“I’ll remember that,” said Winsome. “But I think I’m just about done now.” She ate the last small piece of cake, one of the pink bits with a marzipan border, washed it down with the last of her tea and stood up.

“Sorry I couldn’t be more help, lass,” said Wythers, walking her to the door. “Stay, boy,” he said to the excited young collie who had started to accompany them. The dog sat down by the hearth. “Stay. There’s a good lad.”

Winsome said good-­bye and stepped into the farmyard. She had seen, and smelled, enough farmyards over the past few days to last her a lifetime, she thought, but at least she hadn’t drawn Annie’s unenviable task of checking out the abattoirs. Still, Annie had come up with a viable lead in the stolen bolt gun and dismissed workers, and Winsome had come up with nothing except the possibility that Caleb Ross might have had something on his mind the day he died. Whatever it was, she guessed that it had lain at the other side of Belderfell Pass, and he had never reached it.

She started the car and headed back up the long drive to the B road. Instead of turning right to get back to the Swainshead and Helmthorpe road to Eastvale, she turned left toward the high moorland. She remembered this part of the dale well because the potholing club had visited it often. The hills that loomed ahead of her were riddled by one of the largest cave systems in Europe, with miles of underground passages linking huge chambers, some as large as the inside of a cathedral.

Thinking about her potholing days took her mind back to Terry Gilchrist. She still felt embarrassed about the previous evening. He had rung her that morning, before work, and asked her if she would see him, just to talk. Reluctantly—­mostly because of her embarrassment, not lack of interest—­she had agreed to have lunch with him on Saturday. How long could she go on behaving like a flirtatious virgin around him? Not that she would jump into bed with him—­it was only lunch, after all—­but she would make good on that kiss she had promised herself last night. It had been a long time since she had been romantically and physically involved with a man, that was all. It would take a little practice.

Beyond Wythers’s farm, which was right on the edge of the high Pennines, the land wasn’t much use for farming and was practically uninhabited. Sheep grazed there, of course, but that was about all. The road turned a sharp left toward Belderfell Pass, and Winsome could see it snaking up the hillside ahead. She pulled over in a passing place and got out to admire the distant view. She probably wasn’t that far from the Lancashire border, she thought, or perhaps she was even far enough north to be neighboring on Cumbria, where the wild fells and moorlands of the Yorkshire Dales would slowly morph into the older, more rounded hills of the Lake District. It was a panoramic but desolate view before her, that was for certain, two or three large hills like long flat anvils, a disused quarry, stretches of moor and marsh. She got her binoculars from the boot and scanned the distance. There were one or two isolated hunters’ lodges, owned by private clubs and used during the grouse season, but that was about all. She was already beyond the source of the river Swain, above Swainshead, and though becks and small waterfalls cascaded from the steep hillsides and meandered through the moorland, there were no rivers or tarns to be seen.

Shivering in the sudden chill breeze, she got back in her car and decided to take the long way back to Eastvale, over Belderfell Pass. Remembering Wythers’s warnings about the weather, she scanned the sky as she made her way up the winding, unfenced road. Before long, she could feel her ears blocking and ringing, the way they did in airplanes at takeoff and landing. She yawned and felt them crack and clear. The pass wound its way high above the valley bottom over to the next dale. She got about halfway when she encountered the first signs of the accident, the dots of the investigators still working at the scene way below. She could see scatterings of black plastic bags. She slowed down as she rounded a promontory and stopped for a moment to watch the men below, but the perspective gave her vertigo. She never usually had a problem with heights, but even the hardiest of souls had been known to tremble at Belderfell Pass. Going the other way was a lot easier, of course. Then you hugged the hillside all the way. But in the direction she was going, the direction Caleb Ross had taken, there was nothing between her and the sheer drop.

Soon she realized she had started on the slow and winding descent into the tiny village of Ramsghyll, nestled at the bottom of the hill and famous for its pub, the Coach and Horses, which boasted real ale and gourmet food. Hungry as she was, Winsome didn’t stop, but carried on through the village’s narrow high street, past the pub and onto the road that, beyond Helmthorpe and Fortford, would take her eventually back to Eastvale. Perhaps it had been a wasted journey, she thought as she drove along admiring the scenery in the lengthening shadows, and perhaps it had been a wasted assignment altogether, but she still couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling that the answer to Caleb Ross’s role in Morgan Spencer’s murder lay somewhere in the landscape she had just left behind. She was too tired and confused to do anything about it today, or even to know what to do, but she would approach the problem afresh tomorrow morning and work out just what it was that was niggling away at the edge of her consciousness.

THE DUCK and Drake was a popular old pub on Frith Street, in the heart of Soho, just a stone’s throw from Ronnie Scott’s. Banks had been there many times before, both when he worked in the West End and when he visited London or went down on business. Like this afternoon. The after-­work crowd usually started congregating early, and there were already a few ­people standing outside smoking and quaffing pints when Banks got there at four. It was a small pub, long and narrow. Banks walked past the crowded bar through to the back room, which was furnished with a few ancient wooden tables and chairs, and found the person he was looking for right at the back table, scaring prospective punters away with his churlish expression.

Detective Chief Superintendent Richard “Dirty Dick” Burgess stood up and beckoned Banks over, shaking hands vigorously. “Banksy, it’s good to see you again. How’s it hanging?”

Banks cringed. Burgess was the first person to call him Banksy since his school days. Not that he didn’t admire the artist’s work, but the nickname still rankled. Back at school there hadn’t been the “other” Banksy.

Burgess had worked for just about every law enforcement agency there had been, every acronym imaginable, had been involved in counterterrorism, drugs, ­people trafficking, airport security, homicide and organized crime. Now he was high up in the new National Crime Agency, the NCA, which had been working on Operation Hawk with the local forces. Though Burgess wasn’t the go-­to man for rural crime, he oversaw a variety of operations, and Banks was willing to bet he knew as much about what was going on there as the team that had been assigned to it.

“I’m fine,” said Banks, squeezing himself into the small space on a wobbly chair.

“I noticed the bar was getting busy,” said Burgess, “so I took the liberty of getting the drinks in. Lager for me, of course, and one of those fancy real ale things for you. Can’t remember what it’s called—­Codswallop or Cock-­a-­doodle-­doo or some such thing—­but the delightful young lady at the bar recommended it.”

“Thank you,” said Banks, and took a sip. It tasted good. Hoppy and full-­bodied.

“So you got my message?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Banks had received a phone call from Joanna MacDonald just after he had left Havers’s office, telling him that she had been speaking with the NCA about his visit. They wanted to talk to him while he was in London and see if they could share information. She had no idea it was going to be Burgess who turned up. Banks doubted that she even knew him. But Banks wasn’t greatly surprised. Burgess had a habit of turning up when you least expected him—­which was, perhaps, when you should most expect him. He and Banks had many points of difference, but they got along well and never let a good argument get in the way of the job.