It had been a while since Banks had spent much time in his office, and the Dalesman calendar was still open at July’s photo of Skidby Windmill on the edge of the Yorkshire Wolds. He had the radio tuned in to Radio Three and was listening to an orchestral concert of music by Holst, Haydn and Vaughan Williams as he whittled away at the pile of paperwork on his desk. He had just settled into the lento moderato of Vaughan Williams’s Pastoral Symphony and yet another memo on cost effectiveness, when his phone rang.

“Alan, it’s Stefan.”

“Good news, I hope?”

“Depends on how you look at it. Your man Norman Wells is clean, as far as we can tell. We were pretty thorough, and I’m sure if there’d been any traces of Luke Armitage in his car or house we’d have found something.”

“You didn’t?”

“Nada.”

“Okay, well, I suppose that shows us where not to concentrate our attention. Anything positive?”

“The blood on the drystone wall.”

“I remember.”

“There was enough for DNA analysis. It’s definitely human, and it doesn’t match the victim’s.”

Banks whistled. “So there’s a good chance it could belong to whoever dropped Luke over the wall?”

“A pretty good chance, yes. But don’t get your hopes up too high. It could belong to anyone.”

“But you’ll be able to match it with any samples we can get?”

“Of course.”

“Okay. Thanks, Stefan.”

“My pleasure.”

Banks wondered whom he should ask to provide DNA samples. Norman Wells, of course, even though the forensic search of his house had turned up nothing incriminating. Alastair Ford, perhaps, just because he lived in a remote cottage and was connected to Luke through the violin lessons. And because he was weird. Lauren Anderson, because she gave Luke English tutoring after school hours and seemed to be close to him. Who else? Josie and Calvin Batty, perhaps. And the parents, Martin and Robin. They’d no doubt kick up a holy fuss and run crying to the chief constable, but that couldn’t be helped. DNA could be processed in two or three days now, but it was a very expensive proposition. Banks would just have to see how much he could get away with.

Then there was the mystery girl, of course. They would definitely need a sample from her if they ever found her, if she existed.

No sooner had the moderato pesante begun than his phone rang again. This time it was the duty constable. Someone to see him in connection with Luke Armitage. A young woman.

“Send her up,” said Banks, wondering if this could be the mystery woman. She must know that she was wanted by now, and if she did, then her failure to show up was suspicious in itself.

A minute or so later a uniformed constable tapped on Banks’s office door and ushered in the girl. Banks recognized Rose Barlow immediately. She strutted into his office all blue-jeaned leg, blond hair and attitude. Her visit would save him or Annie the trouble of seeking her out.