It was rare that Annie felt sentimental about ­people she didn’t really know, and maybe it was a sign that she was leaving behind some of the depression and cynicism that seemed to have invaded her mind since the shooting. That was a good thing; she hadn’t liked the person she was becoming. Loneliness was turning her into a moody and sharp-­tongued bitch. If she got much worse, she wouldn’t be able to find anyone willing to put up with her, let alone love and cherish her. She just hoped that she didn’t get so soft she couldn’t see the hard truth when it was staring her in the face. Any good copper needs at least an ounce or two of skepticism, even cynicism. But Annie also realized that she had not completely lost her copper’s mistrust of the world, that some of what she had learned from Alex Preston had made her more suspicious of Michael Lane.

“Lane’s girlfriend, Alex Preston, works part-­time at that travel agent’s in the Swainsdale Centre,” she said. “GoThereNow.”

“The same one Beddoes used to book the trip?”

“Dunno.” Annie glanced at Doug Wilson. “We haven’t had a chance to check it out yet. We’ve been splodging around in the mud most of the day.”

This drew a titter from the audience. Banks glanced at his watch. “First thing tomorrow. Then we can scrounge up a few bodies and give the Lane farm a thorough once-­over, just to make sure Michael Lane isn’t there. That would be embarrassing.” He paused. “Do you think this Preston woman could be involved?”

“She’s worried sick,” said Annie. “She thinks something’s happened to Lane.”

“And you?”

“I’m taking her seriously.”

“Is anyone actually looking? I mean, he’s not officially listed as missing yet, is he?”

“No, sir,” said Doug Wilson. “But DI Cabbot and I got a recent picture and we’ve circulated it within the area. We’ve also been in touch with the airlines and railway stations, and we’ve asked to be informed of any activity on his mobile phone, debit or credit card. Nothing yet, not since last Friday.”

“Makes sense if he’s being careful.” Then Banks turned back to Annie. “And Morgan Spencer?”

“He wasn’t in when we called.”

“Do you think there’s a connection with the blood found in the hangar?” Banks asked. “It does seem a bit of a coincidence. Do you think the victim could be Lane? Or Spencer?”

“No. I . . . I mean . . . I don’t know. Maybe. I was just making a point,” Annie said. “I’m taking Alex Preston seriously. But now you come to mention it, an expensive tractor is stolen while the owner’s away in Mexico, a neighbor’s son with a criminal record goes walkabout, he’s living with a woman who works at a travel agent’s and his mate owns a removal van. It all seems a bit fishy to me. And someone texted Michael on Sunday morning, just before he went out. It could have been Spencer. It’s not as if we get such a collection of coincidences every day, is it?”

“Let’s see if we can find out anything about Morgan Spencer’s removal van and that text he sent,” said Banks. “And we’d also better look into who owns the aerodrome property. Does Morgan Spencer have a record?”

“No,” said Annie. “He’s clean as far as we’re concerned.”

Banks glanced toward Winsome. “Did you follow up on what Gilchrist told you about the lorries, get anything more, any confirmation?”

“Not yet, sir. We’ve still got officers out asking questions in the general area. Maybe someone else noticed these lorries, too. Though Mr. Gilchrist did say it was only three or four times in the past year or so.”

“If our thieves were using the hangar as part of a route for getting stolen farm equipment out of the country, or even across it, they would probably only have needed it for larger items, like tractors and combines. As far as I know, they’d slaughter any stolen livestock locally and dispose of it here through illegal channels. Dodgy butchers. Abattoirs that don’t ask too many questions. Quickly. Rustlers aren’t in the business of grazing stolen sheep and cattle. And the airfield and hangar were ideal for large transfers. After all, the place was padlocked and signposted private. It looked official, even though it was neglected. ­People would most likely assume that whoever ran the lorries in and out were the owners, using it for legitimate business, or at least had official permission to be there. We could be onto something here.”

“It’s possible.”

“Have another word with this Terry Gilchrist, Winsome. Could he be involved? After all, he is ex-­army, and he did find the bloodstains.”

“His dog did,” Winsome said. “I don’t really see why he’d follow it under a chain-­link fence in his condition, with the weather the way it was, and then phone us if he was responsible for it in the first place. Do you, sir?”

“Perhaps not, when you put it like that, but we have to consider the possibility.”

“Without Gilchrist and his dog, the crime scene could have gone unobserved for days, or weeks.”

“True,” Banks agreed. “Unless one of the lorry drivers noticed.”

“But if they had something to do with the blood,” Winsome argued, “then they’d hardly report it, would they, sir?”

“But Gilchrist does have a military background, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So he’s no doubt conversant with ways of killing?”

“I suppose so.”

“And military operations and criminal operations have several features in common, including a certain level of organization. He also knows the area well. It shouldn’t be too hard to track down his military records. You say he was injured in action?”

“Yes, sir. In Afghanistan. His legs.”

“But he’s still mobile?”

“I’d say he’s pretty nifty on his pins, sir, yes.”

Banks smiled. “ ‘Nifty on his pins.’ I like that.” He turned to DC Masterson. “Gerry, can you see about tracking down Terry Gilchrist’s military record? You know the sort of thing, any suspicions he was up to anything illegal while he was serving, black market activities, looting, whatever. And while you’re at it, have a look into John Beddoes’s finances. As Annie said, we can’t rule out insurance fraud.”

“Yes, sir,” said Gerry, scribbling fast on her pad.

“And we’ll need to know exactly who owns the abandoned airfield.”

“Consider it done, sir.”

“Excellent. Stefan, do you have anything for us? Tire tracks?”

“We’re still working the scene,” Nowak said, “but there’s not much chance of tire tracks on the concrete. From the mess they trailed in, though, I’d say there could have been two or three vehicles at the scene, but I can’t say when or what they were.”

“Fingerprints?”

“There’s no decent surface to get fingerprints from. Not the concrete floor and not the corrugated metal walls. The lock and the wire mesh gate are clean. We’re still dusting around the general area, but don’t expect too much with all the rain we’ve had. We might get a few partials or smudges, if we’re lucky. We’re also going to do a thorough luminal search. If blood was spilled there recently, there’s always a chance that the hangar was used before as a place of execution. There might be traces of previous crimes, and they might lead to DNA.”

“Good work, Stefan. Anything new on the trace evidence, Jazz?”

“You’ll have your DNA analysis sometime tomorrow, as promised,” Jazz Singh said. “And I want you to know it’s got me in trouble with Harrogate. They thought they had priority. In the meantime, all I can tell you is that the blood type of the sample is A positive. Not very exciting news, as it’s the same as about thirty-­five percent of the UK population. But if you look on the bright side, it rules out sixty-­five percent. I’ve sent the brain matter and bone fragments for outside analysis. We don’t have the facilities for that. I’m not sure what that’ll tell us, or how long it will take, but the odds are that it’ll be very expensive and you’ll probably have solved the case by then.” She smiled sweetly and rested her hands on the table. Annie made a note of the blood type.