'We're there,' Sharp announced, turning off the engine and opening his window to admit a gust of cold air.

Umber woke with a start. 'What?' he coughed and blinked around him. 'Where?'

'Avebury.'

'Christ. You never said…' Umber struggled to compose his thoughts. He had been to Avebury several times in the months following the tragedy and had driven through it, alone, maybe twice since. Sally's horror of the place had ruled out any other return visits, even if Umber had wanted to undertake them. They were in the High Street car park, he realized. Looking out of his window, he could see the village post office on the other side of the road. Straight ahead, the tower of St James's Church was visible beyond the trees fringing the churchyard. 'You never said we were coming straight here.'

'Where better to start?'

'I feel sick.'

'That's because you didn't have a proper breakfast. A breath of fresh air will set you right. Let's take a walk.'

It was a cold, grey morning. A wind had got up, driving slashes of rain into their faces. A solitary customer emerged from the post office as they left the car park. Otherwise, they seemed to have the village to themselves.

Sharp led the way towards the Red Lion, but crossed the road before he reached it and took up position beneath the trees on the opposite corner. Moving slowly and reluctantly, Umber joined him.

'Nothing much has changed, has it?' Sharp asked rhetorically.

Umber took a deep breath and looked across at the Adam and Eve stones in the field behind Silbury House, at the gate in the fence through which Miranda Hall had run that day they were both replaying in their minds. Then he looked along Green Street, towards the other gate, through which Tamsin Hall had been carried to the waiting white van. And then, almost as an act of mercy, a lorry rumbled round the bend from the north, blocking his view.

'If you'd been standing here rather than sitting outside the pub,' said Sharp, once the lorry had gone, 'you'd have seen for certain whether there were two men in the van, or only one.'

'There were two.'

'Yes. Two.' Sharp nodded thoughtfully. 'Paedophiles don't generally work in pairs. And Tamsin was a lot younger than Radd's other victims.'

'He was lying, George. You know it. I know it.'

'But why?'

'I thought you reckoned he did a deal with your successor.'

'Who'd not have been above such a thing, let me tell you. But what was the deal? There was nothing we could offer him. He was going away for life whatever he admitted to. So, what was in it for him?'

'You tell me.'

'That's the point.' Sharp looked round at Umber. 'I can't.'

To Umber's relief, they soon started back along the High Street. But they did not stop at the car park. Sharp had something other than a swift departure in mind.

'I thought we'd pay the Nevinsons a call.'

'Now?'

'No time like the present.'

'How about some other time, when I'm feeling more like myself?'

'Wait with Molly if you like.'

'No. I'll come with you.'

Sharp smiled. 'Thought you would.'

They crossed the churchyard and followed a narrow footpath between some cottages to the western edge of the old village. The footpath headed on to a river-bridge, then continued to a field-gate. There the tarmac ended, leaving Sharp and Umber to dodge muddy patches the rest of the way to Avebury Trusloe, a huddle of utilitarian brown-brick houses and bungalows straight ahead. An old man carrying a shopping bag, bound presumably for the post office, passed them on the way and nodded a wordless good morning.

The transplanted village was served by a lane off the main road. Crossing it, Umber wondered why they had not driven round, a thought he did not bother to utter, but which Sharp seemed to respond to anyway.

'I always used to cover the last few hundred yards to a suspect's home on foot. Most of my colleagues thought I was mad. But the lie of the land can be the key to the mystery. Understanding it can give you an edge.'

'So you've walked this route before?'

'No. I never have. Because Nevinson wasn't a suspect twenty-three years ago. But he is now.'

'And what has the lie of the land told you? Apart from the unlikelihood of an early spring.'

'That old man we passed.'

'What about him?'

'Eighty if he's a day. Probably born in one of the cottages that were demolished, then rehoused here.'

'So?'

'Still goes back, doesn't he? They move the people out of the village, but they can't move the village out of the people. Maybe I should have looked for the answer to this… a lot closer to home.'

Home for the Nevinsons was a poorly maintained semi-detached house with windows in need of painting, an unkempt garden and a fence with several pales missing. The neighbouring property was not in much better condition, the only splash of colour in its garden being a bright yellow toy car, lying on its side.

Sharp flung open the Nevinsons' gate and strode up the fissured concrete path to the door. He had given the bell two jabs with his forefinger before Umber caught up.

A woman answered, with surprising promptness. The sister, Umber assumed. Short and plump, clad in a voluminous sweater worn over tracksuit bottoms and ancient plimsolls, she had iron-grey curly hair framing a round, placidly smiling face. Sixty or so, he would have guessed. She might well have attended the inquest, if only to lend her brother moral support. But Umber had no memory of her.

She, on the other hand, appeared to have a memory of him – of both of them, in fact. A quizzical smile dimpled her cheeks. 'Good morning,' she said, a local accent wrestling gamely with Home Counties elocution. 'I believe I know you gentlemen.'

'I believe you do,' said Sharp.

'But it's been a long time.'

'It has.'

'Chief Inspector Sharp, as ever is.'

'Retired now, Miss Nevinson. Plain Mr Sharp.'

She looked intently at Umber. 'And you'd be…'

'David Umber.'

'Of course. Mr Umber. The other witness. We were never introduced, were we? I'm Abigail Nevinson. Percy's sister.' She held out her hand, which Umber stepped forward to shake. 'What can I do for you?'

'We're looking for Percy,' said Sharp.

'I suppose you would be.' She treated them to an appraising squint. 'You make a strange pair, if you don't mind me saying. Not a pair I'd have expected to find on the doorstep. Certainly not after all these years.' A thought suddenly struck her. 'You've not… found her, have you?'

'Found her?' Sharp seemed momentarily not to understand who she meant.

'The girl.'

'No,' said Umber, determined to stop this hare from running. 'It's nothing like that.'

'Oh. What a shame.' And the expression on Abigail Nevinson's face suggested that it truly was a shame. 'But it'll be about her you've called, I dare say.'

'In a sense,' said Sharp. 'Is Percy at home?'

'I'm afraid not. He's off on his morning walk.'

'Nice weather for it,' said Umber.

'Oh, he pays no heed to the weather, Mr Umber. It could be blowing a gale and he'd still head off.'

'Will he be gone long?' asked Sharp.

'Hard to say. Could be back any minute, or gone till lunchtime. Would you like to step in for a cup of tea and see if he arrives meanwhile?'

'That's kind of you,' Sharp replied. 'We'd be glad to.'