“Hi,” he begins, “how’s your head?” but at the same time she says, “It’s Sally-Ann here.” They both stop. He waits for her to go on, but she doesn’t. He starts to say, “Did you stay much longer last—” and she says, “Have you heard what’s happened—” They both fall silent again. This time he’s determined to wait her out.

“Adam?” she asks after a moment. “Are you still there?”

“Yes,” he says quickly.

There’s a lengthy pause and then, just at the point at which he decides he’ll have to break the silence, she goes on. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but then you’ll hear soon enough anyway.” She’s virtually whispering.

This time he cuts her off. “Sally-Ann? What the fuck’s going on?”

Another lengthy pause. He can hear her breathing down the phone. “They’ve found him,” she says. “They’re saying they’ve finally found Gerald Cartwright.”

—

Tyler drives on automatic, his arms and legs controlling the car semi-autonomously while his mind is fixed elsewhere. The place he is looking for is right on the force’s boundary, at the edge of the Peak District; one village further on and Gerald Cartwright would have been Derbyshire’s problem. The turnoff isn’t easy to find; he passes through numerous hamlets, each identical to the last. He avoids using the satnav, having learned from bitter experience that it’s just as likely to send him to the wrong side of the valley. Eventually he spots a weathered signpost at the roadside, its cracked face strangled with weeds. He takes the sharp left turn without bothering to slow, and the wheels of the CID Vectra bump alarmingly across scrubland before settling onto the narrow strip of tarmac that winds ahead of him. After a couple of miles, the road dips suddenly and the car jolts its way violently across the ford of a narrow stream. He eases off the accelerator as the first houses begin to appear. A white sign welcomes him to the village of Castledene and asks him to PLEASE DRIVE CAREFULLY.

It isn’t difficult to find the church; the road runs right past it, and a sign next to the gate, its pale blue paint peeling into the grass below, declares that ALL SOULS ARE WELCOME. Tyler brakes, stops, and abandons the car halfway up a grass verge. He steps into the quiet peace of a sunny morning in the countryside, birdsong, the wind rustling the autumn leaves. No traffic noise, no sirens, none of the comforting hum of the city. It’s unnatural. How the hell does anyone sleep out here?