“How old would you say he was?”

“Old. Maybe forty or so.”

“Anything else you can tell me?”

“Don’t think so. Is this gonna be on Crimewatch?”

“Thanks for your help.” Templeton left Ali dreaming of TV stardom and walked back to his car. The rain had stopped and dark puddles reflected the lights. Before setting off back up the motorway, Templeton walked over to the garage and into the night manager’s office. There he found a sleepy young man behind the counter and showed his warrant card. The boy seemed to wake up a bit.

“I’m Geoff,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Were you working here last night?”

“Yeah.”

Templeton took out the photograph again. “Remember her?”

“She looks…” He frowned. “I don’t know.”

“She looks dead,” said Templeton. “Just as well, because she is. Do you remember her?”

“She was here. You don’t forget someone who looks like that in a hurry.”

“Do you remember what time?”

“I can’t say for certain, but her credit card receipt should tell us.”

“She used plastic?”

“Most people do. Petrol’s so bloody expensive and cards are convenient. Nowadays you can just swipe the card right by the pump. You don’t even have to come into the office. Not everyone likes to do it that way, mind you. Some still prefer the human touch.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve still got last night’s receipts?”

“As a matter of fact,” said Geoff, “I have. There’s no pickup till Monday morning.”

“What are we waiting for? Her name’s Jennifer Clewes.”

Geoff located the credit card receipts and sucked on his lower lip as he made his way through them. “Just give me a minute. Here, I think this is it.” He held the receipt up for Templeton to see: 12:35 A.M. Which meant she’d get to the junction with the A1 about two and a half hours later. It fit. Templeton thanked Geoff, and just on the off chance asked him about the “old” man Ali had described.

“The bloke with the dandruff? Old hatchet face?”

“That’s the one.”

“Yeah, he was here, too. Same time as her, now I come to think of it. I caught him giving her the eye when she was bending over with the pump. Can’t say I blame him, mind you. Like something out of FHM. Hey, you don’t think that-”

“Seen him before?”

“Not that I recall. But we get so much traffic.”

“I don’t suppose there’s the remotest chance that he paid by plastic, too?”

Geoff grinned, flicking through the stack again. “I told you. Most of them do. Here you are, right after hers. A Mr. Roger Cropley.”

“Do you have CCTV?”

“As a matter of fact, we do,” said Geoff.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Geoff held up the slip and Templeton read the details. So there is a God, after all, he thought.

Back at Roy’s, Banks first checked the phone for messages. There was only one, and to his surprise it was from Annie Cabbot. Even more to his surprise, it was clearly intended for Roy because she addressed him as “Mr. Banks.” She had called around at the house earlier, she said, but he had been out. Would he please get in touch as soon as possible? Of course, Annie had no idea that Roy was missing. She sounded rather chilly and official, Banks thought, wondering what she was doing in London. Could it have something to do with the murder she was investigating in Eastvale? It was after eleven now, though, and he didn’t fancy getting into a complicated conversation with Annie so late. He’d give her a ring in the morning.

He brought the open bottle of Amarone upstairs and watched A Clockwork Orange on the plasma TV. Even with the surround sound turned low so as not to disturb the neighbors, it still filled the room. After that, he fell asleep on the sofa, the bottle still half full.

Banks didn’t hear the thunder, nor did he see the lightning, when the storm passed over the London area in the small hours of the morning. What did awaken him, however, at shortly after three, was the distinct melody of “La donna è mobile” coming from very close by.

As Banks struggled to consciousness, his first thought was that that he didn’t remember putting a CD of Rigoletto on before he went to sleep. Then he remembered Roy’s mobile, which sat on the table beside him.

He picked it up and, sure enough, that was the source of the sound. The room was dark, but with the help of the blue back-lighting, he found the right button to push.

“Hello,” he mumbled. “Who is it?”

At first he heard nothing at all except a slight background hiss, perhaps some sort of static interference. He thought he could hear someone making choking or gagging sounds, as if they were trying to hold back laughter. Then he began to think that perhaps someone had rung by accident, and the sounds came from a television playing in the background.

A similar thing happened to Banks once when he had forgotten to lock his mobile. Somehow or other he had activated one of the numbers in his phone book, and Tracy got to listen to the questioning of a murder witness. Fortunately, she couldn’t make out the conversation clearly, and she knew enough to switch off when she realized what must have happened. Still, it made Banks paranoid about locking the device after that.

Or maybe this was kids, someone’s idea of a joke?

The muffled noises went on, followed by a thud and the unmistakable sound of someone laughing. Then, as Banks looked at the display, a picture began to form. It wasn’t very sharp, but it looked like a photograph of a man slumped in a chair, asleep, perhaps, or unconscious, his head to one side. Banks couldn’t see whether there were other people around, but given the sounds, it might have been some sort of wild party.

Why on earth would anyone want to send Roy such a picture? Banks was still half asleep and not thinking at all clearly, so he saved the picture and put the phone back on the table. Whatever it was, he would be better equipped to deal with it in the morning.

The thunderstorm that swept across the southern half on the country during the night drove out the muggy weather, and Sunday dawned clear and sunny, the streets rinsed and sparkling after the rain. The temperature was still in the mid-twenties, but with the humidity all but gone, it was a comfortable heat.

Annie woke late after a refreshing sleep, though her hotel room had been too hot and she had had to lie in her underwear on top of the sheets. She had turned the control on the wall to cold, but after nothing happened, she concluded it was only for show. Perhaps if you believed it really worked, then you would start to feel cooler, but she didn’t have that much faith.

After a lukewarm shower and a room-service continental breakfast, again scouring the Sunday papers for any traces of Phil Keane’s handiwork and finding none, Annie checked her mobile in case she’d missed a message from Roy Banks, but there was nothing. She rang the number again, and again she got the answering service. This time she left an even more terse message. She tried the mobile number, but had no luck there, either. She didn’t bother leaving a message.

Next she rang Melanie Scott to make sure she would be at home, then she checked in with Gristhorpe at his home and found out that Jennifer Clewes’s parents were being brought to Eastvale that morning to identify their daughter. Then Annie set off for the tube.

First she had to take the Northern Line to Leicester Square, then change to the Piccadilly Line, which ran all the way out to Heathrow. Given the more clement weather and the relative emptiness of the train, her journey out to Hounslow passed pleasantly enough, some of it aboveground, and she gazed on the rows of redbrick terraced houses, playing fields, concrete-and-glass office blocks.