Only one song stood out, a quiet ballad with a melody Banks vaguely recognized, perhaps an adaptation of an old folk tune. The last piece on the tape, it was a love song of sorts, or a fifteen-year-old’s version of salvation:

He shut me out but you took me in.
He’s in the dark but you’re a bird on the wing.
I couldn’t hold you but you chose to stay.
Why do you care? Please don’t go away.

Was it about his mother, Robin? Or was it the girl Josie had seen him with in the Swainsdale Centre? Along with Winsome Jackman and Kevin Templeton, Annie was out showing the artist’s impression around the most likely places. Maybe one of them would get lucky.

The SOCOs were still at Hallam Tarn, the road still taped off, and a local TV van, along with a gaggle of reporters, barely kept their distance. As he pulled up by the side of the road, Banks even noticed a couple of middle-aged ladies in walking gear; sightseers, no doubt. Stefan Nowak was in charge, looking suave even in his protective clothing.

“Stefan,” Banks greeted him. “How’s it going?”

“We’re trying to get everything done before the rain comes,” Stefan said. “We’ve found nothing else in the water so far, but the frogmen are still looking.”

Banks looked around. Christ, but it was wild and lonely up there, an open landscape, hardly a tree in sight, with miles of rolling moorland, a mix of yellow gorse, sandy-colored tufts of grass and black patches where fires had raged earlier that summer. The heather wouldn’t bloom for another month or two, but the dark multi-branched stems spread tough and wiry all around, clinging close to the ground. The view was spectacular, even more dramatic under the lowering sky. Over in the west, Banks could see as far as the long flat bulk of the three peaks: Ingleborough, Whernside and Pen-y-ghent.

“Anything interesting?” he asked.

“Maybe,” said Stefan. “We tried to pin down the exact point on the wall where the body had been dropped over, and it matches the spot where these stones stick out here like steps. Makes climbing easy. Good footholds.”

“I see. It would have taken a bit of strength, though, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. He might have been a big lad for his age, but he was still only a kid, and pretty skinny.”

“Could one person have done it?”

“Certainly. Anyway, we’ve been looking for scuff marks. It’s also possible that the killer scratched himself climbing up.”

“You’ve found blood on the wall?”

“Minute traces. But hold your horses, Alan. We don’t even know if it’s human blood yet.”

Banks watched the SOCOs taking the wall apart stone by stone and packing it in the back of a van. He wondered what Gristhorpe would think of such destruction. Gristhorpe was building a drystone wall at the back of his house as a hobby. It went nowhere and fenced in nothing. Some of these walls had been standing for centuries without any sort of cement holding them together, but they were far more than mere random piles of rocks. Gristhorpe knew all about the techniques and the patience it took to find just the right stone to fit with the others, and here the men were demolishing it. Still, if it could lead them to Luke’s killer, Banks thought, that was worth a drystone wall or two. He knew Gristhorpe would agree.