The air smelled of wet ash and burned rubber, in its own way almost as bad as the smell of human innards at a postmortem. The area was roped off, but ­people stood outside their caravans or crowded around the edges of the prohibited area. Some were wearing only dressing gowns, having been woken by the blaze; others were already dressed and ready for the day. A number of uniformed officers made their way through the crowd taking statements. So far, nobody had seen or heard anything. More like they didn’t want to get involved, Banks thought.

Banks spotted Annie arriving and waved her over.

“Bloody hell,” she said, when she saw the devastation.

Of the neighboring caravans, fortunately, only one had been damaged by the flames, which was a small miracle in itself. Still, Annie told Banks, ex–police sergeant Rick Campbell would be mightily pissed off about his siding.

“Do ­people insure these things?” Banks asked her.

“I doubt it. The ones who live here year-­round probably can’t afford it, and the rest can’t be arsed.”

Hamilton conferred with his team and ambled over. He was never a man to be hurried, Banks remembered from the time they had worked together on a narrow-­boat fire. He greeted Banks, Annie and Gerry with his usual courtesy and pointed toward the ruins of the caravan. “Not much left, I’m afraid. Firetraps, most of these things, no matter how much folks try to fireproof them.”

“Anyone inside?” Banks asked.

Hamilton shook his head.

“Cause?”

“Well, we can’t be certain yet, but the sniffer dogs have found no trace of accelerant, and the burn patterns would seem to indicate the Calor gas burner.”

“You mean someone left it on?” Annie said.

“Mebbe,” said Hamilton.

“But you doubt it?” Banks prompted him.

“You know me, Alan, I’m not one for wild speculation in the absence of any real concrete evidence.”

“But . . . ?”

“Well, all I can tell you is that the rubber pipe had come out at the burner end. It’s very much the same principle as a barbecue, if you know how that works.”

“I know,” said Banks. “I’ve got one.” He had even managed to use it once or twice, between rain showers.

“I’d be careful, then.”

“Don’t worry, Geoff. I keep it in the garden.”

“Even so . . . as I said, it looks as if the rubber hose had come free at the burner end, but was still attached to the Calor gas supply.”

“Which turned it into a flamethrower?”

“Aye, more or less.”

“And this happened how?” Banks pressed on.

“Well, these things do happen by themselves sometimes,” said Hamilton. “Say, if the connection gets blocked by spiders’ webs, or something else gets stuck inside and the rubber burns through. But from the remains I’ve seen here, it looks very much as if someone set a little pile of paper on fire on the floor of the caravan, near the burner, ripped out the end of the hose, turned on the Calor gas and got out fast.”

“Arson, then?”

“A near certainty.”

“Professional?”

Hamilton pulled a face as he appeared to think it over. “Doubtful. A pro would probably just have lit a fire underneath the caravan itself. Easy to do. And it would have had the same effect eventually.”

“But someone was inside?”

“I’d say so. The lock area was splintered, the latch broken off. Fire doesn’t do that. Someone had put his shoulder to the door and pushed. It wouldn’t have taken much strength.”

“Any signs of a search?” Annie asked.

Hamilton glanced back at the damage. “As you can see, nothing much has been spared. I must say, though, that while the cupboards and drawers might have come open and spilled their contents because of the fire, one thing a fire can’t do is cut open a mattress and pillows.”

“So someone went through the place thoroughly before starting the fire?” Annie said.

“Looks that way. And then pulled out the connecting hose and did as I said.”

“Damn,” said Annie. “If we’d searched the caravan last night . . .”

“You can’t blame yourself,” Banks said. “You followed correct procedure. How were we to know someone else had the same idea as we did? We still don’t know whether it’s connected to anything else we’re looking into. Besides, no one was hurt.”

“Morgan Spencer was certainly connected to Michael Lane,” Annie said. “And Michael Lane was the son of Frank Lane, John Beddoes’s closest neighbor and the man who was keeping an eye on his farm while he was in Mexico. Michael Lane lived with Alex Preston, who works in a travel agency. Those are the only connections we know about for sure.”

“I know,” said Banks. “And I don’t like coincidences any more than you do. But what on earth could they have been looking for? Something he had of theirs? Or something that connected them to him? And who are they?”

“We won’t find out standing here,” said Annie. She looked at Hamilton. “Thanks, Geoff. If anything else comes up . . .”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Where are you going?” Banks asked.

“To see Alex Preston again, pick up Michael Lane’s toothbrush or hairbrush for a DNA sample. After that, I think young Dougal and I will have a trip to the seaside.”

Banks gave her a quizzical look.

“Denise Lane, Frank’s ex, Michael’s mother. She might know something.”

Banks nodded. “Keep an eye out for any signs of Lane while you’re out there. And keep in touch. I may see you at the station later today. Jazz might have something for us by then. Otherwise, report in when you get back from the coast.”

Annie hurried back to her car, head down.

“Know anything about Morgan Spencer, Gerry?” Banks asked.

“I did a quick background check when I saw whose caravan it was,” said Gerry Masterson. “His mother lives in Sunderland, and no one knows where his dad is. Back in Barbados, most likely. And he does have a record. GBH and breaking and entering. I’m still working on this removal van Morgan might have owned, but rumor has it he had a lockup somewhere. I’ll be tracking it down when I get back.”

“Soon as possible, if you can, Gerry,” Banks said.

“Will do.”

Banks turned back to the ruins of Morgan Spencer’s caravan. The fire would have burned up any traces of DNA. If Michael Lane’s DNA wasn’t a match for that in the hangar, it could mean that Morgan Spencer was the victim, though there seemed to be no easy way to verify that. The only evidence was circumstantial. According to Alex Preston, Morgan often called or texted Michael Lane about jobs, and Lane had received a text on the Sunday morning he went missing. If both Lane and Spencer were involved in the tractor theft, which wasn’t outside the realm of possibility, and if they had both turned up at the airfield that morning, were they both dead? Only Jazz Singh could solve that one when she came back with the DNA analysis. If not, had one killed the other and done a bunk? Alex Preston had told Annie that Michael Lane was home all Saturday night, but then she would, wouldn’t she?

Too many questions, Banks realized. They could give a man a headache. He was reading too much into too little. It was time to get back to the station and start trying to gather his thoughts down on paper, put a few ideas together before heading out to the Lane farm.

ANNIE WANTED to find out if Alex Preston knew Michael Lane’s blood type. She knew she could probably ask her over the phone, but that might prove tricky, taking into account the questions it raised and Alex’s anxiety, so she decided to go in person, even if it meant climbing up to the bloody eighth floor again. Besides, she needed something that would yield a sample of Michael’s DNA to take to Jazz.

By some miracle, the lift was working again, and Annie was spared the climb to the eighth floor. The smell was just as bad as last time, and she was glad when the doors finally opened. After a deep breath, she made her way along the balcony to Alex’s flat. It was still early—­she’d come straight from the caravan site—­and she was hoping to catch Alex before she went to work. As it turned out, Alex had just got back from taking Ian to school, and she was making a cup of tea when Annie called.