He felt a sudden urge to phone her. She was leaving for Australia in a ­couple of days on a book tour, accompanying Lady Veronica Chalmers, who wrote romances under the pseudonym Charlotte Summers. Then he remembered they had agreed not to phone. They both hated protracted good-­byes, and he knew that if he rang her, it would hurt after the call was over. Best stay with the music, whisky and memories of the weekend.

It was only the second time he had met Oriana’s Italian family, and he could tell that they were still suspicious of him, Oriana’s older man, but they also knew that she was special, that she wasn’t one for the callous young boys of the neighborhood, who were only interested in one thing, or even in the more serious youths, who wanted to marry her and tie her to home and kitchen and keep her barefoot and pregnant. The family knew that Oriana was a free spirit, so they respected her choice and tolerated Banks. Besides, he thought the Italians were far less concerned about age differences than the more stuffy English, though he didn’t know where he got that idea from. One of her uncles even called him commissario, usually with a humorous glint in his eye.

Finding the privacy to make love had been difficult, as the relatives insisted on separate rooms for their unmarried guests, but Banks and Oriana had managed to circumvent the problem once or twice in the early hours. Banks was sure an aged aunt on her way back to her room from the toilet had spotted him once. She had glowered at him the rest of the weekend but said nothing, perhaps because she couldn’t speak a word of English. Whether she had spoken to Oriana or one of her uncles, Banks had no idea. Oriana never brought up the matter, and he thought it best to let things lie.

The Macallan was going down nicely and the sensuous music of “Le spectre de la rose” flowed over him. It was dark outside, still a ­couple of weeks before putting the clocks forward, and all he could see was the black shape of Tetchley Fell, its ragged top a dark borderline with the lighter sky. Deliberately edging away from thoughts of Oriana, Banks let his mind drift back to the meeting he had just left.

A number of things puzzled him, not least of all whether there were any links between the tractor and the two missing boys. It was now Monday evening, and Michael Lane had not been seen since Sunday morning, thirty-­six hours ago, or thereabouts. They didn’t know yet when Morgan Spencer had last been spotted, and would have to carry out more inquiries at the caravan park to find out, but if Spencer had texted Lane about a job on Sunday morning, and they had met up, then it looked as if they might both have disappeared around the same time. Thirty-­six hours was not a long time for lads their age to be gone. But then there was the human blood in the hangar and the signs of recent activity there.

Les nuits d’été finished and Banks didn’t feel like listening to the two arias from Les Troyens that followed. He topped up his Macallan and went back in the entertainment room to pick something else, finally deciding on Gwylim Simcock and Yuri Goloubev: Reverie at Schloss Elmau, jazz piano and stand-­up bass.

Another thing about the meeting struck him as odd, he thought as he sat down again. Winsome had seemed very defensive toward Terry Gilchrist, though as a soldier with combat experience he couldn’t be easily dismissed as a suspect, even though he had found the blood and called in the police. Plenty of murderers reported their own crimes in the hope that doing so would discount them from suspicion.

And Annie had seemed defensive concerning Alex Preston and Michael Lane, though she had admitted that Lane might have been involved in the theft of the Beddoeses’ tractor. What was it all about? Was his team going soft on him? Or was he just getting more cynical and hard-­bitten as time went on? He didn’t like to think so, and he returned to thoughts of Oriana as he worked on the Macallan. Halfway through “A Joy Forever” it started to rain outside, gently at first, then hammering on the roof and blowing against the windowpanes.

ALEX HAD just put Ian to bed and turned on the TV to watch a repeat of New Tricks when she heard a knock at the door. Curious, she went over and opened it on the chain. She was greeted by an identity card quickly thrust toward her, then returned to the inside pocket of its owner, a heavyset man in a navy blue raincoat.

“DC Meadows,” he announced himself.

“You’re not the one who came before,” Alex said, feeling a little nervous. “Where’s DI Cabbot?”

“Her shift’s over. We can’t all work 24/7, you know. Besides, she’s a DI and I’m a lowly DC. Can I come in, love? It’s a bit parky out here.”

Alex closed the door, took off the chain and opened it for him. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just . . .”

“I understand.”

DC Meadows stepped into the living room. Alex took his raincoat and hung it on the hook behind the door. She noticed that he was sweating. “That lift still not working?”

He shook his head. “I’m not used to so much exercise.” He dabbed at his brow with a white handkerchief.

Alex had noticed that DC Meadows was a bit overweight. He was also either bald naturally or he had shaved his head, and his bare skull gleamed as red and greasy as his face from the effort of climbing the stairs.

“Sit down,” Alex said. “Catch your breath. Cup of tea? Or a glass of wine?” She turned down the volume on the television, assuming this visit wouldn’t last long and she could get back to her program. TV helped her forget her problems for a while, and she felt exhausted with worry about Michael since DI Cabbot’s visit. She also felt apprehensive about Meadows calling by so late. Had something happened to Michael? Had he done something wrong?

“Just some water, thanks,” Meadows said, patting his chest. “I’ll be fine in a minute.”

Alex brought him some water, poured herself a small glass of white wine and perched at the edge of her chair. “What is it?” she asked. “Have you found out something?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We were wondering if Mr. Lane has been in touch with you at all.”

“Mr. Lane? Do you mean Frank Lane?”

“Michael Lane.”

“Michael. I see. No, he hasn’t. I was hoping you’d be able to tell me something about him.”

“Well, we don’t know anything yet, you see, love. That’s the problem.”

“Problem?”

“Yes.” He scratched his scalp. “It’s rather delicate. We’d like to talk to him—­urgently, as it happens—­and we thought that if he went anywhere, it would be to you, or if he got in touch with anyone, it would be you.”

“I’ve been here all day, except when I went to pick Ian up from school, and I haven’t seen or heard a thing from him. I wish I had. I’m still worried sick.”

“I can understand that,” Meadows said. “But you have to see it from our point of view. I mean, ­people aren’t always, they don’t always come clean with the police.”

“Are you suggesting I’m lying?”

“We wouldn’t blame you for protecting him, love. We understand. We get that a lot. Only natural, after all. ­People care about one another.”

“Protecting him? From what? I reported him missing. I don’t understand this. I asked you lot to find him.”

“Now hang on a minute, miss—­”

“Don’t you ‘miss’ me. And you can knock it off with the ‘love,’ too. Have you found him or haven’t you?”

“Well, obviously we haven’t, or I wouldn’t be here asking you where he was, would I?”

“It’s not obvious to me. For all I know, you could be holding him in a cell and not telling me.”

“Why would we do that?”

“I’ve no idea. I just wouldn’t put it past you, that’s all. It’s the sort of thing the police do.”

“You don’t have a very high opinion of us, do you?”