Joanna stood on the towpath in the fading daylight and found a map of the waterways on her smartphone. There were only thirty miles of canal left in that direction, until it ended in the terminus at Ripon. She eyed the sign sticking out of the reeds that stated the speed limit was four miles per hour. She could probably catch them up if she’d had her bike with her. Or she could borrow a boat. Nessie couldn’t have gone anywhere especially difficult to find, confined as she was to the waterway. On the other hand, thirty miles was a huge search area, and checking every boat, in the dark, would take hours.

“There’s a quicker way to find them, you know,” said a voice from behind her. It was the woman she’d spoken to earlier. “If you were interested.”

“Go on.”

“All of the boats are registered, and the men from the Canal and River Trust monitor where you are. It all goes on a database.”

“They monitor where you are? How?”

“Man on a bike. They go up and down, note down the registration numbers, make sure you’ve moved far enough if you’re a continuous cruiser. They’re a bit like traffic wardens.”

“How often do they do that?”

“Not sure, actually. They’re quite secretive. I suppose they don’t want people to cheat the system. But I saw him go by yesterday, as a matter of fact. Might be worth checking with them?”

Jo searched for the number and pressed to connect, held the phone to her ear.

“No answer,” she said to the boatwoman.

“Office hours, dummy,” said the old woman, rolling her eyes. “Try in the morning.”

Jo called Atkinson back.

“You hung up on me,” he said.

“I’m really sorry about that, Steve. It turns out I do need your help.”

CHAPTER

46

NOW

The Injured Man

Wednesday–Thursday, December 26–27

THE BOAT RESTS in the dark, its engine ticking as it cools. The water is completely still, disturbed only by occasional movements from inside the boat, rocking the vessel slightly, causing small ripples.

The man is crouching, his body hidden by the brambles and the darkness. He is cold, but he doesn’t move at all.

In one of the nearby houses, there is a shrill voice complaining.

“You need to move that boat,” it screeches. “You can’t moor here, you know. I’ll call the authorities. They’ll be along to move you.”

It’s true there are no other boats moored here, only the ancient hull of a pleasure boat, and a speedboat, covered with canvas and pulled up on to the bank for the winter.