Rita tried not to laugh as he slowly navigated the labyrinthine complexities of his new device. Finally, he pushed it across the table.

‘The Beemer’s registered in her name,’ he said. ‘Lisa Cullen, she’s a student at Leeds Uni. They have a flat in Leeds. Nice city-centre pad, which is also in her name.’

‘You found her quick.’

‘A very nice mademoiselle in the French Department gave me a bit of assistance.’

She chewed on that one a while, seemed to consider a riposte, thought better of it.

‘The girlfriend? Was she shocked about her boyfriend dying?’

‘Hard to say. I think so. She’s smart, though. All kinds of smart.’

‘What’s her name again?’

‘Cullen. Lisa Cullen. She’s from a town somewhere around…’

‘Address?’

‘Ryeman Avenue. Batley. A pub called the Brown Cow.’

She looked at him.

‘You’re shitting me, right?’ She waited a whole second. ‘You’re not shitting me.’

She was on her feet before he had time to think.

‘Come on.’

He considered one last mouthful of his Tetley’s, but she was already gunning for the door, gazelles scattering left and right.

13

By the time he got outside, she was swinging herself into an old Land Rover, arse first, hands clinging to the top of the doorframe.

‘You follow me. Where’re you parked?’

‘Just round the corner.’

The Land Rover was covered in dents and had a ripped tarpaulin on the back. He made a mental note of the number plate, just in case they got caught up in an unexpected swarm of beaten-up farm vehicles on the way to Batley.

They left Cleckheaton and headed along a series of brightly lit main roads. She drove with a combination of relative caution and suicidal cornering, as if she disliked high speeds but was equally reluctant to touch the brake pedal. It didn’t look like the Landy had much in the way of suspension, either. From a safe distance behind, he could see her bouncing around on the driver’s seat as she lurched up and down the gears.

On they went, and it wasn’t clear to him at what point they’d left Cleckheaton. It was a strange kind of landscape, piecemeal and uncoordinated, neither urban nor rural. Pockets of housing sat alongside industrial buildings, old and new, nothing too large, and nothing very distinctive. Then there were stretches of farmland and open countryside. You came on them unexpectedly, as if you’d suddenly been transported fifty miles north into the Dales, only for another huddle of industrial units or a makeshift lorry park to come into view, shattering the illusion.