“No,” said Martin. “Not at the moment.”

“You don’t have a business number?”

“No.” He paused, then went on as if he’d sensed an implied slight in Annie’s tone or manner. “Look, I might have been just a football player, but that doesn’t mean I’m thick, you know.”

“I didn’t—”

“I got my A-Levels, went to Leeds Polytechnic, as it was back then, and got a business diploma.”

So what did that make him? Annie wondered, unimpressed: the “thinking woman’s crumpet”? “I didn’t mean to imply anything,” she went on. “I’m simply trying to make sure we’ve got every eventuality covered.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin said. “It’s been a stressful night. It’s just, well, being who we are, Robin and I get that sort of thing a lot. People tend to patronize us.”

“I understand,” said Annie, standing up to leave. “I won’t keep you any longer.” She passed her card over to Robin, who was closest. “My mobile number’s on there, too.” She smiled and added, “When you can reach it.” Cell-phone coverage was spotty in the Dales, to say the least. “If you do hear anything at all, you won’t hesitate to call me, will you?”

“No,” said Robin. “Of course not. And if…”

“You’ll be the first to hear. Don’t worry, we’ll be looking for him, I can assure you. We’re really very good at this sort of thing.”

“If there’s anything I can do…” said Martin.

“Of course.” Annie gave them her best, most confident smile and left, not feeling confident at all.

Chapter 3

DI Michelle Hart locked up her dark gray Peugeot outside 58 Hazel Crescent and took the measure of the neighborhood. She’d been there twice before—once investigating a string of burglaries and another time because of vandalism. As council estates went these days, the Hazels, as the locals called it, wasn’t particularly bad. Built in the early sixties, before the “new town” expansion, its terraces of serviceable brick houses behind low walls and privet hedges were now home to a mixed crowd of unemployed people, teenage mothers, pensioners who couldn’t afford to move, and a growing Asian population, mostly from Pakistan or Bangladesh. There were even a few asylum seekers. Like every other estate, the Hazels also had its share of shiftless hooligans who took their greatest pleasure in vandalizing other people’s property, stealing cars and spraying graffiti over the walls.

It was still raining, and there was no sign of any gaps in the gray cloud cover. The drab street that curved through the heart of the estate was empty, all the kids indoors playing computer games or surfing the Web and their mothers wishing the sun would come out and bring a few moments’ peace and quiet.

Michelle knocked on the dark green door. Mrs. Marshall, a frail-looking woman, stooped and gray-haired, face lined with care, answered and led her into a small living room and bade her sit on a plum velour armchair. Michelle had met the Marshalls before, during the identification process, but hadn’t yet visited them at home. Everything in the room was so tidy and spotless that she felt a momentary twinge of guilt over her own unwashed breakfast dishes, unmade bed and the dust balls in the corner. Still, who was there to see them but her?