“Maybe he rode it to his lorry and put it in the back?” said Banks. “It wasn’t outside his caravan after the fire, either, perhaps because he was already dead. Which reminds me,” he said, glancing at Annie. “Could you have a word with someone at Vaughn’s ABP, where Caleb Ross worked? They must have a schedule of pickups or some such thing. There has to be some way of finding out how and where his body parts got mixed up with the fallen stock.”

Annie jotted on her pad. “And where it got chopped up like that,” she added.

“Let’s see what Dr. Glendenning has to say about that at the p.m.”

“Do you think Caleb Ross had anything to do with it all?” asked Gervaise.

“It’s a definite possibility,” said Banks. “The accident may have been beyond Ross’s control, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t know that he was carrying Morgan Spencer’s body. Or at least something not quite kosher. We’ll be looking for a link.”

“If it was an accident,” Annie Cabbot said.

“You think the van might have been sabotaged?” said Gervaise.

“I’m just saying it’s a possibility, ma’am. Maybe the crash site investigators will be able to tell us what happened.”

“Maybe,” said Banks. “But they don’t have an awful lot left to go on. If someone did sabotage the van, there may well be no evidence of that left.”

“Morgan Spencer had an oversize lockup on the Bewlay Industrial Estate,” said Gerry Masterson. “Apparently his van is sometimes filled with the contents of someone’s house overnight, and he’s required for insurance purposes to keep it somewhere safe, not just on the street, so the estate rents him the garage. It’s empty at the moment. We’re waiting for some free CSIs to send over there, but . . .”

“I know,” said Banks. “They’re all busy at Belderfell Pass, or the hangar.”

“Yes, sir. DS Nowak says he hopes he can get some experts over there by the morning. Until then, we’ve put a guard on the place.”

“We’ll put out a bulletin on the van and motorcycle.” Banks glanced at Winsome. “And the gray Peugeot. The landlord of the George and Dragon only reported one lorry coming out of the woods that Sunday morning, didn’t he?”

“Yes, sir. One racing green lorry.”

“Nothing going in?”

“He didn’t see anything. But if they were using the route for criminal activities, it would make sense to vary it sometimes.”

“I suppose it could have been Spencer’s lorry the landlord saw,” said Banks. “Gerry, do you think you could attempt to tie reported rural thefts in the region to traffic observed at the hangar or passing through Hallerby from Kirkway Lane?”

“We’d need a lot more data to go on, sir,” said Gerry. “I mean, it’s easy to collate the incidents of thefts from our crime figures, but that’s no use unless we have definite recollections from ­people who lived in Hallerby. Who’s going to remember when a lorry came down the lane?”

“The pub landlord might if you push him a bit,” Winsome said.

“If he does, see if you can make any connections,” said Banks.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know who owns the airfield property yet?”

“Venture Property Developments, sir,” said Gerry. “I spoke briefly to one of their executives on the phone. I must say I couldn’t get much out of him. He seemed rather abrupt. They’re based in Leeds. Apparently they’re still involved in legal arguments over zoning it for commercial use—­a shopping center. There’s some local opposition from the villagers in Drewick and Hallerby. They say it’ll ruin their peaceful natural environment.”

“Indeed it will,” said Banks. “Unless they can find some particularly rare species of bird or a few bedraggled badgers to get it a protection order.”

“The company doesn’t expect it to drag on for too long,” Gerry went on. “In the meantime, they haven’t been paying much attention to it. Other fish to fry. I asked them if it was locked up securely, and they said it had to be to comply with Health and Safety. But nobody from Venture has actually been there in ages, so they have no idea whether anyone has been using it for their own purposes.”

“According to Terry Gilchrist, the kids get in anyway,” said Winsome. “He says while walking his dog he’s seen them playing football and cricket inside the grounds there.”

Banks remembered his childhood, when he used to love playing in condemned houses. Did Health and Safety exist then? He didn’t remember ever hearing about them. If they had, he thought, there would probably have been no bonfire night and the old houses would have been more secure. But children are resilient and malleable. They can survive the occasional fall through the staircase of a condemned slum. “Talk to Terry Gilchrist again, Winsome. He’s the one who lives the closest. See if he knows anything else about the place. Anything. It might be worth finding out who some of these kids are, too, if he knows. They might be able to tell us more. Kids can be surprisingly observant. And find out what kind of car Gilchrist drives, just in case it comes up.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Winsome, “Mr. Gilchrist showed a ­couple of patrol officers where some of the children live this morning. None of them reported seeing anything. And he drives a dark blue Ford Focus.”

“Well done, Winsome. I’ll visit Venture tomorrow, myself,” Banks went on. “See what sort of outfit they are. Find out what they know about the properties they own. Rattle their cage a bit. There’s money and brains behind this rural crime business. It’s not just the Morgan Spencers and Michael Lanes of this world nicking tractors while the owner’s sunning himself in Mexico. It goes deeper than that. It wouldn’t surprise me if Venture’s cut in for some of the action. After all, they own the land and they know the hangar’s out there, empty. Anything else?”

Nobody had anything to add, so AC Gervaise closed the meeting.

“We’ve all got plenty to do,” Banks said as they filed out of the room, “so I suggest we get to it. Annie, would you meet me in the office in half an hour.”

AFTER ALEX had put Ian to bed—­the poor lad was tired out—­she went back into the living room and turned on the television, just for the company. She had kept the front door deadlocked and bolted, with the chain on, all the time she had been at home, and now she sat with her new mobile on her lap, fingers ready to key in 999 if anyone came to the door. Luckily, the SIM card hadn’t been damaged, and the man in the shop had set up a new phone with the same number and same account as the damaged one. She couldn’t risk not having the phone—­and the number—­in case Michael called.

Her broken finger was throbbing, but she decided against taking the painkillers the doctor had given her until bedtime. She needed to be vigilant. Meadows, the phony policeman, might come again if he didn’t hear from her, and she didn’t know how long her nerves could stand the stress of knowing there would be another visit, more threats, perhaps even more serious violence this time, or—­God forbid—­violence toward Ian, because she really had nothing to tell him. And if she did find out where Michael was, she could hardly give that information away to someone who wanted to harm him.

When the mobile jangled like the old black telephones used to do, she nearly jumped out of her skin. It was the first time it had rung, and she had had no idea what ringtone was set. She didn’t recognize the number and was in two minds about answering it. It could be Meadows. Then she decided she would. It was only a mobile phone; what harm could it do her?

After she spoke her name, there was a silence punctuated by some crackling in the background. Finally, his voice came through: “Alex. It’s me, love. Michael.”

Alex almost dropped the phone with the surge of relief that flooded through her. “Michael! You’re all right.”

“Yeah. I’m just peachy.”