Sitting on the edge of the bed, Banks rubbed his eyes, trying once and for all to rid himself of the Stilton dreams. He sighed. From one nightmare to another. “All right,” he said. “Get someone to put on a strong pot of coffee, will you, Susan? I’ll be right over.”

An early rambler from Middlesborough set off from a bed and breakfast in Skield and found the girl’s body tucked away in a fold of Witch Fell, above the village, at eight o’clock on Sunday morning. An hour later, the detectives from Eastvale and the Scene-of-Crime Officers began to dribble in, closely followed by Dr. Glendenning, who was out of breath by the time he had climbed up to where the body was.

Banks stood at the edge of the terrace, which he suspected was a lynchet, an ancient Anglian plowing strip leveled on a hillside. Such lyncheted hills went up in a series of steps, of which this was the first. The strip was about ten yards wide and dipped a little in the middle.

The girl’s body lay spread-eagled in the central depression, as if cupped in the petals of a flower. The little meadow was full of buttercups and daisies; flies and more delicate winged insects buzzed in the air, some pausing to light on the girl’s pale, unyielding skin for a moment.

Several buttercups and daisies had been twined in her long blonde hair, which lay spread out on the bright green grass around her head like the halo in a Russian icon. Her blouse had been torn open and her bra pulled up, revealing small, pale breasts, and her short skirt was up around her thighs, her discarded panties on the grass beside her. As Banks got closer, he noticed the discoloration around her neck, and the open shoulder-bag by her arm, some of its contents spilled on the grass: lipstick, a purse, compact, nail-file, chewing gum, perfume, keys, address book, earrings, hairbrush.

The similarities to the Deborah Harrison scene were too close to be ignored. And Banks had just convinced himself that Deborah had been murdered by someone she knew for some sort of logical reason. Now it looked as if they were dealing with a sexual psychopath-one who had murdered two young girls in the area.

Banks stood back as Peter Darby took photographs and then watched Dr. Glendenning perform the on-scene examination. By then, Superintendent Gristhorpe had arrived and Jimmy Riddle was rumored to be pacing at the bottom of the hill trying to decide whether to attempt the short climb or wait until the others came down to him.

Banks sniffed the air. It was another fine morning. A couple of sheep stood facing the drystone wall as if just wishing it would all go away. Well, it wouldn’t, Banks knew. No more than the tightness in his gut, which felt like a clenched fist, would go away before tomorrow.

“Well?” he asked, after the doctor had finished his examination.

“As we’re not in court, laddie,” said Glendenning, with a crooked grin, “I can tell you that she probably died between ten o’clock last night and one or two o’clock in the morning.”

“Do you think she was killed here?”

“Looks like it from the lividity on her back and thighs.”

“So he brought her here alive all the way from Eastvale?”

Banks made a mental calculation. The girl, Ellen Gilchrist, had disappeared on her way home shortly after eleven o’clock last night. By car, it was about thirty miles from Eastvale to Skield, but some of that journey was on bad moorland roads where you couldn’t drive very fast, especially at night. For one thing, the sheep were inclined to wander, and as anyone it has happened to will tell you, running into a sheep on a dark road is a very nasty experience indeed. Especially for the sheep.

It would probably have taken the killer an hour, Banks estimated, particularly if he took an indirect route to avoid being seen. Why bother? Why not just dump her in Eastvale somewhere? Was location important to him, part of his profile? Did he hope the body would remain undiscovered for longer here? Not much hope of that, Banks thought. Skield and Witch Fell were popular spots for ramblers, especially with the good weather.

“There’s a nasty gash behind her left ear,” Glendenning said, “which means she was probably unconscious when he brought her here, before he strangled her. It looks like it could have been caused by a hammer or some such heavy object. Cause of death, off the record, of course, is ligature strangulation, just like the last one. Shoulder-bag strap this time, instead of a satchel.”

“And the bag’s open, also like last time,” Banks mused.

“Aye,” said Glendenning. “Well, you can have the body sent to the mortuary now.” And he walked off.

Banks tried to run the scenario in his mind as if it were a film: girl leaves friends at end of School Lane, walks onto King Street, busy during tourist hours but quiet at night, apart from the odd pub or two. Some street-lamps, but not an especially well-lit area. Most kids are still at the dance, but Ellen’s going home ahead of her curfew because she has a headache, or so her friend said. She walks alone down the hill towards the Leaview Estate, not more than ten minutes at the most. Car pulls up. Or is it already waiting down the road, lights turned off, knowing there’s a school dance, hoping someone will be careless enough to walk home alone?

He’s standing by the car, looking harmless enough. He can’t believe his luck. Another blonde, just like Deborah Harrison, and about the same age. Or did he know who he wanted? Had he been watching her? Did he know her?

As she passes, he grabs her and drags her into the passenger seat before she knows what’s happening. She tries to scream, perhaps, but he puts his hand over her mouth to muffle her. He knocks her out. Now she’s in the passenger seat, unconscious, bleeding behind her ear. He straps her in with the safety belt and sets off. Maybe someone saw the car, someone else leaving the dance? He has to get her to an isolated spot before he’s seen.

All the way to Skield, he savors what he’s going to do to her. The anticipation is almost as thrilling as the act itself, maybe even more so. He anticipates it, and later he relives it, replays it over and over in his mind.

He parks off the road, out of the way, car hidden behind a clump of trees, perhaps, and drags her up the hillside. It’s not very far or very steep, the first lynchet, but he’s sweating with the effort, and maybe she’s coming round now, trying to struggle, beginning to realize that something terrible is about to happen to her. They get to the lynchet, and he lays her down on the grass and does…whatever he does.

“Alan?”

“What? Oh, sorry, sir. Lost in thought.”

Superintendent Gristhorpe and DC Gay had come to stand beside him as uniformed officers searched the area.

“We’d better get back to the station and get things moving,” said Gristhorpe. “We can start by questioning all the friends who were at the dance with her again, and then do a house-to-house along King Street, check out the pubs, too. I’ll get someone to ask around Skield as well. You never know. Someone might have been suffering from insomnia.”

“Sir?”

Both Banks and Gristhorpe looked around to see PC Weaver, one of the searchers, approach with something hooked over the end of a pencil. When he got closer, Banks could see that it was one of those transparent plastic containers that 35mm films come in. Living with Sandra, he had seen plenty of those.

“Found this in the grass near the body, sir,” he said.

“Near the shoulder-bag?” Gristhorpe asked.

“No, sir, that’s why I thought it was odd. It was on the other side of her, a couple of yards away. Do you think it could be the killer’s?”

“It could be anyone’s, lad,” Gristhorpe said. “A tourist’s, maybe. But we’d better check it for prints as quickly as we can.” He turned to Banks. “Maybe we’ve got one who likes to photograph his victims?”