“What happened to your finger?” Annie asked, noticing the bandages. She also noticed that Alex was looking tired, with bags under her eyes.

“I think I broke it,” Alex said. “Trapped it in the door.”

“You should see a doctor.”

“I’ve got an appointment for later this morning. I don’t think it’s so bad I need to go to A and E.”

“You never know.” Annie accepted a cup of tea and settled down in an armchair. “Is everything else all right? Ian?”

“Yes, of course. Why shouldn’t it be?”

“Nothing. You just seem a bit jumpy this morning, that’s all.”

“Well, wouldn’t you be a bit jumpy if your partner had disappeared off the face of the earth?”

“He hasn’t disappeared off the face of the earth, Alex. There’s a simple explanation for all this. We’ll find him. Have you seen or heard anything of him?”

Alex looked away. “No.”

Annie wasn’t certain whether she was lying. But why would she? “What about Morgan Spencer?”

“No.”

“His caravan was burned down during the night.”

Alex’s eyes widened. “Burned down . . . you mean it caught fire?”

“Was burned down. As in, it was deliberately set on fire.”

“And Morgan?”

“He wasn’t home. There was nobody inside. The place was ransacked first. Any idea why?”

“Me? Why should I have any idea?”

Annie leaned forward, put down her mug and rested her elbows on her legs. “Because I don’t believe you’re telling me everything.”

“Of course I am. What on earth do you mean?”

“Michael and Morgan were up to something, weren’t they? Maybe they were mixed up with some seriously dangerous ­people. We don’t know yet. But perhaps you do?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know anything. Surely you don’t believe Michael could have had anything to do with this fire?”

Annie could see the fear in her eyes, hear it in her tremulous voice, smell it like a particularly heavy perfume in the air. “I’m not sure I believe you,” she said. “Are you afraid of someone, Alex? Who is it? Morgan? Someone else? Michael? Has someone threatened you?”

“No,” said Alex, just a fraction too quickly. “Don’t be silly.”

Annie glanced down at her finger again. “What was that? A down payment?”

“I told you, I trapped it in the door.”

“Oh, yes.”

“I don’t care if you don’t believe me. You can’t prove otherwise.”

“You’re right.” Annie settled back and picked up her mug again. “You don’t have to tell me anything. And why should I care? But I was hoping you’d realize I’m trying to help you.”

“I . . . I . . . there’s nothing you can do.”

“You’re wrong about that. There’s a lot I can do. I’m on your side, Alex, but I need something to go on. Anything. I’m in the dark here. What’s Michael mixed up in?”

“Nothing. I told you.”

Annie sighed. “OK. If that’s the way you want to play it. Do you happen to know Michael’s blood type?”

“Blood type? Why do you—­”

“Can you just answer the question, please, Alex.”

“Well . . . not offhand. I have it . . . I think. . . . ” She excused herself and went over to the sideboard, where she rummaged through a drawer and brought out a small ring-­bound notebook. “This is where I keep all the important information like that, passport numbers and so on,” she said, flipping through the pages. “Here it is. A positive. Why do you want to know?”

Annie tried to show no reaction to the news. “It might help us find him.”

“You mean you think he’s been bleeding? Someone’s hurt him? Is he badly hurt?”

“Alex, do you have anything here that I might be able to get a sample of Michael’s DNA from? A toothbrush, hairbrush, perhaps?”

“Yes. He didn’t take either of those things with him. But why? Why do you need his DNA?” She grasped the collar of her blouse and held it as if she were cold. “You have a body or something, don’t you? You think it’s Michael.”

Annie walked over and rested her hands on Alex’s shoulders. “Alex, calm down. You’re letting your imagination run away with you. It’s routine. It’s not only dead ­people who leave traces of DNA, you know, or bodily fluids that can give us their blood group.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Alex ran her hand through her hair. “Can’t you see I’m at my wits’ end here?”

“Just give me what I ask for,” Annie said. “Please. And believe me, it will help.”

When Alex came back from the bathroom carrying a toothbrush and a hairbrush, she looked even worse. “You might want to tell your doctor you’re run-­down when you go and see him this morning,” Annie said. “He may be able to give you a tonic or something. Are you due at work?”

“Not today, thank God.”

Annie stood up and took two bags from her briefcase, placed the toothbrush in one and the hairbrush in the other and wrote neatly on the labels to identify the contents, asking Alex to sign as a witness. Still looking stunned, Alex did as she was asked.

Annie stopped at the door. “Just one more thing,” she said. “Do you remember if John Beddoes booked his trip to Mexico through GoThereNow?”

“Yes. Yes, he did. I took the details myself. But what—­”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“Why would I?”

“I don’t know. Just in passing, you know, in general conversation. After all, Michael knows him. It might have come up.”

“I suppose I might have. But I don’t understand. Surely you’re not suggesting that Michael had anything to do with that tractor, are you? I told you, he was here all night Saturday.”

“Until Sunday morning?”

“Yes.”

“When he got a text, probably from Morgan Spencer, and said he had to go out and do a job and might call in on his father?”

“Yes.”

Annie grasped the door handle. “I’m sure everything’s fine, Alex. Don’t worry. And be sure to keep your doctor’s appointment.”

“You’ll stay in touch?”

“As soon as we find anything out, you’ll be the first to know.”

“WHERE’S THAT bonny young lass and wee Harry Potter,” said Lane, when Banks showed him his ID and a warrant to search the premises.

“DI Cabbot’s on other business, and Harry couldn’t come today,” Banks answered. “He has an important Quidditch match.” He thought Annie would be pleased to hear that she had been called a bonny young lass, though she might not be so thrilled when she heard the source. Lane wasn’t that much older than she was, probably only in his mid forties, Banks guessed, though the years of hard physical labor had taken their toll on him: his shoulders sloped, his skin was leathery and weather-­beaten, his complexion rough and raw.

Lane snorted. “I suppose you’d better come in.” He glanced over Banks’s shoulder at the uniformed officers, who were already setting about their search of the outbuildings. “What about them?”

“They won’t be long, Mr. Lane. And they’ll be careful. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried. Let ’em look to their hearts’ content. I can’t imagine what they expect to find.”

Banks followed Lane into the living room. “We won’t take up much of your time,” he said, “only we’ve been around asking a few questions about your son, and the thing is, we still can’t seem to find Michael.”

“Oh.”

“You’re not worried about him?”

“Our Michael can take care of himself.”

“You said you last saw him about two weeks ago?”

“A little over. Two weeks last Friday. He was doing some work at a farm over the dale, and he dropped by for a cup of tea.”

“So you’re on speaking terms at the moment?”

Lane’s expression hardened. “We have our disagreements, but I’ve never shunned him. He’s my son.”

“Alex Preston said Michael told her that he might drop in on you last Sunday.”

“Well, he didn’t. And who might she be when she’s at home?”

“Alex is your son’s partner.”

“Partner.” Lane spat the word. “Scarlet woman, more like.”

“Have it your way. I’m not interested in your petty family squabbles. I want to find your son, and I want to find out what happened to your neighbor’s tractor.” Banks didn’t want to mention the blood just yet, the more serious reason for his questions, not until they knew a lot more about what had happened in the old hangar.