Annie put a friendly hand on her shoulder. “I don’t think God had much to do with it, do you? And I’d like to say you get used to it, but you don’t.” Not so used to it, Annie thought, that you become indifferent to it, that you don’t feel that tightening in your gut and that surge of anger that someone has done this to a fellow human being, or don’t feel you’re going to put your all into catching the bastard who did it.

“But she’s so young. She’s just a girl.”

“I know.” Gently directing a pale and trembling Gerry away with an arm around her shoulder, Annie headed back toward the uniformed officers. “Come on,” she said. “It’s time to call in the heavy brigade.”

“WELL, BANKSY, what a turnup for the book. You and me working together again. Just like old times. Congratulations, by the way. The promotion. Long overdue.”

They were basking in the sunshine at one of the tables outside at the Queen’s Arms, eating lunch: monster fish and chips and mushy peas, with a pint of Timothy Taylor’s for Banks and a cheap lager for Burgess. Cyril, the landlord, had taken on a new barmaid to deal with the summer rush, an attractive blond Australian called Pat, to whom Burgess had already taken a shine. Luckily, Cyril wasn’t around, as he and Burgess had history.

“So what’s your official title these days?” Banks asked. “What do I call you?”

“I always fancied “Special Agent.” It has a ring to it. But in actual fact I’m a nonexecutive director. Sounds like a dull second-rate businessman. Mostly I go by plain “Mr. Burgess” these days.”

“Like a surgeon.”

“Exactly. It’s got class, don’t you think?”

The cobbled market square was buzzing with shoppers and tourists, and clogged with parked cars. Young girls in vests and tight denim cutoffs over black tights hung out around Greggs eating pasties, then disappeared into the amusement arcade next door. A gaggle of serious ramblers, with walking sticks like ski poles, expensive boots, baggy shorts and maps in plastic bags around their necks gathered by the market cross. A few people sat on the plinth around the market cross waiting for a local bus. Not far from Banks and Burgess sat a group of bloke-ish tourists in garish shorts and even more garish shirts, their faces flushed and eyes glazed from sunburn and beer. They were talking and laughing loudly enough that nothing Banks and Burgess spoke of could be overheard.

“Have you done this sort of thing before?” Banks asked.