Aftermath

“Nothing will turn up in the next four hours, believe me. Release her.”

“What about surveillance?”

“Too bloody expensive. Tell the local police to keep an eye on her, and tell her to stick around; we might want to talk to her again.”

“If she’s guilty, she’ll disappear.”

“If she’s guilty we’ll find the evidence and then we’ll find her.”

“Let me have one more shot at her first.” Banks held his breath as Hartnell paused at the other end.

“All right. Talk to her one more time. If she doesn’t confess, let her go. But be bloody careful. I don’t want any allegations of Gestapo interrogation tactics.”

Banks heard a knock at his door, put his hand over the mouthpiece and called out, “Come in.”

Julia Ford entered and gave him a broad smile.

“No worry on that score, sir,” Banks said to Hartnell. “Her lawyer will be present at all times.”

“Quite the zoo out there, isn’t it?” Julia Ford said after Banks had hung up. The fine lines around her eyes crinkled when she smiled. She was wearing a different suit this morning – gray with a pearl blouse – but it looked every bit as business-like. Her hair looked shiny, as if fresh from the shower, and she had applied just enough makeup to take a few years off her age.

“Yes,” Banks answered. “Looks as if someone tipped the entire British media off about Lucy’s whereabouts.”

“Are you going to let her go?”

“Soon. I want another chat first.”

Julia sighed and opened the door for him. “Ah, well. Once more unto the breach.”

Hull and beyond were parts of Yorkshire Je

Was it named Spurn Head because someone was spurned there once, she wondered, and her ghost lingered, walking the sands and wailing in the night, or because “spurn” was a corruption of “sperm” and it looked a bit like a sperm wiggling out to sea? It was probably something much more prosaic, like “peninsula” in Viking. Je

It was a fine day: windy, but su

It was desolate country, mostly flat farmland, green fields and the occasional flash of bright yellow rapeseed. What villages she passed through were no more than mean assemblages of bungalows and the odd row of redbrick terraces. Soon, the surrealistic landscape of the North Sea Gas Terminal, with its twisted metal pipes and storage units, came into view, and Je

She had been thinking about Banks quite a lot during her journey and came to the conclusion that he wasn’t happy. She didn’t know why. Apart from Sandra’s pregnancy, which was obviously upsetting to him for any number of reasons, he had everything to be thankful for. For a start, his career was back on track, and he had an attractive young girlfriend. At least she assumed that A

But perhaps it was A

Not that she could do anything. She remembered how disappointed she had felt last year when he had accepted her di

The flat, desolate landscape went on and on. How on earth could anybody live in such a remote and backward spot? Je

The half-mile seemed to go on forever, as short distances often do on country roads. Then she saw a huddle of houses ahead, and she could smell the sea through her open window, though she couldn’t see it yet. When she found herself turning left on to a paved street with bungalows on one side and rows of redbrick terrace houses on the other, she realized this must be Alderthorpe. She saw a small post office-cum-general store with a rack of newspapers fluttering in the breeze, a greengrocer’s and a butcher’s, a squat gospel hall and a mean-looking pub called the Lord Nelson, and that was it.

Je

The bell pinged above her head, and she found herself in the kind of shop that she guessed had ceased to exist even before she was born, where jars of barley sugar rubbed shoulders with shoelaces and patent medicines on high shelves, and birthday cards stood on a rack next to the half-inch nails and tins of evaporated milk. It smelled both musty and fruity – pear drops, Je

“Can I help you?” the postmistress asked.

“I wondered if you could tell me where the old Murray and Godwin houses are,” Je

“Why would you be wanting to know that?”

“It’s to do with a job I’m doing.”

“Newspaper reporter, are you?”

“As a matter of fact, no. I’m a forensic psychologist.”

This stopped the woman in her tracks. “It’s Spurn Lane you want. Just over the street and down the lane to the sea. Last two semis. You can’t miss them. Nobody’s lived there for years.”