were both fans of Alec Guinness in the old Ealing comedies, though Phil preferred The Captain’s Paradise to Annie’s favorite, The Lavender Hill Mob. They both loved The Horse’s Mouth, though.

When it was time for dessert, Annie decided to hell with her diet – not that she was really on one, but she was always full of good intentions – and went for the crème brûlée. She resisted the cognac, though, and chose café au lait. She was pleased that she had managed to restrict herself to only one glass of wine.

“Have you ever heard of a local artist called Thomas McMahon?” she asked Phil after her first mouth-watering spoonful.

Phil frowned. “McMahon? Can’t say I have, no. Why? He any good?”

“I probably shouldn’t be telling you,” she said, “but it’ll be in the papers tomorrow, and probably on the radio and TV tonight. He’s most likely the victim in the boat fires. One of the victims. I just wondered if you’d heard of him at all, come across him in your line of business?”

“I don’t come across many living artists, I’m afraid,” said Phil.

“From all accounts, after a promising start he dropped out of the scene some years ago, made a living painting landscapes for tourists.”

“Then I’d have even less reason to have heard of him. Always the detective, eh, Annie?”

Annie blushed. There was some truth in that. She was slowly and indirectly getting around to what she had wanted to sound him out on. “One thing we found out – my boss discovered it, actually – was that he frequented an antiquarian bookshop on Market Street and that he bought a number of old books and prints.”

“Nothing unusual in that, surely?”

“We don’t think he was very well off, and besides, most of the stuff he bought was worthless. Worthless but old.”

Phil looked at her, and she saw the beginnings of understanding in his eyes. “I was just thinking,” she went on, “that-” Right then, her beeper went off. The station. One or two of the other diners gave her dirty looks. “Oh, shit,” she said. “Sorry. I mean, I’d better… I won’t be long.”

“Okay. Don’t worry. I’ll be waiting.”

Annie hustled outside and fumbled with her mobile. “Yes?”

“DI Cabbot?”

“Yes.”

“DCI Banks said to tell you there’s been another one – another fire, that is – and he wants you to get out to Jennings Field ASAP. You know where it is?”

“I know it,” said Annie. “Thanks. I’m on my way.”

Bollocks, she thought, putting her phone away and reentering the restaurant. Inconsiderate arsonist, spoiling her evening. She just had time to make a quick apology to Phil before heading out.

“Can I give you a lift?” he asked.

“No, thanks,” said Annie. “I’ll go in my own car.” She could just imagine the expression on Banks’s face if she turned up at a crime scene in Phil’s BMW. She wasn’t even dressed for standing around in an open field on a cold night, she realized, as she threw on her elegant but lightweight black overcoat.

Just to end their evening together on a perfect note, Annie found herself unable to get her handkerchief to her mouth fast enough to stop a sneeze and ended up spraying the entire table with germs. Phil just smiled and gestured for her to go. Red-faced now, as well as red-nosed, Annie went.

Jennings Field lay on the eastern outskirts of Eastvale, beyond the East Side Estate and the railway lines, where the landscape flattened out toward the fertile vale that lay between the Yorkshire Dales and the North York Moors. It was a clear, cold night; the day’s light mist had completely dissipated. The stars shone icily bright, and lights twinkled from distant villages, where the good citizens would all be sitting nice and warm in front of their tellies watching Des Lynam. A half-moon dripped its milky light on the far woods, silvering the bare lattices of the treetops.

The call had disturbed Banks partway through Goldfinger – the bit where the laser is slowly creeping up toward Bond’s privates – takeout chicken fried rice and his second can of lager. He stood with his hands in his pockets breathing out plumes of air and watched Annie get out of her car and sign in with the uniformed officer at the perimeter. A couple of reporters shouted questions at her, but she ignored them. One of them whistled as she ducked under the police tape, and Annie froze for just a moment, then carried on walking. She was nicely dressed, Banks noticed when she got in range of the lights the fire department had erected, and was she wearing a bit more makeup than usual? Out with her new boyfriend, then? Well, it was Saturday night, after all.

She caught him looking and blushed. “What?”

“Nothing,” Banks said. “You look nice.”

Annie rolled her eyes. “So what have we got?”

The remains of a caravan, the sole dwelling in the field, parked at the far end, just under the shelter of a couple of beech trees, still smoldered, and an acrid stink of burned rubber and plastic wafted their way. There was nothing left of the roof and sides; only a skeleton of soot-blackened metal struts remained, and the innards lay open to the elements. Water from the fire hoses dripped to the ground and puddled.

“Anyone inside?” Annie asked.

“We’ve got one body,” Banks told her. “And luckily this time we think we know who it is.”

Annie blew on her bare hands. She was wearing simple black court shoes, tan tights and a long black coat, elegant rather than practical, Banks noticed. Going-out-for-a-meal clothes. Her feet must be cold.

Banks pointed to a man talking to DC Winsome Jackman over by the group of parked cars and two gleaming red fire appliances. “That’s Jack Mellor. He’s a regular at the Fox and Hounds, about half a mile down the road, in the nearest village, and he reported the fire. He’s still pretty shaken. He says he saw the flames as he was walking his dog down the road at about nine o’clock for a couple of pints and a chat with his mates as usual.” Banks pointed away from the village lights. “He lives in Ash Cottage, about two hundred yards in that direction. Says the chap who lived in the caravan was another Fox and Hounds regular. Quiet bloke, by all accounts. Harmless. Name of Roland Gardiner.”

“He lived alone in the caravan?”

“Yes. Been there at least a couple of years now, according to our Mr. Mellor. There’s no car in evidence. Not even any wheels on the caravan. See the way it’s propped up on blocks? Anyway, this field’s common land, despite its name. Nobody knows who the hell Jennings was. I’m sure the local council’s been trying to squeeze Gardiner out, just like British Waterways was trying to get rid of the barge squatters, but for better or for worse… this was Gardiner’s home.”

“What the hell’s going on?” Annie said. “Is someone trying to set fire to all the eyesores and down-and-outs in the area?”

“It certainly looks that way, doesn’t it?” said Banks. “But let’s not jump to conclusions. We’ve no evidence yet that there’s any connection between the fires. And they weren’t down-and-outs, despite their living conditions. Don’t forget that Thomas McMahon was an artist who managed to make a living painting local landscapes for the tourist trade. I think he chose to live the way he did. Even Mark Siddons works at the Eastvale College building site. None of the victims were really spongers or bums.”