“No,” said Annie. “Not at all. We just want to talk to him in connection with a missing person, that’s all.”

“Missing person?”

“Yes.” Annie knew she was exaggerating more than a little. Michael Lane was not yet an official missing person. As she had told Alex Preston, he was a nineteen-­year-­old lad who hadn’t been home since yesterday morning. And what nineteen-­year-­old hadn’t done exactly the same thing more than once? But what other reason could she give for wanting to talk to Morgan Spencer? That he had flirted with Michael’s girlfriend and had a spider tattoo on the side of his neck?

Campbell added a drop of milk and sipped his tea. “What connection might Morgan have with this missing person?”

Wait a minute, mate, Annie thought, I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions. But she said nothing. She realized that a heavy-­handed approach wouldn’t work with an ex-­copper who also happened to be a pal of the person she was looking for. “Does Morgan have many visitors?” she asked.

“Not many,” said Campbell. “There are no wild parties, if that’s what you mean. At least not while I’ve been around, and I’ve heard no complaints from Ted in the office, or from the ­people on the other side. Word soon gets around about antisocial behavior, a place like this. We might not be the Ritz, but we’re not some backstreet fleabag hotel, either.”

“I didn’t assume you were,” Annie said.

Campbell ran his hand over his hair. “Sorry, love. You get a bit tired of some of the comments about us lot from Riverview up in the town. I’m just pointing out that we’re decent folk, most of us. We’re not Travelers, and most of us aren’t on benefits.”

Annie laughed. “You said Morgan doesn’t have many visitors. Does he have a girlfriend?”

“If he does, she doesn’t live with him, and he hasn’t introduced me to her.” He winked. “Maybe he’s scared she’ll run off with me, eh?”

“Not if he thinks he’s God’s gift. Do you know where his parents live?”

“No. He hardly ever mentions them. I seem to remember him saying his dad went back to Barbados, or some such place. And I don’t think Morgan’s from these parts. He’s got a slight Geordie accent.”

“Did you ever meet a lad called Lane? Mick or Michael Lane.”

“I met a lad called Mick once or twice. Morgan introduced him. In fact, he was another good worker. Nice lad. They both helped out with the new siding last summer. I gave them a tenner each. Well worth it for me. I believe they work together, doing odd jobs on farms out in the dale. He a farmer’s son, this Mick?”

“That’s the one,” Annie said. “We’re trying to locate Michael Lane, and as he’s one of Morgan’s friends, we thought he might be able to help.”

“I’m sorry but I haven’t seen Morgan at all this weekend.”

“How long have you been up here?”

“Since Saturday evening.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m supposed to be heading back in a ­couple of hours.”

“Don’t worry. We won’t keep you. Is Morgan often away for long stretches of time?”

“I wouldn’t really know. I haven’t paid much attention to his comings and goings, and Ellie and me aren’t always up here. He’s often gone for the weekends when we do come. Maybe he does have a girlfriend hidden away somewhere. It’s been such a miserable spring so far that we haven’t been up much at all this year—­hence the leaks. We were just as well off staying in Donny and getting a few jobs done around the house there.”

Campbell was obviously one of those cheerful DIYers who spent all their time at B & Q comparing spanners, toolboxes or bathroom tiles. Annie could understand doing your own maintenance to save a few bob, maybe, but clambering up a ladder and hammering in nails for fun, or laying tiles? That, she couldn’t grasp. Even Banks enjoyed it from time to time, and he seemed proud of the little fixtures and alterations he had made around Newhope Cottage. He’d done a lot of work on the conservatory himself, for example. It must be a bloke thing, she thought, like hogging the TV remote, not asking directions or insisting on doing the barbecue when they didn’t even know how to boil an egg.

When Annie’s roof had sprung a small leak in the worst of the summer rains last year, the roofer she called said it was too small a job for him and suggested that perhaps she could do it herself with a spot of lead and bitumen. She had almost suffered an anxiety attack on the spot. Luckily, she had found a local handyman who was eager and more than happy to clamber up on the roof and do the work for fifty quid, cash on the nail, no questions asked, and no ladder, either, Health and Safety be buggered. Ah, the underground economy. “When did you last see Morgan?” Annie asked.

Campbell sucked on his lower lip. “Let me see . . . it’d be a while back. Two or three weeks. Remember, we had a nice spell of sunshine in late February, early March?”

“What does he look like?”

“Look like?”

“Yes. Morgan. His appearance.”

“Well, he’s a bit shorter than me, about five foot eight, and stockier, I’d say, curly brown hair cut very short, and a sort of round face. More oval, maybe. Light colored, or light brown, enough so you can tell one of his parents is black. His dad, I suppose. No facial hair. He should have, though. Bit of a weak chin. There’s nothing that really stands out about him, except he’s got a slight limp in his left leg. Fell off a roof once when he was a kid, or so he told me. Oh, and he’s got one of those spider tattoos on his neck. Tends to be a bit flash with the bling, too. Gold chains, rings and what have you.”

“Do you keep an eye on his place when he’s not around?”

“I keep an eye on things for anyone who’s not around. When I’m here, that is. The others do the same when we’re not here. It’s not exactly a crime hot spot, but we get the occasional break-­in, as you probably know.”

“Notice anyone noseying around lately?”

“Only you.”

Annie laughed. “How old would you say Morgan is?”

“Early twenties. Thereabouts. Not much more.”

“Clothes?”

“Usually jeans and some sort of work shirt, or T-­shirt if the weather’s warm. Baggy jeans. Not those with the crotch around the knees and belt around the thighs, but just . . . you know . . . baggy. Relaxed fit.”

“Plenty of wiggle room?” said Annie.

“That’s right.”

“Does he need it?”

“Morgan’s not fat. Just stocky, like I said.”

“Hat?”

“Sometimes. Baseball cap, wrong way around. A red one. I don’t know if it’s got a logo. I’d have to see him from the back.”

Doug Wilson jotted the description down.

“Do you know where he keeps his van?”

“What van?”

“I understand Morgan’s in the house removal business. He has a large van.”

“I didn’t know that. Sorry, but I’ve no idea. I do know he rides a motorbike. A Yamaha. He usually keeps it parked beside the caravan.”

Annie could think of nothing more, but when they got to the door she asked on impulse, “Do you have a key to Morgan’s caravan?”

“No. Why? Do you think something’s happened to him?”

“We have no idea. As I said, we’re just trying to find his mate, Michael Lane.”

“Sorry I can’t help.”

“Do you think we could have a look around his caravan?”

“Got a search warrant?”

“Come on, Rick. You were a copper once.”

“It might just be a shitty old caravan to you, love, but it’s home to Morgan. Come back with a warrant and Ted’ll probably let you in. But, I warn you, he’s as much a stickler as I am. We look out for one another around these parts.”

“In adversity, solidarity,” said Annie. She didn’t know where she’d heard that before, but it sounded good. “I’ll bear that in mind. No problem. Thanks for your time.”

They struggled back into their wellies on the steps. “I really bollixed that up, didn’t I?” Annie said to Doug Wilson as they squelched back to the car. She could feel Campbell’s eyes on them as she walked.