“You’ll ring me as soon as you find him?” Alex asked at the door.

“We’ll ring you,” said Annie. She took out a card, scribbled on the back and handed it to Alex. “And I hope you’ll call me if you hear from Michael. My mobile number’s on the back.”

They didn’t even bother trying the lift. On their way down the stairs, Annie heard a cry of pain as they passed the fifth-­floor gauntlet. Doug Wilson was behind her, hands in his pockets, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and behind him one of the hoodies was bent over, hands cupping his groin. The others were too shocked to move.

“Tut-­tut, Dougal,” said Annie, smiling. “Who’s been a naughty boy, then?”

3

MORGAN SPENCER LIVED ON A CARAVAN SITE across the River Swain from Hindswell Woods, about half a mile west of town. The Riverview Caravan Park wasn’t anywhere near as attractive as its name suggested. There was a river view for the first row of caravans, but as the meadow they were parked in was flat, all the rest could see was other caravans blocking the view. Most were permanent fixtures, up on blocks, though there were a few spaces for temporary sojourners. Of the permanent caravans, by far the majority belonged to ­people in Leeds, Bradford, Darlington or Teesside, who used them for weekend getaways. It wasn’t far to travel, and it was the Yorkshire Dales, after all, river view or no river view. At least you could see the trees and hills on the other side and go for long bracing walks in the country. Quite a few ­people lived in the park year-­round, the site manager told them, and Morgan Spencer was one of them. Annie had already heard the rumor that many of those who lived in Riverview Caravan Park were what the Americans would call “trailer trash.” “Caravan trash” didn’t sound anywhere near as apt a description, she thought, perhaps because it lacked the alliteration. The park’s only attraction for occasional holiday visitors was that it was cheap.

The caravans were set out in neat rows stretching back from the riverbank across the meadow, each with a parking space beside it, though none of them was big enough for a large van. Some of the homes looked well maintained, with a fresh paint job, awning over the door, a window box or hanging basket. Others looked more neglected, resting unevenly on their concrete supports, sagging at one end, windows dirty and covered on the inside with makeshift moth-­eaten curtains made of old bedding or tea towels. Because of the rain over the last few days, the field was a quagmire, and any grass there may have been before had been trampled into the mud. It reminded Annie of the time she went to Glastonbury as a teenager. It had rained the entire weekend. Even the Boomtown Rats weren’t worth getting that wet for.

Annie and Doug Wilson left their car at the paved entrance, beside the site office, which was deserted at the moment, put on their wellies again and went the rest of the way on foot. They found Spencer’s caravan on the third row back from the riverbank. On a scale of one to ten, it was about a six, which is to say, not bad, but a little on the run-­down side. There was nothing parked beside it. Annie’s first knock produced no reaction, only an empty echo from inside. She strained to listen but heard no sound of movement. Her second knock produced an opening door, but in the neighboring caravan, not Spencer’s.

“He’s not home, love,” said the man who stood there. “Police, you’ll be, then?”

“Are we so obvious?” Annie said.

The man smiled. “You are to an ex-­copper, love.”

“You’re . . . ?”

“I am. Rick Campbell’s the name. Come on in out of the rain, why don’t you? Have a cuppa.”

Annie and Wilson pulled their wellies off by the front steps, which were sheltered from the rain by a striped awning. “Don’t mind if we do,” Annie said.

“Leave the boots out there, if you could,” Campbell said, pointing to a mat outside the door.

The caravan was cramped but cheery inside, with a bright flowered bedspread, freshly painted yellow walls, polished woodwork and a spotless cooking area. The air smelled of damp leaves. At one end of the room was the bed, which could be screened off by a curtain, and at the other a dining table with a red-­and-­white-­checked oilcloth. In between, a sofa big enough for two sat opposite a television and stereo. Some quiet music played in the background. The sort of thing Banks would know about, Annie thought. Bach or Beethoven, or someone like that. Campbell told Annie and Wilson to sit down at the dining table as he busied himself filling the kettle.

“Do you live here alone?” Annie asked.

“Live here? Oh, I see what you mean. No, we don’t live here. We just come here for our summer holidays, and weekends now and again. We live in Doncaster. When I retired, it was a toss-­up between the Dales and the coast. The Dales won. Ellie and I had some fine holidays around these parts in our younger days. Keen walkers, we were. We don’t do so much now, of course, especially after Ellie’s hip replacement, but we still get around a fair bit, and there’s always the memories. It’s God’s own country to us.”

“Is your wife around?”

“She’s visiting the son and daughter-­in-­law this weekend. Down Chesterfield way. I just came up to do a bit of fixing and patching up. The old dear—­the caravan, I mean, not Ellie—­needs more maintenance every year. That’s the trouble with these things. They don’t age well.”

“The rain can’t help.”

“I’ll say. Mostly, it’s just general wear and tear. And they’re not exactly built for the elements in the first place. Certainly not the kind of elements we seem to be getting these days.” He looked toward the window and grimaced. “I’ve patched the worst leaks and strengthened the floor. So what is it I can do for you?”

“You said you’re an ex-­copper.”

“Yes. I did my thirty and got out fast. South Yorkshire. Mostly uniform, traffic, a brief stint with Sheffield CID. Sergeant when I retired. Desk job the last four years. It was a good life, but I’m not a dedicated crime fighter like those TV coppers. Why keep working any longer than you have to, eh?”

Annie thought of Banks. They’d have to drag him kicking and screaming out of his office soon. Or would he get a newer, bigger office and an extra five years’ grace if he got promoted to superintendent, as Gervaise had promised last November? “We’re here about your neighbor, Morgan Spencer,” she said.

“You know, that’s what I thought when I heard you knocking on his door.” He tapped the side of his nose and laughed. “I haven’t lost all my detective skills yet, you know. So what’s he been up to now?”

“Now?”

“Just a figure of speech, love, that’s all.”

Campbell made the tea and set it on the table along with three mugs, a carton of long-­life milk and a bowl of sugar. “Biscuits? I can offer custard creams or chocolate digestives.”

Both Annie and Wilson declined the offer.

Campbell settled into a chair opposite them. “Well, I can’t say I know Morgan very well,” he began, “but I must say, as neighbors go, he’d be hard to beat. Keeps some odd hours, hardly ever home, in fact, but he’s considerate, polite, and he’s even helped me out on a ­couple of tricky jobs around the place. Held the ladder, so to speak. He’s a good hard worker.”

Annie glanced at Wilson, who raised his eyebrows. It wasn’t what she’d expected to hear after talking to Alex Preston. Campbell didn’t miss the exchange. Once a copper always a copper. “What? Did I say something wrong?”

“Would you describe him as honest?”

“I wouldn’t know about that. All I can say is it wouldn’t surprise me to hear he’s got a fiddle or two on the side. Probably sails a bit close to the wind. He likes to talk big sometimes and I’d say he reckons he’s God’s gift to women, but at the bottom of it all he’s harmless enough. Why? Is there a problem?”