Rowland had given a statement, been questioned on the statement. What time, when, how: why had he been up there, alone, at that time of night? Why had he moved the body?

“Because I didn’t know she was dead,” Rowland had replied. “She was lying awkwardly. I checked for neck and spinal injuries, then I moved her. Then—”

“Are you a doctor? You have medical qualifications?”

“No. But I’ve had some paramedical training.”

“You have? Why?”

“Look, I climb. In Scotland. I’ve climbed in the Alps. I know how to check for those kinds of injuries. It was automatic to do that. I suppose—I was also looking for other obvious signs… a head wound—I don’t know.”

“Did you attempt resuscitation?”

“No. There was no pulse—”

“You’re sure?”

“For God’s sake!” Rowland lost his temper. “Rigor mortis had set in. It was—what? Minus five degrees? By the time I found her, she’d been dead several hours.”

And so it went on. An interview with one officer, then a second. The gradual and unpleasant realization that because of the circumstances, because he was a man, he might not be believed. Eventually their interviewing tactics changed and their tone became less hostile—presumably because they had received an interim medical report, and Max had corroborated his story. But Rowland was left with a sick sense of their distrust. He felt guilty by gender, a feeling he had never experienced before.

The statement was taken down, revised, amplified, then taken away to be typed. From outside the interview room came constant noise. Some of the travelers from the barn were being brought in, presumably questioned, perhaps busted for possession: Rowland had no way of knowing, and no one was likely to inform him. Around nine someone brought him tea he didn’t want, and half an hour later the more senior detective returned. He was a middle-aged man who had already mentioned the fact that he had two teenage daughters. He looked as weary and sickened as Rowland felt. Passing his hand across his face, he sat down and gave Rowland the statement to sign.

“One thing.” He indicated its first paragraph. “Your emergency call is logged at two-eleven A.M. What time was it when you got back to the body?”

“Around two-thirty. Maybe two thirty-five.”

“And you noticed the music had stopped—when?”

“Maybe five minutes later. I’m not sure. I wasn’t really thinking about it, not to begin with. Is it important?”

“It helps.” He gave a sigh. “By the time our cars got up to that barn, the travelers were already packing up. The ringleaders had already left—or so the others claim. Usually those affairs go on all night. I’d like to know why they broke up early, that’s all.”

“There are ringleaders, then?”

“Oh, sure. The travelers will feed you any amount of crap. Claim they were just following ley lines, took tarot readings, make out they just all happened to congregate in that one place at one time. In this case, a girl’s dead. So they’re prepared to be that bit more cooperative. Nothing to get excited about. They know who the suppliers are—but they won’t name names.”