Banks went to the closest section of the bar, where he was able to wedge himself between a couple of noisy, animated groups who had probably come for a drink after work and stayed too long. Nobody paid him any attention, including the bar staff. Angie, the blond Australian barmaid, was engaging in her favorite pastime—flirting with the customers.
Then, through the crowd, Banks saw a profile he recognized sitting at one of the tables. Sophia. She was unmistakable, her smooth cheek, the graceful curve of her neck, her dark hair tied up and held in place by that familiar tortoiseshell comb, one or two loose strands curling like tendrils over her shoulders. She was in half-profile and would only be able to see him if she turned around. But she wasn’t going to do that.
Opposite her sat a young man with lank longish fair hair and the kind of scruffy beard you get after not shaving for four or five days. He was wearing a light green corduroy jacket over a black T-shirt. Banks hadn’t seen him before, but that didn’t mean much. He knew that Sophia had many friends in the arts he hadn’t met. He was just about to walk over when he noticed Sophia leaning in toward the man, the way women do when they’re interested. Banks froze. Now more than ever anxious not to be seen, he edged away from the bar toward the exit, without even having ordered a drink. The next moment he was wandering down the street, heart pounding, not quite sure what to do.
There was a pub just down King’s Road called the Chelsea Potter, and in a daze Banks wandered inside and bought a pint. There were no seats left, but there was a shelf running below the front windows, where he could rest his drink. From there, he could see the end of Sophia’s street. He decided that if she went home alone, he would approach her, but if she went with the man from the wine bar, he would head back to Eastvale.
Someone had left an Evening Standard, and he started reading an article on the aftermath of the bombing, keeping one eye on the street. They had a photograph of the young blonde in the yellow dress—she was a model, it said, and one of the survivors. She had told the reporter how terrible it was, but she didn’t mention anyone rescuing her. She didn’t mention clinging on to the Selfridges bag, either, only that her darling dog Louie had survived, too.
Banks had been in the pub perhaps an hour and a half, had long ago finished the newspaper article and was into the dregs of his second pint of Pride, when he saw Sophia and her friend turn into her street. There were still plenty of people around outside, so he left the rest of his drink and crossed over, just part of the crowd. From the corner, he could watch them approach Sophia’s front door. They stood for a moment, chatting, then she put her key in the lock. She paused for just a moment, turning the key, and glanced down the street to where Banks’s car was still parked. Then she opened the door. The man put his hand on the small of her back and followed her inside. Banks walked away.
Annie cursed the rain as she walked around the parked car. The way the wind blew slantwise rendered her umbrella close to useless, and in the end it was easier just to close it and get wet. She was wearing a waist-length leather jacket, which she had treated with waterproofing spray, her jeans, which she hadn’t, and her red PVC boots, which would keep out anything. Only her hair was getting seriously wet, and that was now short enough to dry in seconds. She thought about what Carol Wyman had said about going blond. Maybe she would.
For the moment, though, she was looking at Derek Wyman’s 2003 Renault, which was parked in a lay-by across from the Woodcutter’s Arms, a couple of miles outside the village of Kinsbeck, about twenty miles southwest of Eastvale, over the moors from Gratly and Helmthorpe.
A local patrol car had discovered it about an hour ago and called it in. Now Annie and Winsome were on the scene, shooing away the sheep. The patrol officers, a couple of surly buggers by the name of Drury and Hackett, which sounded like a bad comedy duo to Annie, were leaning against their car smoking, clearly eager to get on their way back to whatever pub they spent their shift in. Annie wasn’t going to make it that easy for them. They had already made it quite obvious that they didn’t like taking orders from two plainclothes female officers, one of them black.
No crime was suspected, at least not yet, so Annie had no reason to preserve the scene, but she was aware that a forensic examination of the car might become necessary if the situation changed. Still, there were certain things she needed to know. She tried the driver’s door, but it was locked, as was the other side. There was no way she was going to force her way in. Wiping off the rain and glancing through the window, she could see that the keys were gone, and there was nothing out of the ordinary in the interior on a cursory examination in poor light conditions. No obvious blood. No signs of a struggle. No cryptic messages scrawled on the windscreen. Nothing. She turned to PC Drury. “It’s an unusual place to leave a car, isn’t it?” she said. “Any ideas?”
“I was thinking maybe he might have run out of petrol,” said Drury. “Want me to check?”
“Good idea,” said Annie, perfectly happy to let the man do what was clearly man’s work and dig out a dipstick to measure the level of fuel. When he had finished, Drury seemed very pleased with himself, so Annie knew he must be right.
“Nary a drop left,” he said, “and not a garage for three or four miles.”
“What about in the village?”
“Closed a year back.”
“Do you think he may have walked to the garage to get petrol?”
“Possible,” said Drury. “But if it was me, I’d have gone to the Woodcutter’s and phoned and enjoyed a pint while I was waiting.” He pointed down the road, in the opposite direction from the village. “The garage is down the road that way. You can’t miss it.” Then he checked his watch. “Though I doubt it’ll be open at this time of an evening.”
It was after eight o’clock. Annie knew that most businesses kept short hours in this part of the country. “Why don’t you go down there and check for us?” she said. “Wake them up if you have to.” She gestured over to the pub. “We’ll be in there.”
Drury glared at her, but he had a word with his partner, who stamped out his cigarette. They got in their patrol car with exaggerated slowness and drove off down the road.
Winsome and Annie walked into the welcome shelter of the lounge bar, which was deserted apart from an old man and his dog by the empty fireplace, and two farm laborers enjoying their pints at the bar. Everyone looked around.
“Evening, all,” said Annie, smiling as she walked up to the bar. The farm laborers gawped at Winsome and edged away to give them room. “Thank you,” Annie said. She turned to the barman. “Two Cokes, please.”
“Want ice in them?”
Winsome shook her head.
“In one of them,” Annie said. “Nasty night out there.”
“Seen worse,” the barman said.
“My colleague and I are from Major Crimes, Eastvale,” Annie said, fl ashing her warrant card. “We’re here in connection with that car parked over the road.”
“Been there since yesterday, it has,” said the barman.
So Derek Wyman clearly hadn’t just gone down the road for petrol. Or if he had, something had stopped him from coming back. But there was nowhere else to go. It was all open countryside around there, as far as Annie could tell—the pub was as close to the edge of the moors as you could get. Sheep came and grazed right beside it and nosed around the parked cars. Annie didn’t even know if any buses ran along the B road outside, but she doubted it. If Wyman had disappeared into the wilds, she would have to wait until tomorrow to get a search organized; the light was already bad, and soon it would be getting dark.