“Max,” she began. “I’ve been up to that barn, and I’ve talked to the travelers. Mina Landis was there last night, and she did leave with a man. She left shortly before midnight in a stolen car. A brand-new five series BMW. Silver. The man driving it is called Star—”

“A silver BMW?” Roland glanced at Max. “I know about that car. Go on.”

“No one knows where this Star comes from, or where he hangs out. No one knows where they were headed—I gather it could be anywhere. Star gets around. This last week he was in Amsterdam—or so he claimed.”

“Amsterdam?” Rowland said sharply.

“Yes. And he came back well supplied. Grass. Amphetamines. Beta-blockers. And something new called White Doves. They must have been something special, because they were triple the price of all his other stock. And he was very sparing with them. He had only a few.”

She stopped, sensing the new and sudden tension in the room.

“Have I said something? Am I missing something here?”

“Never mind that for the moment,” Max said quickly. “What else? Did you get a description?”

“Of Star? Sure. Age—early to mid-twenties. Tall—around six feet two or three. Clean shaven. Black hair, worn long, down to his shoulders. Blue-black eyes, strong features—they say exceptionally good-looking, at least the women do. Dresses like one of the travelers. Old tweed coat, black clothes, always wears a red scarf. Could be British or American or European. No one knows.”

There was a silence. Rowland, who had been watching Gini closely as she spoke, glanced toward Max; Max nodded.

“In that case,” Rowland began, “we have a lead—a strong lead. Max, you call Landis. I’ll call the police. Then I’ll head off for Cheltenham. A man called Mitchell reported that BMW as stolen this morning. The police were interviewing him. With luck, he’ll still be there.”

He turned toward Max’s study, and then, as if it were an afterthought, glanced back at Gini.

“You want to come?”

“Yes. Why not,” Gini replied. In the corner, unnoticed, forgotten, Lindsay sighed and turned away.

Mitchell had been continuing to help the police with their inquiries all day. At least, that was the police term for a sullen silence interspersed with bursts of uninformative vituperation. This shadowboxing had just come to an end. Mitchell had been released for the moment, but he knew what he was facing: a night in a cheap hotel until the credit card company got its act together and provided replacement plastic; weeks of continuing hassle from the cops. This prospect made him very jumpy. There was still some chemical fry-up going on in his brain. He left the station in a truculent state, whereupon these two journalists descended upon him. At that, his mood lifted. The blond-haired woman reporter was attractive; the man with her paid for a whiskey, and it gave Mitchell’s battered ego a boost to be approached by the press.

Mitchell downed the first whiskey fast. When the second was in front of him, and just as he was about to reach for it, the male journalist, McGuire, he’d said his name was, placed one large hand on top of the glass.