Kotsev pointed up the hill. ‘He’s at the tower.’

The burnt-out Shogun was in the garage, covered in a tarpaulin. Wayne Abbott greeted Fry and Hitchens with a clipboard in his hand.

‘Yes, this is definitely the vehicle that was driven into the field at Foxlow. The tread pattern is an exact fit with the impressions we lifted. We matched soil from the tyres and the wheel arches. Luckily, the interior escaped the worst effects of the fire, and we found traces of gunshot residue on the seat covers. The fabric retains barium and antimony residue better than human skin.’

‘Well, that’s a positive development,’ said Hitchens. ‘We’ve got a definite lead at last.’

‘There’s more,’ said Abbott. ‘I didn’t expect this, but we got some prints off the underside of the dashboard, where it hadn’t been burned too badly. They’re in the system, too. Somebody’s been in this car who has previous form.’

Hitchens took the print-out. ‘Brilliant.’

Fry leaned closer to look. ‘Anyone we know?’

‘The name means nothing to me. Anthony Donnelly, aged thirty-seven, with an address in Swanwick.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘He has several past convictions for theft from a vehicle and taking without consent, plus all the usual extras – no insurance, driving while disqualified, et cetera, et cetera.’

‘Just an average car thief,’ said Fry, feeling unreasonably disappointed.

‘Mmm, maybe. The most recent charge on his record was in connection with an organized lorry-jacking scheme. Truckloads of white goods diverted to new owners via a lay-by on the A1. I remember that case – five or six people went down for it. But it seems Donnelly was acquitted.’

‘So it could be that he’s gradually moving up in the world, getting involved with more serious operators.’

‘Driver for a professional hit man?’ said Hitchens. ‘Well, let’s go and ask him, Diane.’

‘If that information is from the PNC, then the first thing we have to hope for is that the address is accurate for once.’

The wheels and cables were still humming and rattling, but it no longer seemed to be merely the whir of machinery, the hiss of high-tension steel passing through the air. The noises formed words, murmuring and whispering, mumbling and chattering.

And then John Lowther looked down into the valley again. The fragile crystal of his mind had cracked. He could see the fragments lying on the ground, fading and turning brown, as if they were mere ordinary clay. Through the fracture in his consciousness, he heard the final voice. It was still faint, but he recognized it. Oh, he recognized it all right. In the past, this voice had forced him to do things that he had never wanted to do. And now the voice was back. He had no idea what it would make him do next.

‘Johnny, you know what you have to do.’