Miller stepped into the dim little corridor created by two towers of cars. ‘Well, the police investigating the hit-and-run on Horsenden Lane North in Greenford were checking all blue Puntos within a whole bunch of miles of that area. It was a long process, just like it’s been for us – you know, the Volkswagen Passats? It’s a simple job, really. No need for the cars to be whipped off to the lab. No time for that, either. A lot of cars. If a car slams into three hundred and fifty pounds of stationary meat and bones, well, there will be damage, and blood. And if the registration on the car matches the one registered to the owner, well, why check the VIN?’

Nick remembered the policemen who came all those years ago; remembered that they’d been gone fifteen minutes later. Understandable: respectable working woman with an alibi, paperwork in order, no damage to the car, no blood – no reason for doubt. His chest seemed to shrink, painfully compressing his heart.

‘Anna sold her car on the 10th, five days after that hit-and-run. The scrapyard held off with the paperwork until the 19th. Nick, apologies, but it took the police ten days to get to Anna’s car. The 15th.’

He fell back against the ruined Fiesta behind and had to grab rusty metal to prevent a collapse to the hard dirt. The 15th. Five days after she sold it. ‘But she – she didn’t sell… she… drove it home.’

‘Same registration plates, same make and colour, and soon afterwards to receive a bleach stain, but that, I’m afraid, was not Anna’s Fiat Punto. The police couldn’t be allowed to get near Anna’s car. Because hers had killed two hikers.’

Twelve

He was shaking his head, unable to believe, or even understand. He was sure he’d misheard, or misread, or dreamed the whole day. Bennet stared him dead in the eye as he reached a long arm through the car and laid a hand on Nick’s shoulder.

‘Look here,’ Miller said.

He slipped out of the gloom, into the burning sun, and to the front of the car. Inside the engine bay, the detective was shining a torch on to the old engine. He could clearly see faint little stains, and she illuminated some on the broken grille, too.

Blood.

He didn’t want to believe it, but everything made sense. On the night of the hit-and-run, Anna had returned home in a frightful state. She had gone out to pick up her boss, Marc Eastman, to take him to a stuffy function, but afterwards, according to her, a man with a knife had threatened her for her car.