"When he came out of his coma, yes. He did remember something about a girl. Apparently they had a drink together, but that's all."

"Name?"

"Didn't remember. Who knows, maybe he remembers more now. It's been eighteen years."

"Was there any follow-up?"

Ferris shook his head. "Years passed and nothing new came up. You know what it's like." He laughed. "Not like books or TV where the detective won't give up until he gets his man."

"Or woman."

"Aye. Anyway, officially there was no murder, remember. Jack Grimley was killed by a fall, and Greg Eastcote disappeared. The only actual crime was the one against Keith McLaren, and he couldn't remember anything, then he buggered off back to Australia. Pardon my French." Ferris paused. "Besides, the feeling was that if Greg Eastcote was a serial killer, as he appeared to be, then someone had done us a bloody big favour."

"I think you'd have been hard-pushed telling that to Jack Grimley's family, or to Keith McLaren."

"Aye, well, I never said it sat well with me over the years, did I, but that's the way things go, sometimes."

"So you did nothing?"

"My hands were tied."

"And that's where it stands today?"

Ferris sighed. "Until now," he said.

Annie frowned. The noise of laughter and conversation ebbed and flowed around them. Behind the bar, a glass smashed. "I still don't get it," she said. "It's a fascinating story, but you must realize there's nothing to connect those events directly with what happened to Lucy Payne the other day except the bee in your bonnet. It's been eighteen years. The whole idea's ludicrous."

"Yes, of course. I know that. But if Eastcote was the serial killer, and a woman sent him over that cliff..."

"And Kirsten Farrow was the surviving victim"

"The mysterious woman seen with Grimley and McLaren. Exactly."

"But how could she be?" Annie said. "You told me yourself that she couldn't have known who her attacker was, and she was in Leeds with her friend at the time of the crimes."

Ferris shrugged. "That's what she told us. And her friend corroborated it. But alibis can be fabricated. What if she had found out?"

"Have you talked to anyone else about this?"

Ferris gave her a hurt look. "What do you think I am?"

Annie rubbed her forehead. "Sorry," she said. "The media's already in a feeding frenzy since they found out it was Lucy Payne on the edge of that cliff."

Ferris chuckled. "I'll bet they are. Anyroad, they'll get nothing from me."

Annie took out her notebook. "Okay, I'll make a few preliminary inquiries," she said. "You'd better start by giving me some names and last-known addresses. The Australian, Kirsten's friend. We're really pushed for manpower as it is, but maybe it'd be worth a bit of digging." Then she stopped, struck by an idea that might be as crazy as it sounded.

"What is it?" Ferris said.

"You know those locks of hair you told me about?"

"Yes."

"Did you keep them?"

"They'd be with the rest of the case material somewhere, yes," said Ferris.

"Do you think you could dig them out?"

Ferris's face lit up as if he had been given a new purpose in life. "Is the Pope Catholic?" he said, beaming. "I don't see why not. I am a researcher, after all."

The beer was flowing in the Queen's Arms, where the landlord had put two long tables together, and even Detective Superintendent Catherine Gervaise was joining in the celebrations with a smile on her face. Only Banks stood apart, leaning against the windowsill pensively sipping his pint, occasionally glancing out through the diamond-shaped panes at the passersby on Market Street as the shadows lengthened, feeling that something wasn't quite right, that they were perhaps being premature. But a DNA match was solid, an arrest was an arrest, and it demanded celebration. The Arctic Monkeys were on the jukebox and all was well with the world.

"What is it, sir?" asked Winsome, suddenly standing by his side, a purple drink topped with a maraschino cherry in her hand. Banks didn't even want to know what it was. She was a little wobbly, but her voice and her eyes were clear.

"Nothing," said Banks. "Having fun?"

"I suppose so."

"Something wrong?"

"No," said Winsome. "You just seemed far away. I wondered"

"What?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Out with it."

"It's none of my business."

"What isn't?"

Someone bumped into Winsome, but she managed to hold on to her drink without spilling any. The man apologized and moved on. Hatchley was telling a joke over the music and everyone at the table was waiting for the punchline. Banks had heard it before. "Busy in here tonight, isn't it?" Winsome said.

"You can't just start to say something, then cut it off in midstream," said Banks. "What's on your mind?"

"DI Cabbot, sir."

"Annie?"

"I told you, it's none of my business. I don't want to speak out of turn, but I know you two are friends."

"I used to think so, too," said Banks. Through the window, a couple of schoolgirls in dishevelled uniforms walked home from a late band practice, one carrying a violin case, the other a flute.

Hatchley reached his punchline and the table started laughing. "Sir?"

"Nothing. What about DI Cabbot?"

"I think something's bothering her."

"Bothering her? In what way?"

"I don't know, sir." Winsome lowered her voice. "I think it's a boyfriend. Stalking? Threatening?"

"I'll have a word," Banks said, wondering just how on earth he would manage to do that given their last encounter and the present climate of their relationship.

"You won't tell her I said anything?"

"Don't worry," said Banks. He saw the desk sergeant enter the pub, glance around and walk straight towards him. He groaned. "Shit, Ernie, what do you want?" he said.

"Always nice to find a warm welcome, sir," said Ernie.

"I'm sure it happens a lot when you're always the bearer of good news."

"You're not going to like it."

"I never do, but that's not stopped you yet."

"Bloke just came in, neighbour of Joseph Randall, the one you charged."

"And?"

"Says Randall can't possibly have done it, sir. Wants to talk to the man in charge."

"Man in charge?" Banks glanced over at Superintendent Gervaise, who seemed to be enjoying a private chat with DC Wilson, and wondered if feminism might actually work for him, just this once, then he decided just as quickly that it wouldn't. Why rain on their parade? If there was anything in it, they'd find out soon enough. "All right," he said, getting to his feet. "Lead on."

Annie mulled over her conversation with Les Ferris as she drove the A171, along the edge of the North York Moors, quiet at that time of evening, just after dark. She put some foot-tapping pop music on the radio to keep her going, but the chatter between songs irritated her so much that she turned it off. On the face of it, what Ferris had come up with sounded absurd: one murder, one serious assault and one unsolved disappearance of eighteen years ago, a mysterious woman seen in proximity to two of the three scenes. As he had said, there was only ever officially one crime: Keith McLaren's assault.

What could any of this possibly have to do with what happened on Sunday? Curiously enough, Annie thought there were quite a few connections. First was location. There had been no other murders around the cliffs in the past eighteen years, so why again now? Second came the strong possibility of a female killer. Women murderers are much rarer than men. Third, two of the victims were serial killers, or perceived by many to be serial killers: Greg Eastcote and Lucy Payne. Four, the murderer of eighteen years ago had not been caught. And that led to the fifth and final point of similarity: if the killer had been around eighteen years ago, that put her at almost forty now, and that was about the only thing they knew about the elusive Mary. Mel Danvers thought she had been about that age. It was still very tenuous, but the more Annie thought about it, the more she became convinced that it at least merited some investigation.

What about Keith McLaren, the Australian? Perhaps he had recovered more of his memory now. It was all moot until Les Ferris came up with the hair samples, anyway, and then a lot depended on whether they could match Kirsten's to any of the hairs found on Lucy Payne's blanket. If not, it was a washout, but if they did, they were in business.

It was a beautiful, clear evening, Annie thought, as she passed the road to Robin Hood's Bay. She could see the afterglow of the sunset, dark strata of red and purple silhouetting the western hills. To the east, over the North Sea, spread that magical shade of luminescent dark blue you saw only at the time of night opposite a sunset. A silver moon hung low to the north.

Soon Annie was amidst the traffic lights and streetlights, and the pleasures of the open road were lost. She found a parking spot only yards from her temporary accommodation and let herself in. The place seemed cool and dark, as if it had been abandoned far longer than it actually had. Perhaps the nicest thing about it, Annie thought, was that she could just see a wedge of sea between the rooftops. She turned the lights on, hung up her jacket and headed for the kitchenette. She hadn't eaten dinner, had only sipped that one pint to Ferris's three, and she could do with a glass of wine and a plate of cheese and crackers.

Tomorrow would be a busy day, she reflected, as she put the plate and glass beside her on the desk and turned on her laptop. There were people connected with the Paynes' victims to be interviewed, and now another line of inquiry coming out of Les Ferris's story.

Only one thing was certain: given the workload they had already, if they were to follow Ferris's leads, they were going to be seriously overstretched. Which meant Annie had to approach Superintendent Brough for both overtime, as she had already promised Ginger, and for extra personnel. These were the two things no budget-conscious administrator liked to authorize these days. It would be hard to sell it to Brough, but she'd worry about that later. Besides, he was bound to have his hands full with the press.

The one good thing about Brough, Annie had learned in the short time she had been working at Eastern, was that he didn't really listen. He was easily distracted and tended to focus on matters of public opinion and image; he was also the kind of person who was well on to his response to the next press question before you'd finished speaking. Consequently, a lot passed by him, which you could legitimately claim to have told him, and he tended to nod abruptly, agree and say okay simply to facilitate being able to move on, to say something he thought more interesting.

The Internet connection was slow. The guest house didn't have broadband, and Annie had to rely on the phone line and the computer's internal modem. But it was good enough for e-mail, which was all she really wanted. Tonight it seemed to take an unusually long time to download. She cursed whoever it was had decided to send her a large attachment, probably some silly joke or holiday snap, then she saw Eric's name appear next to a paper clip and her heart constricted.

How had he got hold of her e-mail address? Then it dawned on her: the BlackBerry. Eric had showed her how to attach photos and send them. She had sent one to him in the club. That was how he had got her e-mail address. How could she be so careless?

The other messages were all junkViagra, breast enlargement and genuine Rolex offers, along with various sales newsletters.

She opened Eric's message. It was short, in blue italic script, and to the point: Dear Annie, I hope you enjoyed Saturday as much as I did. You were fantastic!! I can't wait to do it again (and more ). In the meantime I'm really looking forward to our lunch tomorrow and getting to know you a bit more. I don't even know where you come from or what you do for a living! Don't forget 12 noon at the Black Horse, I'll be waiting.

Love,

Eric.

Annie's heart sank when she opened the attached JPEG. She definitely didn't remember posing for this one. It was a slightly blurred picture of her and Eric, no doubt using the self-timer. This time she had her head resting on his shoulder, his arm encircling her. Her hair was dishevelled, and her eyes unfocused. All of which would have been perfectly innocent, albeit a little embarrassing, except that it was clear, even from the head and shoulders, that both she and Eric were stark naked, and that she was holding a joint between her thumb and forefinger. And bugger it if she wasn't smiling.

"Well, Joseph," said Banks, back in the same interview room with the tape recorder running and Sebastian Crawford hovering nervously in the background again. "It looks as if we're not at the bottom of this yet, doesn't it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Randall.

"I think you do," said Banks. He leaned forward. "And I think it would be in your best interests to admit that you do."

Randall licked his lips and looked to Crawford for guidance. Crawford said nothing.

"Right," said Banks, leaning back in his chair. "Let me lay it out for you, then. We've just had a visit from your neighbour, Roger Colegate, who tells us that he saw you putting the cat out at half past twelve on Saturday night. Though we don't as yet know the exact time Hayley Daniels was murdered, we do have evidence pointing towards the fact that she entered the Maze at twenty past twelve and was most likely accosted by her attacker by twenty-five past twelve or thereabouts."

"Well, there you are then," said Randall with a triumphant glance towards Sebastian Crawford. "I couldn't have done it, could I?"

"It would probably have taken you at least fifteen minutes to walk up to the market square from where you live," Banks went on, "even if you had been capable of walking in a straight line at the time."

"What do you mean?" Randall said.

"According to your neighbour, you were pissed," said Banks. "In fact, according to Mr. Colegate you were usually pissed by that time most nights."

"That's a lie," said Randall. "I might have had a drink or two, but there's no law against that, is there?"

"Not at all," said Banks. "No law against getting pissed, either, providing you don't cause any bother."

"Well...?"

"Mr. Colegate says you were unsteady on your feet and that when he called out good evening, you replied in a slurred voice. You don't even remember that, do you?"

"No," said Randall, "but it doesn't matter, does it? He remembers it. That's what counts. Like you say, there's no law against getting a little drunk in one's own home once in a while, is there? I'm off the hook. I can't have done this terrible thing. You have to let me go."

Banks paused. "You did find the body, however."

"You already knew that. I was the one who reported it to you. And I had a legitimate reason for being there."

"Yes, we've checked with the customer you told us about. You did have a rush order for a handbag. But that's hardly relevant."