The baby downstairs started crying, the way it did every night around this time. Banks turned on the TV. There wasn’t much to choose from: films, a chat show or news. He picked The Spy Who Came In from the Cold, which had started half an hour ago. That didn’t matter; he’d seen it many times before, and he knew the plot by heart. But he couldn’t concentrate. As he watched Richard Burton’s edgy, intense performance and tried to pick up the threads, he found his mind wandering back to Roy’s phone call, felt himself waiting for the phone to ring, willing it.

There was nothing he could do about it right now, but the sense of urgency and fear in Roy’s voice disturbed him. He would try again in the morning, in case Roy had simply gone out for the night, but if he couldn’t get in touch then, he would head for London himself and find out just what the hell was going on.

Why did people have to be so bloody inconsiderate as to find bodies so early on a Saturday morning? wondered Detective Inspector Annie Cabbot. Especially when Banks was on holiday and she was on call. It wasn’t only that she was losing her weekend – and detective inspectors don’t get paid overtime – but that those first crucial hours of an investigation were made all the more difficult by people being, for the large part, unavailable, making information harder to ferret out. And this was a particularly beautiful Saturday morning; offices would be empty, services reduced as everyone loaded a picnic basket in the car along with the kids and headed for the nearest stretch of grass or sand.

She pulled to a halt behind the blue Peugeot 106 on a quiet stretch of country road halfway between Eastvale and the Al. It had been just after half past seven when the station desk sergeant rang and woke her from an uneasy dream she immediately forgot, and after a quick shower and a cup of instant coffee, she was on the road.

The morning was still and hazy, with the drone of insects in the air. It was going to be just the kind of day for a picnic by the river, dragonflies and the scent of wild garlic, perhaps a bottle of Chablis cooling in the water, maybe her sketch pad and a few sticks of charcoal. After a few nibbles of Wensleydale cheese – the type with cranberries was her favorite – and a couple of glasses of wine, it would be time for a nap on the riverbank, maybe a pleasant dream. Enough of that, she thought, walking over to the car; life had other plans for her today.

Annie could see that the car’s left wing had made contact with the drystone wall, so much so that the wing had buckled and scratched and the impact had brought down a section of the wall. There were no traces of skid marks, no tire tracks at all on the dry tarmac surface.

There was already activity around the Peugeot. The road had been closed to all non-police traffic, and the immediate area around the car had been taped off. That would cause a few problems when the tourists started to dribble in, Annie thought, but it couldn’t be helped; the integrity of the scene had to be preserved. The photographer, Peter Darby, had finished photographing the body and the car and had busied himself videotaping the immediate area. Detective Sergeant Jim Hatchley and Detective Constable Winsome Jackman, who both lived closer to the scene, were already there when Annie arrived, Hatchley standing by the roadside and Winsome sitting half in and half out of the unmarked police car.

“What have we got?” Annie asked Hatchley, who, as usual, looked as if he’d been dragged through a hedge backward. The little piece of tissue paper he had stuck to a shaving cut on his chin didn’t help much.

“A young woman dead behind the wheel of her car,” said Hatchley.

“I can see that for myself,” snapped Annie, glancing toward the open driver’s-side window.

“Bit prickly this morning, aren’t we, ma’am,” said Hatchley. “What’s up? Get out of the wrong side of bed?”

Annie ignored him. She was used to Hatchley’s taunts, which had only grown more frequent since she had been made inspector and he remained a sergeant. “Cause of death?” she asked.

“Don’t know yet. Nothing apparent. No obvious marks, no bruising. And officially she’s not even dead yet. Not until the doc says she is.”

Annie refrained from pointing out that she knew that perfectly well. “But you’ve examined her?” she pressed on.

“I had a quick look, that’s all. Didn’t touch anything. Winsome checked for a pulse and found none. We’re still waiting for Doc Burns.”

“So she could have died of a heart attack for all we know?”

“I suppose so,” said Hatchley. “But like I said, she’s very young. It smells a bit fishy to me.”

“Any idea who she is?”

“There’s no handbag, no driving license, nowt. At least not as you can see looking through the windows.”

“Maybe she was forced to pull over. That makes more sense than a young woman traveling alone stopping voluntarily for a stranger on a dark country road. You can see she hit the wall. Maybe someone was chasing her.”

“I checked the number plate on the computer, guv,” said Winsome, walking over from her car. “The car’s registered to a Jennifer Clewes. Lives in London. Kennington. Twenty-seven years old.”

“We don’t know for certain it’s her yet,” Annie said, “so find out all you can.”

“Right, guv.” Winsome paused.

“Yes?”

“Wasn’t there another one?”

“Another what?” asked Annie.

“Another murder. Like this one. Young woman found dead on the side of a road. The M1, not the A1, but even so…”

“Yes,” said Annie. “I remember reading about it in the papers. I can’t remember the details. Look into it, will you?”

“Yes, guv.” Winsome walked back to her car.

Annie looked at Hatchley again. “Has Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe been informed?”

“Yes, ma’am. Says to keep him up-to-date.”

That made sense, Annie thought. No point having the super come running down here if the woman had pulled over into the lay-by and died of a heart attack, asthma, brain aneurysm, or any of the other random failures of the flesh that cause sudden death in otherwise healthy young people. “Who was first officer on the scene?”

“PC Farrier over there.”

Hatchley pointed to a uniformed police constable leaning against a patrol car. Pete Farrier. Annie knew him; he worked out of Western Area Headquarters, the same as she did. Had done for years, according to all accounts, and was a reliable, sensible bobby. Annie walked over to him. “What happened, Pete?” she asked. “Who called it in?”

“Couple over there, ma’am.” Farrier pointed to a man and a woman some yards away from the scene. They were sitting on the grass by the side of the road, and the man had his arm around the woman, whose head was buried in his chest.

Annie thanked Farrier and walked back to her car, took her latex gloves from the murder kit in the boot and slipped them on. Then she walked over to the Peugeot. She needed to have a closer look at the scene, gather some first impressions before Dr. Burns arrived and started his examination. Already a number of flies had settled on the woman’s pale face. Annie shooed them away. They buzzed angrily around her head, waiting for the chance to get back.

The woman sat in the driver’s seat, slumped slightly forward and listing to the left; her right hand grasped the steering wheel and her left held the gear stick. Her seat belt was fastened firmly in place, holding her up, and both the front windows were open. The key was still in the ignition, Annie noticed, and a travel mug sat in its holder.

The victim wasn’t a big woman, but her breasts were quite large, and the seat belt ran between them, separating them and causing them to appear even more prominent. She looked to be mid-to-late twenties, which matched Jennifer Clewes’s age, and she was very attractive. Her skin was pale, and probably had been even before her death, her long hair was dark red – dyed, Annie guessed – and she was wearing a pale blue cotton blouse and black denim jeans. There were no apparent marks on what they could see of her body, as Hatchley had noted, and no sign of blood. Her eyes were open, a dull vacant green. Annie had seen that look before, felt that stillness.