didn’t mention anyone rescu-ing 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.
A N N I E C U R S E D 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 L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
3 3 3
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 3 3 4 P E T E R
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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, f lashing 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
