'You were doing pretty well at that yourself.'
'You've got no business interfering with my investigation. If you can't understand that, you can get out of the car now.'
'You're going to make me walk home?'
'You can freeze to death for all I care.'
McAvoy shrugged, then peered sideways at her as if he were arriving at a judgement.
'What?' she barked.
'You need to calm down, Jenny. You're a bag of nerves.'
'Oh, really?'
'I saw that when you were sitting outside that hall, all huddled up like the whole thing was nothing to do with you . . . I thought, there's someone who's had the confidence knocked out of her.'
Jenny said, 'If I want your opinion, I'll ask for it.'
McAvoy said, 'Why don't you get the tears out now? Clear the air between us.'
'Fuck you.'
Anger was one emotion that kept tears at bay. She held onto it throughout the drive across country to Hereford. McAvoy sat silent and unnervingly still, squinting out at the patchwork fields. His shifting moods frightened her. He reminded her of some of the more sinister wife-batterers she had confronted across courtrooms in her former career: men who flipped from charm to violence and back again without warning. Their hapless partners always said the same thing:
Hereford was a city, more of a market town, that she'd visited occasionally over the years and seen degenerate from charming and unspoiled to paved-over, litter-strewn and leached of its character by chain stores in its historic centre and US-style retail barns on its margins. It was yet another casualty of the same small minds that had systematically wrecked most British towns. Only the thousand-year-old cathedral and handful of surrounding streets had maintained their character, but the philistines were slowly claiming them too: a pizza chain had taken over the Victorian post office and tacky shops with cheap plastic signs had replaced once dignified family-run businesses.
The car-hire firm was an ageing cabin and area of hard- standing in a former railway goods yard, hidden behind a row of electrical and home-improvement warehouses. It was a rare survivor in this barren landscape: St Owen's Vehicle Hire established 1962, the sign announced. Opposite was a noisy backstreet mechanic's cluttered with dismantled vehicles and stacks of spent tyres. To the right was a carpentry shop. A handful of workers on their break stood outside it, gathered around a fire they'd lit in an oil drum and stamping their feet against the piercing cold. It reminded Jenny of places from her own small-town childhood: the smell of damp bricks, engine grease and wood smoke.
'I suppose you won't be wanting me,' McAvoy said.
'What do you think?' She climbed out of the car and walked over to the office.
A young man of no more than twenty, dressed in a cheap suit and tie, was tapping on a grubby computer keyboard behind the counter. The air was heavy with the smell of ageing lino and fumes from an elderly gas heater.
Jenny showed him her card and politely explained the nature of her inquiry. He wasn't the quickest, and she doubted he'd ever heard of a coroner, but he was eager to help.
'I've only been here since Christmas,' he said, 'so I don't remember that particular car. I could call the boss on his mobile.'
Jenny said, 'Don't you have the records here?'
'Not the paper ones. The boss takes them home with him.'
'What about your computer - you log everything on there, right?'
'Yeah . . .'
'Let's have a look, shall we?' She smiled in a way that she hoped might encourage him to cooperate. He started to hit the filthy keys. A column of data appeared on the screen of the old-fashioned monitor.
'OK . . . here's the Toyota. We got rid of it in '05.' Jenny turned and glanced apprehensively out of the window. McAvoy was no longer in the passenger seat. Feeling a stab of alarm, she glanced left and right, then saw him strolling towards the carpenters' brazier, raising a hand in greeting to the two men still standing there.
'It's June '02 you're after, isn't it?'
'That's right.' She turned back to the young man, who was dragging his finger down the screen making a line in the dust. 'It was out from the 20th to the 23rd, and didn't go out again until 6 July.'
'You're sure?'
'That's what it says. Look . . .' He swivelled the screen towards her.
He was right. There was no record of the car being hired on that date.
'Oh well,' she said, disappointed. 'Thanks for trying. Maybe you can give me your boss's number anyway.'
McAvoy was strolling back towards her as she stepped out of the office. It was only three p.m. and already the light was fading. Sparks jumped out of the oil drum and carried past him on the sharp breeze.
'All right?' he said, suppressing a smile.
Jenny headed for the car. 'It wasn't hired out on those dates. We checked the computer records.'
'D'you ask him if they do deals for cash?'
'He's just a kid. I've got the boss's number.' She climbed into the driver's seat.
McAvoy caught hold of the door as she went to close it. 'If you were going to hire a car to snatch someone, would you want to leave a paper trail? Look at this place. A few hundred quid in notes - are you telling me they'd say no?'
'I'll speak to the owner. Can you let go? I'm getting cold.'
He jammed his knee against the door, wedging it open. 'And say what - do you remember a cash job eight years ago?'
'What do you suggest?'
'That you try a bit harder, Mrs Cooper. Jesus.'
Exasperated, Jenny said, 'I think we've had this conversation already.'
'Listen - those boys over there are Latvians. They've seen a guy with a ponytail come to rent a car once or twice. Mid- forties or thereabouts. Comes over in an old Mark i Land Rover and has it seen to in that garage. Had an aluminium hard top made for it last autumn - one of the Lats is an arc welder by trade, helped the mechanic get it done.'
Jenny sighed. 'Do they know the man's name?'
'Not a clue.' McAvoy gave an innocent smile. 'All I'm suggesting is a polite inquiry.'
'Fine. But I'll be the one making it.' She climbed out of the car. 'Don't you dare follow me.'
She returned to the office to find the young man coming off a call. He looked surprised and slightly disconcerted by her reappearance.
Jenny said, 'Help me out here - you have a customer, a man in his forties with a ponytail. Drives an old Land Rover. Do you know who I mean?'
He shook his head. 'No . . .'
She came up close to the counter, giving him the smile. 'This is just between you and me, all right - do some customers pay in cash to hire a vehicle, no records, no paperwork?'
'Not from me,' he said with a shrug. 'Can't speak for the boss.'
She tried again, 'I really need to know about this man with the ponytail. Are you certain you haven't seen him?'
'I've only been working here six weeks.'
'I'll believe you,' Jenny said. 'You'd better give me the boss's address.'
McAvoy was sitting on the bonnet, blowing into his hands and looking across the yard through the open front of the mechanic's workshop.
Jenny said, 'He's new here. I'll have to talk to the owner.'
