“Has anything out of the ordinary happened in your lives recently?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“Did you have an argument or anything like that?”

“No.”

“Did he seem worried, frightened, nervous, anxious? Different in any way?”

“No, he was the same as normal. But you’re frightening me, asking all these questions.”

“Sorry, it’s just routine,” said Annie. “We have to ask if we’re to try and find him. Did he take the car?”

“Yes, of course. We can walk to church, but you need the car to drive up into the dale. Maybe that’s it! I wouldn’t be surprised if that old banger broke down somewhere. Maybe that’s where he is? Up on the moors in the middle of nowhere with a dead mobile and a clapped-­out car, hoping the AA might just happen to pass by.”

“Can you tell me the number plate?”

Alex told her and Doug Wilson noted it down. “It’s an old Peugeot. Dirty gray.”

Alex was clutching at straws, Annie thought. Even if Michael Lane had been at home on Saturday night, there was still a better chance that he was now in a lorry helping ship a stolen tractor over to Albania than stranded on the moors in a clapped-­out Peugeot hoping for the AA to turn up. But Alex didn’t need to be told that. To Annie, Michael Lane was still a prime suspect, but to Alex he was a missing loved one. Somehow or other, Annie would have to sort all that out as gently as she could, or she risked losing any valuable cooperation she might need from Alex. It was a tricky balancing act.

“Could Michael be with a friend?” Annie asked. “And I don’t mean a girlfriend. Do you know any of his mates?”

“He doesn’t really have very many. His life was pretty isolated when he lived up at the farm, you see, and since then, well, most of the friends he did have have moved away, and we’ve sort of spent most of our time together. We don’t socialize a lot. Going out can be expensive.”

“You never go out for a drink or anything? Or to a party?”

“Sometimes we go to the local for an evening out, if we can afford a sitter for Ian, but not very often. Neither of us is a big drinker, and we just enjoy our own company. It’s cheaper to get a few cans or a bottle of wine in and watch telly than it is to go out for the night. It sounds boring, I suppose, but we’re happy.”

“Can you think of anyone else at all Michael might have communicated with?”

“There’s Keith, I suppose. He’s still here. They went to school together, and they meet up for a game of darts once in a while. But Keith hasn’t seen him. I phoned. Graham, too. He’s married to Angie, who’s my best friend, really. But Graham’s a photography nut, and he and Michael get along well. They go off taking photos at various scenic spots around the Dales every now and then. Graham’s been teaching Michael his way around a camera. As I said, Michael’s a natural in some ways, but he doesn’t know much about theory and techniques, or the history. I can’t say I do, either, but Graham does. There’s Morgan, too, I suppose. Michael works with him up on the farms sometimes. But I don’t like him. He’s too flash and full of himself. Wears a gold chain and has a spider tattoo on the side of his neck. Head shaved like one of those BNP types, though he isn’t. He’s half black. His dad’s from Barbados. And he’s always flirting with me.”

“Does Michael like him?”

“They work together, and they go for a pint together, too, sometimes, after a day’s work. They get along all right. Talk about any work that might be coming up. Morgan’s managed to get Michael in on a ­couple of decent-­paying jobs, and vice versa, so I don’t suppose I should be so down on him.” She gave a little shudder and pulled a face. “You know, it’s just like, if you’re a woman, he makes you feel like a piece of meat.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” said Annie. “I’ve met a few of those in my time. What kind of jobs do they do?”

“Anything that comes along, really. Morgan does small removals, you know, houses and flats and stuff. He’s got a large van. Michael usually helps him out on jobs like that. They also do a lot of farmyard maintenance, like I said, roofing work, drainage ditches, helping bale hay for forage, that sort of thing. It’s really a matter of who you know, who you’ve worked for before, where you’ve got a good reputation.”

“And this Morgan has a good reputation?”

“I suppose he must have.”

“Could he be the one who texted Michael about a job yesterday morning?”

“It’s likely,” said Alex. “It’s what he usually does. Last minute, as often as not.”

“Have you rung Morgan?”

“No. I don’t know his number. But I know where he lives. He’s got a caravan at that site down by the river, you know, near Hindswell Woods.”

“Riverview?”

“That’s the one.”

“Well, it’s a start, I suppose,” said Annie, nodding toward Doug Wilson, who was busy scribbling in his notebook between stolen glances at Alex.

“Can you give me Michael’s mobile number?” Wilson asked. “And tell me the full names and addresses of the friends you mentioned, Miss Preston, including this Morgan character? Phone numbers, too, if you have them. And do you have a recent photograph of Michael we can borrow?”

“Please, call me Alex,” she said, smiling.

Annie could see that Doug was hers forever. He carefully wrote down the names and addresses, mostly just a street name, occasionally a telephone number Alex retrieved from her mobile’s contacts. It was enough to be going on with. Back at the station, they could put DC Masterson on it. Nobody could track down a name, address or phone number as fast as she could. “We’ll check again with them all,” said Annie. “Just in case. One of them might remember something he said, something that might not have seemed important at the time.”

Alex disappeared into the other room and came back with a photo of Michael posing casually on the balcony, with the view of Eastvale spread out in the background. “That was taken two weeks ago,” she said. “I took it myself. You remember, that nice weekend near the end of last month?” She handed over the photo, then put her hands to her face. “Oh, God, what can have happened to him?”

“I know you’re worried, Alex,” Annie said, “but I’ve had a lot of experience with this sort of thing, and there’s almost always no cause for concern. I bet you we’ll have Michael back home with you in no time.”

“It’s true,” added Doug Wilson. “Leave it to us. Is there anywhere you think he might have gone? A favorite place, a hideaway? You know, if he got upset about his father, or you had an argument or something? Somewhere he’d go to be alone, to think things over, feel safe and secure?”

Annie thought it was a good question to ask, and she watched Alex as she worked her way through it and framed an answer.

“I don’t really know. I mean, he always feels safe and secure here, with us. He doesn’t need an escape. We haven’t really had any fights, not serious fights where either of us has gone off alone. Michael does like long walks by himself, though. I think it’s a habit he developed in his childhood, you know, growing up on the farm.” She laughed. “You had to walk a long way to get anywhere, where he lived.”

“Anywhere in particular?” Wilson asked.

“Just around the dale in general,” said Alex, “though I’m sure it’s not something he’d do in this weather.”

“We have to cover all the possibilities, Miss—­ Alex,” said Wilson.

Alex favored him with another smile. “I know,” she said. “If I could think of where he might be, don’t you think I’d tell you? I can’t go looking for him, myself. I don’t have the car, and there’s Ian . . .”

“Don’t worry,” Annie assured her, standing and giving Wilson the signal to close his notebook. “It’s our job. We’ll take care of it. Can we have a look at that computer now?”

They drew a blank on Michael’s computer. Nothing but a lot of spam and a few harmless emails from friends—­nothing from Morgan, no references to tractor-­thieving sprees, as far as Annie could gather—­and his photo collection, along with various software programs for manipulating images. The photos, mostly landscapes and ­people at work around farms, were as good as the framed ones in the living room. There was no porn, and no record of porn sites in his bookmarks or browsing history. Either he was happy with what he had or he had gone to great pains to erase his tracks. Annie guessed the former. Most of the bookmarks were for travel-­related sites and photo-­posting ser­vices such as Flickr. If this business went any further, of course, the computer would have to go to Liam in technical support for a thorough examination, and if there was anything dodgy on it, or ever had been, he would find it, but there was no reason to suspect that it was hiding deep and dirty secrets just yet.