Watching the Dark

Chapter 4

‘Are you sure this is the right place?’ asked Banks.

‘According to the phone company, yes.’

‘But it’s...’

‘I know,’ said Winsome. ‘Apparently, it’s won prizes, though.’

Banks gave her a quizzical glance. ‘Prizes?’

‘Yes. It’s quite famous. A tourist attraction.’

Banks opened the door and glanced inside. ‘Bloody hell, I can see what you mean.’

‘That’s why it’s famous,’ said Winsome, smiling.

The old red telephone box abutted the end wall of a terrace of cottages in the village of Ingleby, not far from Lyndgarth. The paintwork and the window panes were as clean as could be, not a scratch or a greasy fingerprint in sight. Inside, there was a carpet on the little square of floor, a vase of fresh-cut pink and purple flowers on the shelf by the directory, a box for donations, and an empty waste paper bin. Banks shook the donations box. It rattled with coins. The whole place smelled clean and lemony, and all the surfaces shone every bit as much as the outside, as if recently polished. There was even a functioning telephone, as shiny black as could be, and no doubt sanitised, too. In almost every other telephone box Banks had seen over the past few years, the cash box, if there was one, had been broken into and the phone ripped, or cut, from its connecting wire. The donations box wouldn’t have lasted five minutes, either.

What was more, Bill Quinn had received two telephone calls on his mobile from this very box over the past ten days, the last one on Tuesday evening, the day before he had been killed. There were other calls, of course, including several to and from his son or daughter, and one from an untraceable mobile number on the morning of the day he died, but this one seemed really odd. The team was already checking to find out what other calls had been made from the telephone box in the past ten days, especially around the same time as the calls to Bill Quinn.

Ingleby was a beautiful village, slate roofs gleaming in the morning sunshine, still a little damp from last night’s rain, limestone cottages scrubbed and rinsed clean by the wind and rain, the gardens neat and already colourful, though it was still only late April, ready to burst forth in spectacular fashion as soon as summer arrived. Smoke curled up from one or two of the chimneys, as there was still a slight nip in the air. Behind the village, the daleside rose steeply through green and sere slopes to the rocky outcrops that marked the beginnings of the moorland. A narrow track wound up the hill, then split and ran along the daleside in both directions, about halfway up. Cloud-shadows drifted slowly across the backdrop on the light breeze.

Banks felt as if he were in a place where nothing had changed for centuries, though the telephone box was clear evidence that they had. No signs of vandalism, neat gardens, obviously tended with pride. No wonder Ingleby had won the prettiest village award more than once. There were people in the cities who didn’t know, or even believe, that such places existed. Everybody believed in the urban landscape, with its no-go areas, dodgy council estates, riots, looting, terrorist hot beds, street gangs, people who would mug you as soon as look at you, and people who would kick the shit out of you if you so much as glanced at them. But this was something else. This was Arcadia.

Banks remembered the stories in a book he had read recently about wartime evacuees sent from the cities to the country panicking when they saw a cow or an apple tree because they had never experienced such things in their natural environment before. They thought that cows were no bigger than dogs or cats, and that apples grew in wooden boxes. Of course, there were other people, mainly in America, who believed that all of England was like this. The fact was that, while such pastoral idylls did exist in many pockets of the country, even in places as picturesque as Ingleby appearances could be deceptive; even in the prettiest villages there were things under the surface that didn’t bear close examination. As Sherlock Holmes had once observed about the countryside in general; there were stones you didn’t want to turn over, cupboards you didn’t want to open.

Banks took a deep breath of fresh air. ‘We’d better get the CSIs to come and check out the telephone box,’ he said. ‘I doubt we’ll find anything, the way it’s been cleaned and polished, but it’s worth a try.’

‘I suppose we’d better start asking a few questions, too,’ Winsome said. ‘Shouldn’t take long, a place this size. Should we ask her to help?’ She nodded in the direction of Inspector Passero, who had insisted on accompanying them from Eastvale and was now standing back, checking her mobile for texts.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Banks. ‘Let’s just keep her at a distance for now. She can tag along, but I don’t want her taking any leads.’ At least Joanna was wearing more appropriate clothing today, Banks had noticed, though even to someone as unversed as he was in matters of style and design, its quality and fashion cred were unmistakable. With her skintight designer jeans disappearing into tan leather boots a little below her knees, and the green roll-neck jumper under the light brown suede jacket, all she needed was a riding-cap and crop and she would be ready to set off on the morning gallops out Middleham way.

‘Please yourself,’ said Winsome with a shrug. ‘You’re the boss.’

There were several cottages clustered around the small square facing the telephone box, and Banks had noticed the net curtains twitching in one of them while they had been standing there. ‘Let’s start with that one,’ he said. The cottage he pointed to had a gate of blackened iron railings and worn steps leading up to the arched stone porch around the door. Creeping vegetation covered almost the entire front of the building like something from a horror movie Banks remembered seeing many years ago.

A few seconds after Banks rang the bell, an elderly woman answered the door. She reminded him of Margaret Thatcher; at least her hair did. The rest of her was plump and matronly, like a cook from a television costume drama, and she was dressed for gardening, in baggy trousers and a shapeless jumper. Banks showed his warrant card and introduced Winsome. Joanna lingered at the bottom of the garden, inspecting the herbaceous borders, as if not quite sure what to do. Banks identified her for the woman anyway, just for the record.

‘Gladys,’ the woman said. ‘Gladys Boscombe. Please, come in. I saw you looking at our telephone box, and you don’t seem like the usual tourist types we get.’ She had a hint of a Yorkshire accent, but it sounded to Banks as if she had worked at adding a veneer of sophistication to it over the years.

Banks and Winsome followed her first into the hall, then through to the living room. Joanna didn’t seem at all sure what to do, so Banks gestured for her to accompany them. It was a small room, and it seemed crowded with the four of them in it, but they each found somewhere to sit, and Gladys Boscombe dashed off to make tea. Nobody had refused her offer. The front window was open a couple of inches, despite the chill, and the silence was punctuated only by birds singing. The room smelled of lavender. The velour sofa and armchairs were covered with lace antimacassars, and even the hard-backed chair Banks sat on had a covered seat cushion. Knick-knacks stood on every surface and filled every alcove: delicate porcelain figurines of piping shepherds or waiting princesses, whorled seashells and pebbles, silver-framed family photographs, a carved ivory and ebony chess set.

That gave him a sudden, sharp memory of Sophia, who had been his girlfriend until a few months ago. She liked to collect shiny pretty things, too, and he had been partly responsible for some of them being vandalised. She had never forgiven him for that; in a way, it had helped precipitate the end of their relationship. He still missed Sophia, despite everything, and sometimes he thought he should try to get in touch with her again, try to rekindle the spark, which he was certain was still there. Then he remembered how she had ignored his calls and emails before, and he didn’t want to risk rejection again. Her ‘dear John’ email had been banal, chatty and brutal. He remembered how low it had made him feel, and how he had half-drunkenly responded with some gibberish he could hardly remember now. He wished he had acted in a more grown-up manner, been more accepting and kind. Clearly such happiness as he had known in those few brief weeks they had been together was not meant for him. Sometimes he felt dragged down by the recent past, and he wanted desperately to get beyond it, to be OK with Annie, with Tracy, with Sophia, even though he realised he would probably never see her again. Right now, there was nobody in his life except family and friends, and that was just fine for the moment. He had nothing to give anyone else.

Gladys Boscombe came back with the tea service on a silver tray, delicate little rose-patterned china cups rimmed with gold, matching saucers and teapot. She put the tray down on the low table in front of the fireplace and beamed at them. ‘We’ll just let it mash a few minutes, shall we? Giles will be sorry to miss you. That’s my husband. He’s always been interested in detective stories. Never missed a Midsomer Murders. The proper ones, you know, with John Nettles. But he’s out walking the lads on the moor. Perhaps he’ll be back soon.’

‘Your children still live with you?’ She looked far too old to have children young enough to take for a walk, but Banks thought it best to be polite.

Mrs Boscombe patted her hair. She ought to be careful or she’d cut herself, he thought. ‘Oooh, don’t be silly, young man. Both our children are long grown up and moved away. No, I mean the lads, Jewel and Warris, the Jack Russells.’

‘Ah, of course.’ Banks managed to suppress his laughter at the thought of two Jack Russells named after a pair of music hall comedians. Jimmy Jewel and Ben Warris; he hadn’t thought or heard of them in years. Must be dead now, he supposed, along with their contemporaries Mike and Bernie Winters. ‘Right. Thanks, Mrs Boscombe. We’re here about the telephone box, as you might have gathered.’

Mrs Boscombe eased herself down on the sofa beside Winsome. ‘Yes, I couldn’t think for the life of me why you were all standing around it chatting, then examining it like some museum exhibit. I can’t imagine why on earth you would be interested in that old thing,’ she said, a note of distaste creeping into her tone. ‘True, I suppose it is famous in its way, but it’s still an eyesore. And some of the people it seems to attract...’ She gave a mock shudder.

‘Actually,’ said Banks, ‘that’s what we’re interested in. The people it attracts.’

‘Tourists, mostly. A lot of foreigners. They leave their litter in the street and keep their car engines running, filling the air with that dreadful carbon monoxide. Some of them even stand and smoke cigarettes. I suppose we should think ourselves fortunate it doesn’t draw the younger generation, or it would soon be vandalised, no doubt, but even so...’ Mrs Boscombe poured the tea, offering milk and sugar to all who wanted it. When Banks lifted the cup to take his first sip, he felt that he ought to stick his little finger in the air. Joanna did so, he noticed. She caught him glancing and blushed.

‘Do the villagers use it often?’

Her eyes widened. ‘Villagers? Why would we? We all have proper telephones. Some of the newcomers even have mobiles.’

What year was it here? Banks wondered. And just how new were the newcomers? He was surprised that mobiles even got coverage in such a remote area, but there were towers all over the place these days. Still, the fact remained that Bill Quinn had received two telephone calls from the very box in question over the period he had been at St Peter’s. That certainly didn’t smack of passing tourists; it indicated deliberation, rather than chance. ‘Perhaps for privacy, or a fault on the home line?’ Banks suggested. ‘Have you noticed anyone you know using that public telephone over the past week or two?’

‘I haven’t noticed anyone I know using it for the past year or two,’ Mrs Boscombe replied.

‘Are any of the cottages rentals?’

Mrs Boscombe bristled. ‘I should think not. We have strict rules about that sort of thing in the village. Besides, who’d want to rent a cottage here? There’s no pub, no general store, nothing. You’d have to go all the way to Lyndgarth for anything like that.’

‘Perhaps someone who likes the country air, a walker, bird watcher, naturalist? Some people enjoy the solitary existence, at least for a while.’

‘Perhaps. But there are no rental cottages available in the village.’

‘Mrs Boscombe,’ Banks said, hoping not to betray in his tone the desperation and frustration he was feeling. ‘It’s very important. We have information that someone we’re investigating received two telephone calls from that box within the past ten days. Now, does that sound like a tourist to you?’

Her face lit up. ‘No, it certainly doesn’t. The tourists rarely use the telephone, or if they do, they use it only once. Mostly they just take photographs of their husbands or wives pretending to use it. Is it a true mystery then? Has there been a murder? Oh, I do so wish Giles were here.’ She checked her watch. ‘Perhaps if you could just stay for another half hour or so? He’s usually not so long. More tea? I have fresh scones.’

The prospect of spending any longer in the cramped living room surrounded by twee knick-knacks and a garrulous old woman had about as much appeal as a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. Winsome and Joanna were looking twitchy, too, Banks noticed. ‘Can you think of anyone?’ he asked. ‘You have the perfect view of the place. If the locals don’t use it, and the tourists don’t use it, then who does?’

‘Only the Gypsies, I suppose, if you care to count them.’

‘Gypsies?’

She waved her hand in the air. ‘Oh, you know. Gypsies, Travellers. Whatever they call themselves. They don’t stop anywhere long enough to have proper telephones installed, do they, and I don’t suppose they can afford mobiles, anyway. Not when they’re all on the dole.’

‘Who are these people?’

‘I’m afraid I have no idea. I’ve just seen them in the village occasionally, a man and a woman, separately. It may be terribly superficial of me to jump to conclusions, but there it is. Greasy hair, dirty clothes, unshaven face. And you should see the man.’

It took Banks a moment, but he glanced at Mrs Boscombe and saw the glimmer of a smile on her face. She’d cracked a joke, knew it, and was proud of it. He laughed, and the others laughed with him. ‘So did you see this Gypsy man or woman use the telephone recently?’ he asked.

‘Yes. A couple of times in the past week or two,’ Mrs Boscombe said.

‘But they weren’t together?’

‘No.’

Banks took out the photo of the girl with Bill Quinn. ‘Is she anything like the woman you mentioned?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘I didn’t get a good look at her, but I would say the one I saw was older, and she had a bit more flesh on her bones. No, it wasn’t her.’

‘OK,’ said Banks, feeling disappointed. If the photo had been taken a few years ago, the woman might have changed, he thought. ‘What about the man? What can you tell me about him?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything about him, or about any of them.’

‘Are there any others?’

‘I don’t know. I only saw the two of them use the phone, and it was always after dark. I could only see what I did because the box is well-lit, of course.’

‘Do you remember what days?’

‘Not really. I think the man was last here on Tuesday about nine, because I’d just finished watching Holby City, a little weakness of mine. The woman... it might have been Sunday. Or maybe Saturday. The weekend, I think, anyway.’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘I could only see him in the light from the telephone box. About your height, perhaps, wearing dirty jeans and a scruffy old donkey jacket, hair over his collar, hadn’t been washed in a while, beginnings of a beard and moustache.’

‘Fat or thin?’

‘Maybe just a little more filled out than you. Certainly not fat, not by any stretch of the imagination.’

‘The colour of his hair?’

‘Dark. Black or brown, it would be impossible to say exactly.’

‘Did he talk on the telephone for long?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t linger at the window to watch. All I know is by the time I’d finished what I was doing, he was gone again. Say maybe fifteen or twenty minutes.’

That didn’t quite match the four-minute call that Quinn had received from the box last Tuesday, so perhaps the man had made more than one call. The records from the phone box would tell them what other numbers had been called. If he had phoned Bill Quinn at about nine o’clock on Tuesday, that would have been during quiz night, so perhaps Quinn had missed quiz night because he had been expecting the call. It was a possibility, at any rate. ‘Is there anything else you can remember about this man?’ Banks asked. ‘How old would you say he was?’

‘I have no idea. Quite young. Mid-thirties, perhaps? The beard may have made him look older, of course.’

‘Would you recognise him again?’

‘I don’t know. I couldn’t really make out any clear features, if you know what I mean. I’m quite good at remembering faces, though, even if I’m not very good at describing them. I might remember him.’

‘Do you know where the camp is?’

‘There isn’t one, really. Not exactly a camp, as such.’

Banks’s shoulders slumped. ‘So you don’t know where he was living?’

‘I didn’t say that. I said there isn’t a Gypsy camp as such. Giles told me he heard it from a rambler that there’s someone living up at the old Garskill Farm. It’s about two miles away, on the moors. I can’t imagine what the poor fellow was doing walking up near there, even if he is a rambler, as it’s well off the beaten track and... well... it’s not the sort of place one wants to be alone.’

‘Why is that?’

‘One hears stories. Old stories. It’s a wild part of the moor. Most people give it a wide berth. There’s something eerie about the place.’

‘You mean it’s haunted?’

‘That’s what some folk believe.’

‘And you?’

‘I’ve no cause to go up there. It’s wild moorland. You’d risk getting lost — sometimes those fogs creep up all of a sudden, like, and you can’t see your hand in front of your face. And there are bogs, fens, mires, old lead mine workings, sinkholes. It’s not safe.’

‘Good enough reason not to go there, then,’ said Banks, smiling. ‘Even without the ghosts. What about kids? Is it somewhere the local kids might go to drink, take drugs or have sex?’

‘No. There aren’t really any local kids around here, and there are plenty of places nearer Lyndgarth or Helmthorpe for that sort of thing. Less remote, perhaps, but a lot more comfortable.’

‘So you think this man and the woman you saw might be squatting up at Garskill Farm?’

‘It’s the most likely place.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Not much to tell, really. Someone must own it, but I can’t tell you who. It’s been abandoned as long as I can remember. Falling to rack and ruin. I’m not even certain it was ever a working farm. It’s my guess it belonged to whoever owned the lead mines, and when the industry died years back, well, they moved on.’

Why on earth, Banks wondered, would someone walk two miles each way twice, eight miles in all, to talk to Bill Quinn on a public telephone if it wasn’t important? Clearly whoever had done it didn’t have access either to a closer land line, or to a mobile, or he feared that someone might be listening in to his conversations. But why? And what, if anything, did he have to do with Bill Quinn’s murder?

They heard the sound of the gate opening and dogs barking. Mrs Boscombe got to her feet. ‘Ah, here’s Giles and the lads. He will be glad to see you. You can tell him about all about the murders you’ve solved. I’ll just put the kettle on again.’

There was no easy way up and over the dale to Garskill Farm, Giles Boscombe had explained, before they managed to cut short his analysis of what should be done about the presence of Gypsies and Travellers. Neither Banks’s Porsche nor Winsome’s Toyota would make it up the winding track, let alone over the top and across the moorland. There were probably other ways in — from the north, perhaps, or even the east or west — but they would most likely involve long detours and, no doubt, getting lost. Even if mobiles worked, satnavs weren’t always reliable in this desolate part of the world. People often mixed up the dales and the moors, but Brontë country was a few miles south-west of where they were, though the moorland landscape on the tops between the dales had many similarities with the moors the Brontës had walked.

There were no village bobbies any more; like the oggie man, they were a thing of the past. But Banks did happen to know that the Safe Community officer in Lyndgarth happened to drive a Range Rover, and when they raised him on the phone, he sounded only too willing to whizz over to Ingleby and do his best to get them as close to Garskill Farm as possible.

When Constable Vernon Jarrow arrived, they left their own cars by the telephone box and piled into his Range Rover, Banks in the front and Winsome and Joanna in the back. PC Jarrow was a pleasant, round-faced local fellow with the weather-beaten look of a countryman. He said he was used to driving off road. Banks got out and opened the gate to the winding lane up the daleside, closing it behind him. Jarrow drove slowly and carefully, but the Range Rover still bumped over the rocks sticking out of the dirt and the ruts made by tractors. Some of the bends were almost too tight, but he made them. Banks was reminded of a tour bus he had once taken with Sandra to an ancient site in Greece, hugging the edge of a steep precipice all the way.

‘Do you know Garskill Farm?’ he asked Jarrow over the noise of the engine.

‘I know of it,’ Jarrow answered. ‘It’s been like that for years. Abandoned.’

‘Ever been up there?’

‘No reason to.’

‘Not even just to check on it?’

Jarrow gave Banks a bemused sideways glance. ‘Check on what? There’s nothing there.’

‘Mrs Boscombe heard rumours there’s been some Gypsies or Travellers staying up there recently.’

Jarrow grunted. ‘They’re welcome. Long as they don’t cause any trouble in the community.’

‘How do you know they haven’t?’

‘I’d have heard about it, wouldn’t I?’

It seemed like unassailable logic. Banks didn’t blame Jarrow for not checking out every square inch of his patch as frequently as possible, but that kind of complacency in assuming that he would know the minute anything was wrong was no excuse. Still, he let it go. After all, the man was driving them to a remote spot, and there was no sense in giving him a bollocking on the way.

When the track came to the east — west lane halfway up the daleside, PC Jarrow kept going straight on, up the daleside, where the road became even more rudimentary, so much so that it was hard to make out at all sometimes, forcing them back in their seats. Soon, they were weaving between outcrops of limestone, bouncing around even more than on the rutted track below. If Banks had contrived this whole business to irritate and upset Joanna Passero he couldn’t have done a better job, he realised, as he caught a glimpse of her ashen face in the rear-view mirror, hand to her mouth. But he hadn’t, and he found himself feeling sorry for her. He had no idea that she suffered from carsickness, and she hadn’t said anything. Still, there was nothing he could do about it at this point; she would simply have to hold on.

Soon they were driving across the open moorland, and while it was still as bumpy, at least they were more or less on the flat. This had once been an area of about two or three thriving villages, Banks knew. There was an isolated old house known locally as the School House, which was exactly what it had been even as late as the First World War. After that, the moorland had fallen into decline and never recovered. The military had been making noises for years about taking it over for manoeuvres, but they already had plenty of land in the area, and they didn’t seem to need Garskill Moor yet.

There were roads, tracks or laneways criss-crossing the rolling tracts of gorse and heather, and soon the bumpiness of the ride improved somewhat. Joanna took her hand away from her mouth, but she was still pale. Winsome didn’t seem bothered by any of it. Jarrow drove slowly, straight ahead. It was an interesting landscape, Banks thought. People often assume the moorland that runs along the tops between dales is flat and barren, but this landscape was undulating, with surprising chasms appearing suddenly at one side or the other, unexpected becks lined with trees, clumps of bright wildflowers, and the ruined flues and furnaces of abandoned lead mines in the distance. Even in the pale April sunlight, it resembled an abandoned land, an asteroid once settled, then deserted.

‘Does nobody live up here any more?’ Banks asked.

‘Not for miles. There used to be an old woman in the School House. Everybody thought she was a witch. But she died a couple of years ago. Nobody’s moved in since, so that’s falling to rack and ruin, too.’

‘Are we almost there?’ Joanna asked from the back.

‘Not far now, miss,’ Jarrow assured her. ‘You just hold on there. It’s in a hollow, so you can’t really see it until you come right up on it.’

They crossed over a tiny stone bridge and bumped along beside a fast-flowing beck for a while, then up the steep bank, along the top and, sure enough, as they turned a corner by a small copse, there, in the hollow, stood Garskill Farm; or rather, the ruins of Garskill Farm.

Actually, it didn’t look as bad as Banks had been led to expect. The three solid limestone buildings, arranged around what might have once been a pleasant garden or courtyard, were for the most part structurally intact, though there were slates missing from roofs here and there, and all the windows were broken. Most of them had been boarded up. The two outlying buildings were smaller, and had probably been used for storage, while only the central, larger building was meant to house people. Even so, if anyone was squatting there, they must be desperate.

Jarrow pulled to a halt by the remains of a drystone wall, which had clearly marked the border of the property. They all got out of the Range Rover. Banks felt shaky, as if all his joints had worked a bit loose, and Joanna Passero immediately turned her back and walked a few yards away before resting her palms on her knees and bending to vomit quietly into the shrubbery. Everyone pretended to ignore her. Even Banks felt no desire to take the piss. Only Winsome had had the sense to bring bottled water, and she offered some to Joanna who immediately accepted and thanked her, apologising to everyone for her little display of weakness. The wind howled around them and seemed to use the buildings as musical instruments, whistling in the flues and rattling loose window boards like percussion. Mrs Boscombe had certainly been right about how eerie it was up there.

Banks stepped over some variously shaped stones that had once formed the drystone wall. A lot of skill had no doubt gone into building that wall, he thought, and now it had collapsed, brought down by stray cattle or sheep, or winter storms freezing the water in the cracks and expanding. Such drystone walls were built to withstand most things nature could throw their way, but they needed a little repair work now and then, a little tender loving care.

Finding himself standing in a garden completely overgrown by weeds, mostly nettles and thistles up to thigh height, Banks paused and turned to address the others. ‘OK,’ he said, stepping back. ‘There doesn’t seem to be any kind of an easy way in here, and if anyone was using the place you’d think they’d at least clear a way in and out.’

‘Round the other side?’ Winsome said.

‘Exactly. So let’s make our way around the perimeter and see if we can’t find an easier access point. And be careful. There are bloody nettles and thistles everywhere. Winsome, will you take Inspector Passero and check out that first outbuilding, on the left there. PC Jarrow, you come with me, and we’ll start with the centre building, then we’ll all meet up in the one on the far right.’

‘I’ve got a couple of torches in the Range Rover,’ said Jarrow. ‘We might need them in there.’

‘Good idea,’ said Banks.

They waited until Jarrow brought the torches and tested them, then Banks led the way around the remains of the garden wall, just as overgrown on the outside as on the inside, and along the end of the building to their left. They were at the back of the house now, and able to step into the yard over a ruined section of wall. When they arrived at the doorway of the first building, Winsome and Joanna pushed it open and disappeared inside. Banks and Jarrow continued across a stretch of high grass to the back of the house itself.

It was just as dilapidated as the outbuildings from the outside, though it might have been a grand house in its day. Banks stopped before they got to the door and pointed. Jarrow followed his gaze. The pathway worn through the undergrowth from the door to a driveway that crossed the back of the property was clear to see. Obviously, if one or more people had been squatting here, they needed to be able to get in and out, no matter how far they had to walk to the nearest shop or telephone. Ultimately, through a network of unfenced roads, tracks and laneways, if they had any means of transport they could connect with the A66, and from there to Carlisle, Darlington, the M1, A1, and pretty much anywhere else in the country. But the quickest way to Ingleby was the way Banks and the others had just come.

There were no signs of any cars around, except the burned-out chassis of an old Morris Minor in a backyard filled with rusty farm, gardening and mining equipment. Banks’s father used to drive a Morris Minor years ago. He remembered family outings to the countryside as a child, his mother and father sitting proudly up front, him and his brother Roy fighting in the back. They were good memories: hot sweet tea from a Thermos, orange juice and sandwiches and buns in a field by the river, or even on a roadside lay-by, ice creams, swimming in the river shallows if it was a warm enough day.

The implements were nothing unusual. Banks had seen similar things in some of the Dales’ museums. The closest anything came to transport was an old wooden cartwheel with most of the spokes missing. The silence beyond the wind was even more all-encompassing up here than in Ingleby. A curlew’s sad call drifted from the distant moors, but that was all, apart from Jarrow’s heavy breathing and the moaning of the wind in the flues, a loose board clattering somewhere. There was a heavy wooden door with peeling green paint wedged into the doorway at the back, halfway along the building. A simple push from Jarrow’s shoulder opened it and they walked inside, switching on their torches. It seemed to be one long room, like the banquet hall of an old Viking dwelling or a school dormitory, and the torchlight picked out two rows of thin foam mattresses. There were ten on each side, all stained and damp. Here and there, two of the mattresses had been pulled close together, as if their occupants were trying to mimic a double bed or huddle close for warmth. There were no pillows. Whoever had been there, it looked as though they were gone. The walls were stone, and there was no ceiling, only bare rafters holding up the roof. In one or two places, the tiles and surfacing had disappeared, letting in the light from outside. Rain, too, no doubt, as the buckets carefully placed under each hole attested. Dirty blankets lay bunched up beside most of the mattresses.

The smell was almost overwhelming. A human smell, only magnified: dirty socks, urine, vomit, sweat. The smell of poverty and desperation. Gnawed bones, chicken legs most likely, and some empty takeaway food cartons and Costa Coffee cups littered the floor. McDonald’s. Burger King. Kentucky Fried Chicken. The food must have been freezing before it got here, Banks thought, even though someone must have had a car. The nearest McDonald’s was probably the one in Eastvale, at least fifteen miles away. Still, perhaps it was better than nothing. There appeared to be no cooking or food storage facilities here.

At the far end of the room was a trough of murky water with a long spoon on a hook, curved at the bottom so it could be used for drinking. Next to it, behind a ratty, moth-eaten curtain, was a bucket. Banks didn’t need the torchlight to show him what was in it. He turned away in disgust. His eyes lighted on a tattered paperback lying beside one of the mattresses. He knelt down and picked it up carefully. It wasn’t in English, and he couldn’t guess what language it was from any of the words, though the sheer number of consonants, and the odd symbols crowning some of the letters, made him think of Polish. The paper was already faded, and some of the pages were torn. Banks put it back.

‘What do you think?’ Jarrow whispered.

‘I don’t know,’ said Banks, still kneeling by the thin foam mattress. He stood up and brushed off his trousers. ‘I can tell you one thing, though. I doubt very much we’re dealing with Gypsies or Travellers. They don’t usually live like this.’

‘Squatters?’

‘More like it. Let’s go.’

Glad to be outside again, Banks and Jarrow took a few deep breaths of relatively fresh air and watched the women coming over to meet them. ‘It’s a rudimentary loo,’ Winsome said, ‘though there’s no sewage system from what I can see.’

‘There’s a sort of basic shower, too,’ Joanna added. ‘It’s hooked up to a cold water tank. There doesn’t seem to be any hot.’

‘There wouldn’t be,’ said Banks. ‘Someone would have to pay for that. Maybe they fill a cold water tank from the beck, or just let the rain collect.’ He told them what he and Jarrow had found in the larger building.

Winsome and Joanna poked their heads inside and came out quickly. ‘My God,’ said Winsome. ‘What’s been happening here?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Banks. ‘It looks like a squat, but do you remember that converted barn outside Richmond a few years back? It was in a bit better shape than this set-up, but not much. They found a whole bunch of unskilled migrant labourers living there in dreadful conditions. They were mostly Eastern European, and they’d been enticed over here by promises of work. For a fee, of course. Instead they found themselves basically bound in slavery to a gangmaster, owing so much money they could never pay their way out of it, and what they did have to pay left them nothing to live on — or to run away with.’

‘The kind of people Warren Corrigan preys on,’ said Winsome.

Banks gave her an appreciative glance. ‘So you do listen to the briefings?’

Winsome smiled. ‘Of course, sir. Sometimes.’

‘The impression I got was that he operates mostly in the cities, but it’s a good point. Keep it in mind. It looks very much as if Bill Quinn’s team might have had a man on the inside. We’ll have a little talk with pal Corrigan soon.’ Banks glanced towards the final, and smallest, of the three buildings. The boards were still in the windows, and the back door was shut, though, again, it proved not to be locked, and it wasn’t much of a barrier against Jarrow’s firm shoulder.

At first, the two torch beams picked out nothing except a pile of dirty bedding, another trough of filthy water, a rickety old chair and a few damp ragged towels and lengths of rope. A broken broom handle leaned against the wall by the door, and Banks used it to poke among the tangle of sheets and blankets on the floor. The handle touched something firm but yielding. Already feeling that clenching in his gut that warned him what was coming, Banks used the stick to hook and pull away the rest of the sheets and blankets, and the four of them gazed down on a man’s body. He was naked, and his skin gleamed with a strange greenish tinge in the artificial light. He was thin, he had longish, greasy dark hair and the beginnings of a beard, and beside him, among the heap of filthy bedding, was a worn donkey jacket and a pair of dirty jeans.

As the strong fingers worked on the muscles around her neck and shoulders, Annie finally gave herself up to Daniel Craig’s magic touch. Her breath came sharply, and her whole body tingled with warmth and pleasure. His hands slid down the small of her back towards the base of her spine. She waited for the touch of his lips and that slight scrape of five o’clock shadow in the sweet spot between her neck and shoulder, then he would turn her over, his lips would continue slowly down her body, and his hands would—

‘That’s it for today, love.’

The gravelly voice shattered Annie’s erotic reverie. Of course it wasn’t Daniel Craig; it was just Old Nobby, the St Peter’s masseur. Old Nobby was ex-navy and a bit long in the tooth, with anchor tattoos on both forearms and enough of the sea-dog about him that his other nickname around the place was Popeye. But he had magic fingers, was a damn fine masseur, and Annie found that if she closed her eyes and let herself drift, he could be anyone she wanted him to be for half an hour.

‘Thanks, Nobby,’ Annie said, pulling the bathrobe around her and securing the belt as she sat up. She might not mind letting Daniel Craig see her charms, but not Old Nobby. Not that he seemed interested. He had his back turned to her, and he was bent over the desk filling out forms. She liked Nobby. He was a bit of an amateur philosopher. He had an open and inquiring mind and often seemed happy to chat for ages about practically nothing at all after sessions. The conversations were almost as relaxing as the massages, though not quite as sexually stimulating. Her skin still tingled pleasantly. Whether he knew of the effect he had on her, she had no idea, and she was certainly not going to ask him.

Now that Annie was back in the real world, she could hear sounds from outside. Though St Peter’s was trying to drag itself back to normal — the regular massage routine, for example — the place was still crawling with police and CSIs. It shouldn’t take much longer now, though, she thought. All the guests and most of the part-time staff had been questioned, according to Winsome, some more than once, their backgrounds and alibis no doubt thoroughly checked, and it didn’t seem as if anyone from the centre either knew anything or had anything to do with what had happened to Bill Quinn. There might still be some connection they hadn’t unearthed yet, but Annie doubted it. Whatever fate had befallen Bill Quinn, she believed, had happened because of outside, and had come from outside. It had followed him here, or found him here, without any help from St Peter’s itself. His presence here had been no secret; no tip-off from the inside would have been needed for anyone who wanted to locate him.

‘You’re doing a grand job, Nobby,’ she said.

Nobby turned from his paperwork and sat on the only office chair. Annie remained perched on the edge of the massage table.

‘Thanks, lass,’ he said. ‘Bad business, all this, eh?’ He gestured towards the activity outside.

‘It certainly is.’

‘You knew him?’

‘No. You?’

‘Just professionally, like.’

‘Did he talk much?’

‘Sometimes. You know, I’ve always thought a good massage can work a bit like hypnosis. Take a person deep down to those long forgotten places, events and feelings. Sometimes that’s where the answer lies.’

Sexual fantasies, too, Annie thought. She wondered if Bill Quinn had dreamed of the girl in the photo as Nobby’s fingers worked their magic on him. Or was it different for a man, especially when it was another man touching him? ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

Nobby shifted to make himself more comfortable. His chair creaked. ‘Must get this bloody thing oiled. I suppose what I mean is that often the root of the problem isn’t obviously physical. Even something as simple as neck pain or back pain.’

‘You mean like when something’s psychosomatic?’ she said.

‘A massage can work both ways, you know.’ Nobby held his hands up. ‘Lethal weapons,’ he said, and laughed.

Annie laughed with him, but she guessed there was more than a grain of truth in what he said. After all, rumour had it that he had been seconded to the SAS at one time.

‘You have to be careful not to exacerbate the problem,’ he went on. ‘As you can attest better than most, nerves are sensitive things.’

‘I certainly can. What about Bill Quinn?’

‘His neck? There wasn’t a lot wrong with it, as far as I could tell. Certainly not the kind of physical problems you had when we first started our sessions.’

‘Swinging the lead?’

Nobby paused before answering. ‘No. I don’t think so. We can resist getting better for any number of reasons we’re not aware of.’

‘Like what?’ she asked.

‘The usual. Fear. Despair. Indifference. Indecision. Lack of confidence. Guilt, even.’

‘And in Bill’s case?’

‘He was troubled.’

‘By what? Did he talk to you, Nobby? Did he tell you something?’

‘No, not in the way you mean. Not anything you could put your finger on.’ Nobby flashed her a crooked grin. ‘Always the copper first, I suppose, eh?’

‘Well, I am due to start working on the case officially on Monday. Thought I might get a head start.’

‘Aye, well. To answer your question, yes, we talked sometimes.’

‘And you didn’t tell the police officer who questioned you?’

‘You make it sound like there was something to tell. It was nothing but blethering, smoke in the wind. We had some conversations, as you do. As we’re doing now. Our conversations were rambling, vague and philosophical.’ He snorted. ‘All the police officer asked me was where I was after dark on Thursday evening, if I knew how to use a crossbow, did I belong to any archery clubs? Had I known Bill Quinn on the force? I was never even on the force, for crying out loud. I was a navy medic, and now I’m a qualified masseur. They asked about practical things. Our conversations weren’t practical.’

Banks would get along with Nobby very well, Annie thought. He placed as much value in the vague and philosophical as Nobby did. That was why he often went against the rules and spoke to witnesses, even suspects, by himself. He said most detectives didn’t know the right questions to ask. ‘Go on,’ Annie said. ‘What were they about, then?’

‘Mostly my own thoughts and imaginings, I suppose,’ said Nobby.

‘Will you tell me?’

‘No reason not to, I suppose. It’s not as if it’s under the seal of the confessional, or the Official Secrets Act, or anything. And I’m not his shrink. But only because I like you. There’s nothing to tell, really, so don’t get your hopes up. Like I said, I got the impression that Mr Quinn was a troubled man. He said he’d been having these neck pains for about five or six years, and he’d never had any problems before then. It didn’t sound as if the cause was ergonomic. You know, too long at the computer keyboard — he hated computers — or even bad posture at the desk. Apparently he was like you, the kind of copper who liked to get out on the streets, and in his spare time he worked on his allotment, went fishing, spent time with his family. Even so, necks are funny things. The vertebrae deteriorate with age, but the X-rays didn’t show any serious deterioration in his case. Only moderate. What you’d expect.’

‘So you’re saying the causes were psychological?’

‘I’m not a psychiatrist or a physiotherapist, so don’t quote me on that. Can you see why it’s not something you’d find easy to put into words? I don’t even know why I’m telling you. I suppose it’s because he’s dead, and I’ve been thinking about him. Just days ago, he was alive as you or I.’ He held up his hands. ‘I could touch his skin, the muscle underneath, feel the give and the push, the knots. You know his wife died recently?’

‘Yes.’

‘Of course you do. He was devastated, grief-stricken, poor bloke. I think that was something that brought us together. I knew what he felt like. I lost my Denise five years ago, so I suppose you could say we had something in common. I’m not a grief counsellor, so I couldn’t help him with it in any way, but it was something we could talk about.’

‘So you talked about grief, the death of his wife?’

‘Yes. Sometimes. And about grief in general. And guilt. Could he have done more? Did he let her down? Was he to blame?’

‘He wasn’t, was he?’

‘Of course not,’ Nobby said. ‘That’s just the way you think sometimes when you lose somebody you love. You blame yourself. He was out on surveillance, incommunicado, the night she died. He didn’t find out until the next morning. The kids were away at university. She died alone. Guilt over things like that can gnaw away at you.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘I told you. I’m not a counsellor. I couldn’t do anything but sympathise with him, as I would with anyone in that position, and reassure him that all this was normal.’

‘What did he want? I mean, why was he telling you all this?’

‘Like I said, we had something in common. He seemed to want some kind of absolution, as if he was seeking atonement.’

‘Atonement for what?’

‘Dunno. He didn’t say. But it was something that haunted him.’

‘Something he’d done?’

‘Or not done. It’s far too easy to regret things you’ve done. He was drinking a bit too much. One of his kids had said something, and he’d read up on AA. He hadn’t joined, hadn’t thought he needed to yet, that there was still time to gain control over it. He saw the drink as temporary relief, a crutch, you know the sort of thing. Anyway, I’ve been there, too, in my long and chequered career, and we got talking a bit philosophically, as you do, about addiction and the whole twelve-step programme, and he seemed fascinated by the idea of being given the chance to change the things you can change and let the higher power deal with those you can’t, and having the wisdom to know the difference.’

‘I’ve heard it,’ said Annie. ‘It sounds heavy. And complicated.’

Nobby laughed. ‘It’s not so heavy,’ he said. ‘It’s definitely not easy, though. He asked me if I thought that if a person knew a wrong had been done, and he thought he could put it right, should he try to do it, no matter what the cost to himself or others?’

‘What did he mean?’

‘I don’t know. That’s all he said about it.’

‘What was your answer?’

‘I didn’t have one. Still don’t.’

‘Was he talking about himself?’

Nobby stood up. It was time for his next patient. ‘That I don’t know. Like I said, he was a haunted man.’

Fortunately, Jarrow had a police radio in his Range Rover, but even so, it took over three hours to get a CSI team, police surgeon and photographer up to Garskill Farm. In the end, ACC McLaughlin had to bite the bullet and pay for a helicopter to get Dr Burns and Peter Darby there, complaining all the while about how expensive the whole business was becoming, and hinting that this was somehow Banks’s fault. The CSIs managed a bumpy journey up from Ingleby in their well-sprung van, which looked a bit the worse for wear when it pulled up by the garden wall. They were especially disgruntled as it was the weekend, and they weren’t even Eastvale CSIs, who were still busy at St Peter’s. They had come all the way from Harrogate. They also seemed to blame Banks for all their woes, especially the Crime Scene Manager, a particularly surly and obnoxious individual called Cyril Smedley, who did nothing but complain about contamination and bark orders at all and sundry. It made Banks long for Stefan Nowak, who went about his business in a quiet and dignified manner. But Stefan had St Peter’s to deal with.

On the phone, Banks had warned everyone to avoid coming in from the north of the buildings, as there was a driveway leading to a lane, and that was the most likely area they would find tyre tracks, footprints and other trace evidence. It needed to be preserved, in case the rains hadn’t washed every scrap of evidence away. On a brief reconnoitre, Banks had noticed a couple of sandwich wrappers and an empty paper coffee cup in the grass beside the worn path to the driveway, all of which might prove useful in providing DNA or fingerprint evidence if they had been sheltered well enough from the elements. Whatever these people were up to, they certainly weren’t very tidy about it. Already several CSIs were taking casts and collecting whatever they could find on the path and driveway. Peter Darby was taking digital video of the whole show.

Darby had finished photographing the body, and Banks crouched beside Dr Burns as he examined it in situ under the bright arc lamps the CSIs had set up. The helicopter was waiting beyond the compound to take it to the mortuary when he was finished, but Dr Glendenning, the Home Office pathologist, was away for the weekend, and there would be no post-mortem until Monday. Anything Dr Burns could tell them today might prove vital.

Banks had already been through the pockets of the discarded clothing and found nothing but fluff. It was the same as with Bill Quinn; everything had been removed from the victim’s pockets. Now the various articles of clothing had been bagged and labelled by the CSIs along with the growing pile of exhibits. It was going to be a tough job to get everything out of here. The idea of establishing a mobile murder room at the site was out of the question, but officers would have to be left on guard day and night as long as it was still classified as a crime scene. The CSIs had already divided the area into zones, which the designated officers were searching thoroughly. Banks didn’t envy them crawling around in the wet nettles and animal droppings.

‘What do you think, doc?’ Banks asked, returning his attention to the body.

‘There are signs of violence,’ Burns said. ‘Bruising on the shoulders and upper arms, indications that the wrists were bound.’ He pointed out the red chafing. ‘But none of these seem to me to constitute cause of death.’

Banks pointed to the thighs and chest. ‘What about those bloody marks?’

‘Small animals. Rats, most likely.’

Banks gave a shudder. ‘No crossbow bolt?’

‘Not this time.’

‘What do you think of his hands?’

Dr Burns examined them. ‘They seem in pretty good condition. He bit his nails, but not excessively.’

‘Are they the hands of an unskilled manual labourer?’

‘Of course not. There are no callouses, no ground in grime. These hands haven’t been used for anything more strenuous than carrying the shopping home.’

‘I thought not,’ said Banks. ‘What about his general condition? He was living pretty rough.’

‘Not bad, considering. I’d place him in his late thirties, early forties, generally quite fit, probably runs or works out in some way. The liver’s not enlarged, at least not to the touch, so he’s probably not a serious drinker. No sign of tobacco staining on the teeth or nicotine on the fingers, so he’s probably not a smoker. I can’t really say much more from a cursory external examination. I’m only really here to pronounce him dead, you know. And he is. Quite dead.’

‘I know that,’ said Banks. ‘But I also need some indication of time and cause of death.

Dr Burns sighed. ‘The same old story.’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘All I can say is that rigor has been and gone, and taking the temperature up here into account, I’d guess three days, probably more. But as you know, there are so many variables. It’s not been that cold outside, but it does get chilly at night.’

‘He died before Bill Quinn?’

‘Oh, yes. I’d say he definitely died before the last body I examined. You just have to look at the greenish tinge to see that, especially around the stomach area. That’s caused by bacteria on the skin, and it doesn’t usually start until about forty-eight hours after death. It spreads outwards and reaches the hands and feet last, and you can see it’s there, too. The cool nights may have slowed it down a bit as well, but not much. I’d say between three and four days. Remind me. The first body was found when?’

‘Thursday morning,’ said Banks. ‘But you said it’s almost certain he was killed between eleven and one the night before, and Dr Glendenning’s post-mortem confirmed it.’ Banks glanced at his watch, surprised to see that it was already after four o’clock in the afternoon. ‘That makes it about two and a half days from then until midday today. Definitely less than three days. Could this one have been dead even longer than you’re suggesting?’

‘Hard to say for certain, but I doubt it. After about four days the skin starts to get marble-like, and the veins come closer to surface, become more visible. That hasn’t happened yet. There’s also not much insect activity. Some signs of bluebottles and blowflies, but they’re always the first. Sometimes they come on the first day. The ants and beetles come later. I’d say Tuesday evening or Wednesday morning. That would be my preliminary guess, at any rate.’

‘Much appreciated,’ said Banks. If it was the same man who had phoned Bill Quinn around nine o’clock on Tuesday evening, it would have taken him probably about an hour to walk back to Garskill Farm from Ingleby, maybe a bit less, so he had to have been killed sometime after about ten o’clock on Tuesday evening and before, say, eleven on Wednesday evening.

Dr Burns turned the body slightly so that Banks could see the pooling, or hypostasis on his back and legs. ‘All that tells us in terms of time is that he’s been dead more than six hours,’ said Dr Burns.

‘But it also tells us that he more than likely died here and hasn’t been moved from that position, am I right?’

‘That’s right. You’re learning.’

‘So what killed him?’

Dr Burns said nothing for a few moments as he examined the body again, touched the hair and looked up at the roof. Then he examined the front and back for signs of fatal injuries. ‘There are no knife wounds or bullet entry points, as far as I can make out,’ he said. ‘Sometimes they’re hard to spot, especially a thin blade or a small calibre bullet, but I’ve been as thorough as I can under the circumstances.’

‘Blunt object trauma?’

‘You can see for yourself there’s nothing of that sort.’

‘So what killed him? Was he poisoned? Did he die of natural causes?’

‘He could have been poisoned, but that’ll have to wait until the post-mortem. As for natural causes, again, it’s possible, but given the bruising, the condition of his body, the rope marks, I’d say they rule it out somewhat.’ Dr Burns paused. ‘You’re probably going to think I’m crazy, and I don’t want you repeating this to anyone except your immediate team until the post-mortem has been conducted, but if it helps you at all, it’s my opinion that he drowned.’

‘Drowned?’

‘Yes. He was naked. His hands were bound behind his back.’ Dr Burns pressed the chest slightly. ‘And if I do that, you can just about hear a slight gurgling sound and feel the presence of water in the lungs. If I pressed much harder it would probably come out of his nose and mouth, but I don’t want to risk disturbing the body that much.’ He gestured to the trough of water, the twisted towels, lengths of rope and overturned chair. ‘In fact, if you ask me, this man died of drowning, probably in conjunction with waterboarding. Those towels by the trough are still wet.’

Banks stood up and took in everything Dr Burns had mentioned. He had never understood the term ‘waterboarding’. It sounded so much like a pleasant activity, something you do at the lake on a lazy summer afternoon, something you do for fun. Along with the rest of the world, he’d had a rude awakening when it hit the news so often over the last few years, especially when George Bush said he approved of it. Now he knew that waterboarding meant putting a cloth or towel over someone’s face and pouring water over it while they were lying on their back. It was said to be excruciatingly painful, and could cause death by dry drowning, a form of suffocation. ‘He didn’t die of the waterboarding, then?’

‘He could have,’ said Dr Burns. ‘Depends on the water in his lungs. Dr Glendenning will be able to do a more thorough examination than I can. If he finds petechial haemorrhaging in the eyes, which I am unable to see, then you could be right. You would get that in dry drowning, but not in the case of drowning by water. Rarely, at any rate.’

‘But you can’t see any?’

‘That doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Sometimes they’re no larger than pinpricks. You’ll have to wait for the post-mortem.’ Dr Burns stood up. ‘If he was drowned,’ he went on, ‘you should be able to find enough forensic information to prove it, to tie the water in his lungs to the water in the trough, for example. On the other hand, if he died of dry drowning as a result of waterboarding, you probably won’t find any water. There’s always a chance it was accidental. Torture isn’t an exact science. But if he was drowned in the trough, then the odds are somebody would have had to hold his head under until he died. It’s a natural human reaction to breathe, and we’ll use every ounce of strength we have to keep on doing so.’

‘How come you know so much about it?’ Banks asked.

‘I’ve been to some places nobody should ever have to go to,’ said Burns, then he picked up his bag and walked outside. ‘I’ll tell the helicopter pilot we’re ready for him,’ he said over his shoulder. Banks could remember when Burns was still wet around the ears. Now he had been to places where he had regularly seen the sort of things they had seen here today. Sometimes Banks wondered whether there was any innocence left in the world, and he felt terribly old.

By ten o’clock on Saturday night Banks felt like getting out of the house. He had been home only an hour or so, just enough time to eat his Indian takeaway, and he was feeling restless, tormented by the images of the dead bodies of Bill Quinn and the unknown man at Garskill Farm. He couldn’t concentrate on television, and even Bill Evans’s Sunday at the Village Vanguard CD didn’t help. He needed somewhere noisy, vibrant and full of life; he needed to be with people, surrounded by conversation and laughter. He realised that he had become a bit of a stop-at-home lately, cultivating a rather melancholy disposition, importing his solo entertainment via CDs and DVDs, but The Dog and Gun had folk night tonight, and Penny Cartwright was guest starring. There would still be time to catch a set.

Banks had met Penny on his second case in Eastvale, more than twenty years ago. She would be about fifty now, but back then she had been a young folk singer returning to her roots in Helmthorpe after forging some success in the big city, and her best friend had been killed. Over the years, her fame had grown, as much as a traditional folk singer’s fame can be said to grow, and she had recently moved to a larger house close to the river, which always seemed to be full of guests and passing visitors when she was in residence, many of them well known in folk circles. The wine flowed freely, and the gatherings always ended in a jam session and a mass sing-along. Though Banks had treated her as a suspect on the first case, and it took her many years to forgive him, she seemed comfortable enough with him now and had invited him to her home on occasion. He had joined in with the singing, but very quietly. He had hated his singing voice ever since the music teacher at school made everyone in class sing solo and gave them a mark out of twenty immediately after they had finished. Banks had got nine. He would never forget the public humiliation.

The evening was breezy but mild enough for him to walk by Gratly Beck and cut through the graveyard, then down the snicket past the antiquarian bookshop into Helmthorpe’s high street, where one or two groups of underdressed teenagers wandered noisily from one pub to another. They wouldn’t go to The Dog and Gun. It would be too crowded already, for a start, and they didn’t seem like the folk music type. There was a disco in the back room of The Bridge and cheap beer at The Hare and Hounds, which was now part of the Wetherspoons chain.

Banks arrived during a break between sets, and saw Penny standing at the bar surrounded by admirers, a pint in her hand. She looked radiant, tall, slim, her long black hair streaked with grey. She spotted Banks through the sea of faces in the semi-darkness, and he could have sworn her expression perked up, just a little. She waved him over and manouevred a bit of room for him beside her. They were pushed together by the crush of people trying to order drinks. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation as far as Banks was concerned.

‘Hello, stranger,’ she greeted him, leaning forward to give him a quick peck on the cheek. The young man beside her, in the midst of a rather tedious lecture about the ‘folk revival’, seemed a bit put out by Banks’s appearance, but Penny seemed relieved at the interruption and focused her attention on the newcomer. Banks did likewise. When you were that close to her, looking into her eyes, it was difficult to do otherwise. They sparkled with an inner glow, full of mischief, sorrow and wisdom. The young man trailed off in mid-sentence and drifted away, crestfallen, back to his mates and more beer.

‘He’s too young for you, anyway,’ said Banks.

‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m not averse to the occasional toyboy,’ said Penny. ‘Though I do admit to being more partial to a real man. So what have you been up to?’

Banks realised that he hadn’t seen her since the nasty business with Tracy the previous autumn, having either been working or shutting himself away in his cottage for the winter. He told her briefly about his travels in Arizona and Southern California. Penny, it seemed, had been doing quite a bit of travelling herself during the winter, mostly in Canada and the US on a promotional tour for her new CD. There was no mention of a man in her life, and Banks didn’t ask.

‘I see your son Brian’s doing well,’ Penny said.

‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘He’s just got back from America himself. I think they had a good tour, then they did some recording in Los Angeles.’

‘I saw a few posters while I was over there. Impressive. I’m sure The Blue Lamps sell a lot more than I do.’

They did, of course. Britpop with a tinge of psychedelia and a smattering of country-folk-blues did far better than traditional British folk music in the States. ‘I’m hoping he’ll be able to support me in my old age,’ Banks said.

Penny laughed. ‘I suppose that’s one use for children. So what have you been doing since you got back? I heard someone was found dead up at Garskill Farm Is that true?’

‘News travels fast,’ said Banks. ‘It’s no secret. Someone told us there was a group of Gypsies or Travellers living up there, but I’m not so sure.’

‘How perceptive of you,’ said Penny. ‘What an insult. I’ve got friends in those communities, and they wouldn’t stay in a dump like Garskill. It’s migrant workers.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I’m a folk singer. I have my finger on the pulse of the folk.’

Banks laughed. ‘Seriously.’

‘A friend told me. I still have my connections among the local historians and writers, you know.’

‘But where do they work?’

‘There are plenty of places where they’re not fussy who they employ, as long as the labour comes cheap enough, and most of these people aren’t in a position to complain. Varley’s Yeast Products, just north of town, for example. They’ve been using slave labour for years. Then there’s that slaughterhouse outside Darlington, a meat-packing factory out Carlisle way, the chemical-processing plant south of Middlesbrough. I’m surprised you don’t know about all this.’

‘It comes under Trading Standards or Immigration,’ said Banks. ‘At least it did. Now I’m not so sure. Anyway, you seem to know a lot about it. Do you know anything about the people who were living there?’

‘Not about any of them specifically, or individually, no. Are you grilling me now?’

‘It sounds like it, doesn’t it? Actually, I came out to get away from thinking about it. I was up there today, and it’s a bloody depressing place. Have you ever been there?’

‘Years ago,’ said Penny. ‘It was pretty much in a state of disrepair back then. I can only imagine what it’s like now.’

‘Those places were built to last,’ said Banks, ‘but I don’t envy the poor sods who were staying there.’

‘It wouldn’t have been their choice,’ said Penny. ‘They’re lured over here by the promise of jobs. It costs them all their savings, then they’re paid less than minimum wage for shit work, and they’ve got no recourse. Most of them don’t even speak English. They start out in debt; they get deeper and deeper in debt. Can you believe there are even loan sharks who prey on them?’

Banks could. Once more the name Warren Corrigan came to mind. He would be paying Mr Corrigan a visit on Monday.

The musicians — acoustic guitar, accordion, stand-up bass and fiddle — assembled on stage again, picking up and tuning their instruments. ‘I’ve got to go now,’ said Penny, touching Banks’s arm lightly. ‘Will you be here later?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘It’s been a long day. I’m dog tired.’

‘Try to last out the set,’ she said. ‘Any requests?’

‘ “Finisterre”,’ Banks said, without thinking.

Penny blinked in surprise. ‘ “Finisterre”? OK. It’s been a long time, but I think I can manage that.’

And she did. Unaccompanied. Her low, husky voice seemed to have grown richer over the years, with the qualities of warm dark chocolate and a fine Amarone. It wasn’t quite as deep in range as June Tabor’s, but it wasn’t far off. She went through ‘Death and the Lady’, ‘She Moved Through the Fair’, ‘Flowers of Knaresborough Forest’ and a number of other traditional songs. She didn’t neglect contemporary works, either. Dylan was represented by the moving and mysterious ‘Red River Shore’, Roy Harper by ‘I’ll See You Again’, and Richard Thompson by a version of ‘For Shame of Doing Wrong’ that brought tears to Banks’s eyes, the way Penny’s voice cracked in its heartbreaking chorus. She finished with what could, in someone else’s hands, have been a mere novelty, a slow, folksy version of Pulp’s ‘Common People’. But it worked. Her version brought depth out of the anthem and gave its lyrics a weight that was often easy to miss. Everyone sang along with the chorus, and the applause at the end was deafening. What Jarvis Cocker would have made of it, Banks had no idea, but it didn’t matter; he’d never been able to take Jarvis Cocker seriously, anyway, though he did like ‘Common People’ and ‘Running the World’. Maybe it was just his name.

As the crowd settled back to drink up their last orders when the band had finished, Penny came over to the corner table, where Banks had managed to find a chair, and sat down. A couple of the band members joined her, and the young man from the interval lurked in the background looking sulky and swaying a little, pint in hand. Banks had met the band members before and said hello. The accordion player was actually a DS from Durham Constabulary moonlighting as a folkie. ‘You made it,’ Penny said, smiling. ‘Didn’t doze off, did you?’

‘Not once. Thanks for singing my request.’

‘Pleasure. It’s a lovely song. I’d forgotten how lovely. Thanks for reminding me of it. So sad, though.’

‘Well, there aren’t an awful lot of happy folk songs, are there? It’s all murders, demon lovers, vengeful spirits, things that have vanished, how fleeting life and pleasure are, love turned cool, died or lost.’

‘Too true,’ said Penny. ‘Look, a few of us are going back to the house. Want to come along? No doom and gloom, I promise.’

‘I’d really love to,’ said Banks, ‘but I fear I wouldn’t last long.’ In fact, he wanted to end the evening as he ended most evenings, at home in his dark conservatory looking at the moon and stars outside, with a nightcap and some quiet music. He felt he could face it now. He didn’t feel like a party any more.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘I understand. Murderers to catch, and all that.’

Banks nodded. ‘Murderers to catch.’ If only it were that easy. ‘Goodnight.’

As Banks left, the eager young man with the theories about the folk revival took his seat, swaying and spilling a little beer as he moved. Penny said hello and smiled politely at him but immediately fell into conversation with her guitarist. Banks didn’t think she would be inviting the young man back to her house. She looked in Banks’s direction as he was leaving and smiled.

Outside, he noticed a hint of peat smoke in the cool night air, reminding him that it was still only April, no matter how pleasant the days were becoming. No music followed him into the night as he walked the half mile home, mostly along the Pennine Way, with a bright moon and a scattering of stars to light his way. The exercise and fresh air would do him good after a day hanging around in the mire of Garskill Farm.

As he walked along the path that clung to the hillside, which stepped down in a series of lynchets to Gratly Beck, he pictured the migrant worker’s body again. Somehow, no matter how many times it happened, he never got quite used to it. He thought of Penny again and knew he shouldn’t read anything into her friendly behaviour. It was just her way; she was a free spirit, a bit flirtatious, mischievous. Still, he couldn’t help but hope. It seemed that nothing had cured him of that. Not Sandra. Not Annie. Not Sophia.