“I suppose if you stop to think what you’re doing when you’re lost in a cold wet cave a hundred feet under the ground, it might seem like a sort of crazy thing to do.”

Winsome laughed. He liked her laugh, and that he could make her laugh. “I almost came a cropper,” she went on. “I was in the narrowest section, you know, worming my way through to the ledge overlooking the big cavern at Gaping Gill. When you panic, of course, you just get yourself more stuck. They found me and got me out, of course, but I think I must have lost my nerve after that. I thought there could be a sudden shower and I’d just drown like a . . . well, drown.”

“It can be very dangerous down there.” Gilchrist sipped his coffee. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

“What?”

“Drown.”

“Oh, yes. Me, too.”

They both laughed.

“Perhaps we could go together?” Gilchrist said. “Potholing, that is. When all this is over.” He tapped his leg. “This wouldn’t be much of a hindrance. Maybe I can help you get your nerve back?”

“Maybe. We’ll have to see.” Her tone sounded clipped, as if she were cutting off the possibility. Gilchrist felt disproportionately disappointed. After all, he hardly knew her. Was it forward to ask a woman you found attractive to go potholing with you? He no longer had any idea about the propriety or etiquette of such things. Best shut up about it and get to the questions she had come to ask him, stick to the point of her visit. To do otherwise would only be to invite grief.

“Do you remember anything more about those lorries you mentioned?” she asked. “Any markings or anything?”

Now they were back on familiar terrain, but even this Gilchrist found painful. He used to pride himself on his keen powers of observation and memory—­he would probably have made a good detective himself, his CO had once said—­but since the explosion, his memory seemed to have gone the same way as his leg. He only hoped it would recover as well in time. “I don’t think they had any markings,” he said. “I don’t remember any.”

“When you saw them, what did you think they were doing there?”

“I must admit, I had no idea. It’s like when you see all those juggernauts by the roadside at Scotch Corner. Drivers having a nap or something. They have their routines. I know they’re only supposed to drive a limited number of hours per day. They have to sleep somewhere, and it saves on B and B money if they sleep in the cab. These were smaller, so sleeping in the cab was probably out. In the back, maybe.”

“I suppose so,” said Winsome. “Did you ever get the impression they were delivering something, or picking something up? Ever see anyone loading or anything like that?”

Terry shook his head. “I think I would remember if I had,” he said, feeling far from certain that he would.

“What about the children you said you saw playing there? Do you know any of them?”

“I’ve thrown their ball back to them once or twice, but I wouldn’t say I know them. Not by name. They’re from the village. As I said, they’re all right, really, but the older ones do tend to be antisocial, or just suspicious of strangers. Maybe rightly so.”

“Do you know where any of them live?”

“I’ve seen a ­couple of them coming or going from houses when I’ve been shopping.”

“It might help if you could let me know the addresses.”

“I’m afraid I don’t remember. The streets are all named after trees, and I get confused. I could probably point out some of the houses.”

Winsome nodded and Terry watched her make a note in her black book. “We’ll send someone over when it’s convenient for you,” she said. “Maybe tomorrow morning, if that’s OK? We’d like to have a word with some of them.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I don’t suppose they’ll be able to tell you much, though. After all, they wouldn’t have been there when the lorries were.”

“No, but even so . . .”

“Yes. You have to be thorough.” Again, Terry felt disappointed that she wasn’t going to accompany him on a walk around the village to identify the children’s houses. He could point out the highlights of Drewick, such as they were. As it happened, he could only remember where one or two of the children lived, so it probably wouldn’t do her any good. They could canvass the whole village if they wanted. It wouldn’t take long. He also realized that it probably wasn’t a job for someone of her rank; she’d send a patrol car, most likely, and at most a DC to question the kids. But she had come to see him again in person. That was something to hold on to.

Before he hardly noticed, she was putting away her notebook and preparing to get up and leave. He was trying to think of a way to get her to stay when he had forgotten to offer her basic hospitality. “Forgive me,” he said. “I forgot to ask if you wanted anything to drink. Would you like something? Tea? Coffee?”

Winsome smiled. “No, thanks. It’s getting a bit late. I ought to be off. We’re not only in it for the perks, you know.”

He started to protest that wasn’t what he meant when he noticed the cheeky grin on her face. “Got me there,” he said.

He grasped the arms of the chair to heave himself up and follow her out, but she said, “No, that’s all right. Stay there. I can find my own way. Don’t worry about it.” Then she smiled again and the next thing he knew the door had closed behind her.

He sagged back into the chair feeling like an abject failure. He banged the chair arm with his fist, then thumped his gammy leg, too, just for good measure.

6

CALEB ROSS HAD BEEN DRIVING AROUND THE DALES farms for thirty-­five years, thirty of them for Vaughn’s ABP, always the white vans with the high sides, covered and leakproof, in their various incarnations. He wouldn’t say he knew the roads the way he knew the gnarled veins on the backs of his hands, but he knew most of them well enough that he didn’t have to drive every inch; he could usually let the internal cruise control take over for a while. He was also used to ­people overtaking him. Everyone wanted to overtake him, no matter what speed he was traveling, so he had learned to stay at a reasonable fifty and to wave drivers on when he could see that the road ahead was clear. If anyone honked a horn at him, he never heard it because he was always playing his loud music, usually of the kind known as progressive rock, from Rick Wakeman to Genesis and Emerson, Lake & Palmer. He liked the operatic structures of the concept albums and the fantastic stories they told—­The Six Wives of Henry VIII, Journey to the Centre of the Earth, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner—­they kept him interested as he did what was, most of the time, an extremely dull job. And an occasional puff or two on the old wacky baccy didn’t do any harm, either.

Early that Tuesday afternoon, he was driving south over Belderfell Pass from the western end of Swainsdale, listening to Pink Floyd’s “Grantchester Meadows.” It was not as progressive as some of the music he liked, but it suited his mood. He loved the drive for its panoramic views, no human habitation but for an occasional abandoned farmhouse, a distant dot on the vast landscape. Even in March, the greens were rich on the lower pastures and contrasted sharply with the patches of sere grass higher up. Belderfell Beck ran far below, a thin silver line winding along the narrow groove of the valley bottom, and squiggly lines of rills meandered down the daleside.

But Caleb didn’t enjoy the journey so much on days like this. On days like this, only the experienced, the foolhardy and the lost ventured over Belderfell Pass. It had been clear when Caleb had made his way up the hill out of Swainsdale, but now heavy clouds massed and threatened from the north and west, and the wind was getting up, changing direction every few seconds, buffeting the high sides of the van. Caleb gripped the steering wheel tightly.