“But if there’s blood…?”

“We still can’t justify the expense at this point.”

“And Alastair Ford?”

“Check into his background first. We’ll keep that one up our sleeves in case we need it.”

“You’ll stay in touch?”

“I’ll leave my mobile on all the time. I’m not deserting you, Annie.” Banks still couldn’t help feeling a little guilty—and it wasn’t because he was leaving the case to Annie, but because he would be seeing Michelle again, and the idea appealed to him.

Annie touched his sleeve. “I know you’re not. Don’t think I’m so insensitive as not to know how hard it is for you, them finding Graham Marshall’s bones and all.” She grinned. “You go and pay your respects and have a piss-up with your old mates. You’ll have a lot to catch up on. When did you last see them?”

“Not since I went to London, when I was eighteen. We just sort of lost touch.”

“I know what you mean. It happens. I don’t know anyone I went to school with anymore.”

Banks considered telling Annie about Michelle’s phone call but decided against it. Why complicate matters? Annie had enough on her plate. Besides, he wasn’t sure there was much he could do about Michelle’s concerns. If there had been some sort of cover-up, then it would have to be investigated by an outside force, not some maverick from North Yorkshire. Yet a part of him wanted to get involved, wanted to get to the bottom of Graham’s death, as well as Luke’s. They were linked in his mind in some odd way. Not technically, of course, but two very different boys from very different times had ended up dead before their time, and both had died violently. Banks wanted to know why, what it was about these two children that had attracted such cruel fates.

Chapter 14

Early in the afternoon, Annie showed the artist’s impression of the mystery girl around the Swainsdale Centre and the bus station again. At the end of an hour, she was beginning to wonder whether the girl existed, or whether she was just a figment of Josie Batty’s puritan imagination.

She walked along York Road enjoying the sunshine, glancing in the shop windows as she walked. A stylish red leather jacket caught her eye in one of the more exclusive clothes shops, but she knew it would be way out of her price range. Even so, she went in and inquired. It was.

The market square was clogged with wandering tourists and cars trying to find a parking space. A large group of Japanese, along with their tour guide and translator, stood gazing up at the front of the Norman church, where several sculpted figures of saints were carved in a row high over the doors. Some of the tourists were catching the moment on videotape, though Annie didn’t remember the stone saints ever doing the cancan or anything that even remotely involved movement.

One of the cars, she noticed—partly because it screeched straight into a handicapped parking space and almost hit a young woman—was Martin Armitage’s BMW. What the hell was he doing here? And what the hell was he doing in a handicapped parking spot? Maybe she should arrange for him to get towed? But when she saw him jump out of the car, slam the door and head for the shops built into the side of the church, she knew what was going on.