“Was it drugs?” Rowland looked at him. “Is that what killed her?”

“We’ll have to wait for the autopsy report, obviously. It’s probable, I’d say. We’ve had stuff flooding into the area recently—Ecstasy, heroin, cocaine, amphetamines. People think rural areas are safe. They think drugs are a big-city problem. They’re wrong. I try to explain to my daughters—they listen. Then they laugh the second I leave the room. You have children?”

“No.”

“Wait until you do. It’s as easy to score around here as it would be in London. Pubs, clubs, discos, parties, raves—grass, Ecstasy, over the course of an evening, it’s cheaper than beer. Sometimes they’re buying garbage, sometimes they’re getting something very pure. It’s a kind of Russian roulette, and the kids like that. Adds to the thrill, maybe. Who knows?” He tapped the statement. “If you’re happy with it, sign. I expect you’d like to get out of here.”

Rowland signed.

“This is the second death of this kind in four weeks,” the man went on as Rowland rose. “The last one was a girl too. It was just before Christmas. She was Dutch, a runaway. She was fourteen years old, good family, plenty of money, no problems there. She hadn’t been home in nine months. Her parents identified the body Christmas Day. It wasn’t the best Christmas I’ve ever known.”

“She was Dutch?” Rowland said. “From where?”

“Amsterdam, I believe. Needle tracks on both arms. The amphetamines she’d taken didn’t mix too well with the heroin. And the heroin was unusually pure. The dealers introduce high purity consignments from time to time—when they need new clients, and need to hook them fast.”

He opened the door. “Thank you for your help. Your friend should be through soon. You can wait out there.”

Rowland returned to the lobby. He felt angry and dispirited and on edge. He had been too late to save Cassandra Morley, and the information he had given was unlikely to be of great assistance. He sat down beneath a poster warning of the perils of drunk driving, and resigned himself to waiting for Max.

There was no sign now of the travelers. The lobby was deserted except for the constable on duty at the desk, and a plump, belligerent young man with a South London accent who was wearing an expensive suit and a loud shirt: the two were having an altercation that had clearly begun some time before.

As Rowland entered, the man raised his voice.

“Look,” he said. “Can I get this through your head? I’m here to report a stolen vehicle, not answer damn stupid sodding questions. It’s a top-of-the-range five series BMW. Silver. Leather upholstery. Alloy wheels. We’re talking almost thirty thousand quid…”

“I have those details. I have the registration number. Are you the owner of the vehicle, sir?”

“No. I’m not. For crying out loud. My name’s Mitchell—you’ve got that? You can spell that okay? The car belongs to a lady friend of mine. I just had it for the weekend. Is that a crime now? Anything else you’d like to know? My blood group, maybe? My mother’s birth date? I mean, if that’s what it takes to get some action around here—”