"Then who should we talk to?"

Fiona bit her lip. "We're short-staffed. And it's a Sunday. Mother's Day, in fact."

"Meaning?" Annie asked.

"Well, it's a very busy day for us. Visitors. Most of them come on the weekends, you see, and Sunday morning's the most popular time, especially as it's"

"Mother's Day. Yes, I see," said Annie. "Is there anyone who can help us?"

"What is it exactly you want to know?"

"I told you. It's about a patient, a possible patient."

"Name?"

"That's one thing we're trying to find out."

"Well, I don't"

"Fiona," Annie cut in. "This is really important. Will you please page someone who knows what they're doing?"

"You don't have to take"

"Please!"

Fiona held Annie's gaze for just a moment. Annie felt her head throb. Fiona sniffed and picked up the phone. Annie heard her page someone called Grace Chaplin over the PA system. In a few moments, a woman of about the same age as Annie, looking elegant and handsome in a crisp white uniform, came striding in a no-nonsense way along a corridor, clipboard under her arm. She stepped over to Fiona and asked what the problem was. Fiona looked nervously towards Annie, who proffered her warrant card. "Is there somewhere we can talk, Ms. Chaplin?"

"Grace, please," the woman said. "By the way, I'm director of patient care services."

"Sort of like a matron?" Annie said.

Grace Chaplin gave her a tiny smile. "Sort of like that," she said. "And the conference room is over here, if you would just follow me. It should be free."

Annie looked at Tommy Naylor and raised her eyebrows as Grace Chaplin turned and led them towards a set of double doors. "Have a nose around, Tommy," she said softly. "I'll deal with this. Chat up some of the nurses. Patients, too, if you can. Use your charm. See if you can find anything out."

"Am I after anything in particular?"

"No. Just have a wander around and try to develop a feel for the place. See how people react to you. Make a note of anyone who strikes you as usefulor obstructive. You know the drill."

"Right, ma'am," said Naylor, heading off across the tiled hall.

The conference room had a large round table upon which sat a jug of water and a tray of glasses. Grace Chaplin didn't offer, but as soon as Annie sat down, she reached for a glass and filled it. The more water she could get into her system the better.

"You look a bit under the weather, Inspector," said Grace. "Is everything all right?"

"I'm fine," said Annie. "Touch of flu, maybe."

"Ah, I see. What is it I can help you with?"

Annie explained a little about the body in the wheelchair, and Grace's expression became more serious as she spoke. "In the end," Annie said, "this place seemed a natural one to start asking questions. Any idea who it might be?"

"I'm afraid I don't," said Grace. "But if you don't mind staying here a moment, I might be able to find out for you."

"Thank you."

Annie topped up her water. Through the large window, she could see Grace go back to the reception desk and talk to Fiona, who seemed flustered. Eventually, Fiona picked up a large ledger from her desk and handed it to Grace, who looked at the open page and returned to the conference room carrying the book.

"This should help," she said, placing it on the table. "It's a log of all patient comings and goings. Anyone who leaves the building with a friend or relative has to be signed out."

"And is anyone?" asked Annie.

"Only one. Usually we have far more out on a Sunday morning, but today the weather has been so unsettled, hail one minute, sleet and gale-force wind the next, that most visitors either didn't stay out long or decided simply to stop in with their loved ones. We've organized a special Mother's Day lunch, and most people will be staying indoors for that."

"And the one who's signed out?"

Grace slid the book around so Annie could read the single entry: KAREN DREW, taken out at 9:30 a.m. No return time filled in. And next to her name was an unintelligible signature, the first part of which might just, at a stretch of the imagination, have been Mary.

"Are you sure she's not back?" Annie asked.

"I don't know. Mistakes do happen. I'll have to have someone check her room to make certain."

"Would you do that, please?"

"Just a moment. I'll get Fiona to page Mel, her carer. You'll want to talk to her, anyway, I presume?"

"Yes, please," said Annie, reaching for the water jug again as Grace went back to see Fiona.

When Banks arrived at the Queen's Arms for a working lunch, Detective Sergeant Hatchley and the new probationary Detective Constable, Doug Wilson, were already there and had been lucky to snag a dimpled, copper-topped table by the window looking out on the church and market cross. The pub was crowded already, and people were crossing the market square carrying bouquets of flowers or potted plants. It reminded Banks that he had yet to phone his mother.

The detectives were still on duty, at the very beginning of a serious inquiry, so under Detective Superintendent Gervaise's new totalitarian regime, alcohol was strictly out of the question. Food, though, was another matter entirely. Even a working copper has to eat. Sipping a Diet Coke when Banks arrived, Hatchley ordered roast beef and Yorkshire pudding all round, and they settled down to business.

Hatchley was starting to appear old, Banks thought, though he was only in his forties. The cares of fatherhood had drawn lines around his eyes and bags under them. Lack of exercise had put on pounds that sagged around the waist of his suit trousers. Even his thatch of strawlike hair was getting thin on top, not helped at all by a very precarious combover. Still, Hatchley was never a man who had taken great pride in his appearance, though perhaps the saddest thing about him now was that he would hardly scare even the most mouselike of villains. But he remained a stubborn and dogged copper, albeit slow on the uptake, and Banks valued his presence on the team, when they could steal him away from his teetering piles of paperwork in CID. DC Wilson was fresh from detective training school and looked as if he'd be happier out playing football with his mates.

Hayley Daniels, it seemed, had been around. A number of landlords and bar staff recognized her from the picture Winsome had got from Donna McCarthy, though nobody admitted to actually knowing her. She had been part of a large mixed group of Saturday-night regulars, mostly students from the college. At some times there were eight or nine of them, at others five or six. Hayley had been drinking Bacardi Breezers, and towards the end of the evening at least one landlord had refused to serve her. Nobody remembered seeing her enter the Maze.

"The barmaid from the Duck and Drake recognized her," DC Wilson said. "In fact, she's a student at the college herself, working part-time, like a lot of them, and she said she's seen Hayley around on campus. Doesn't know her especially well, though."

"Anything else?" Banks asked.

"She was able to give me a couple of names of people who were with Hayley on Saturday night. She thought there were about eight, maybe nine of them in all, when she saw them. They met up at the Duck and Drake around seven o'clock, had a couple of drinks and moved on. They weren't particularly boisterous then, but it was early."

"Did you ask if she noticed anyone paying them much attention?"

"I did. She said it was pretty quiet around then, but there was one bloke by himself in a corner giving the girls the eye. In all fairness, the barmaid said she didn't blame him, given how little they were wearing."

"Name?"

"Didn't know," said DC Wilson. "Said he was vaguely familiar, thought she'd seen him before but couldn't think where. Thought he might be one of the local shopkeepers having a quiet drink after work. Anyway, I gave her my mobile number in case she remembered."

"That's good work, Doug," said Banks. The pub was filling up and getting noisy around them. It was hardly a day for tourists, but a coach had pulled up in the market square nevertheless, and they all came dashing towards the Queen's Arms, plastic macs over their heads, mostly aging mothers led by their sons and daughters.

"So DC Wilson found one place they had drinks at, and I found three," Hatchley said. "Did we miss anywhere, lad?" Hatchley glanced at Wilson, who didn't need telling twice. He shot up from his seat and hurried to the bar ahead of the tourists.

"He'll be all right," said Hatchley, winking at Banks.

"Find out anything else about Hayley?" Banks asked.

"Well," said Hatchley, "she had quite a mouth on her, according to Jack Bagley at the Trumpeter's, especially when he refused to serve her. Wouldn't believe the stream of foul language that came out of such a pretty young thing, Jack wouldn't, and there's not much he hasn't heard."

"It's the drink," said Banks. "Lord knows, I don't mind a drop or two myself, but some kids don't know when to stop these days."

"It's not just these days," said Hatchley, scratching the side of his nose. "I could tell you a rugby club tale or two that would curl your toes. And what's binge drinking, anyway, when you get right down to it? Five or more drinks in a row, three or more times a month. That's how the so-called experts define it. But you tell me which one of us has never done that. Still, you're right. Drinking's quite the social order problem these days, and Eastvale's up there with the worst, for a town its size. And it was St. Paddy's Day yesterday, too. You know the Irish. Couple of drinks, a punch-up, a few songs and another drink."

"Come on, Jim," said Banks. "I promised Superintendent Gervaise you weren't going to offend anyone."

Hatchley looked hurt. "Me? Offend?"

DC Wilson rejoined them, looking pleased with himself. "Seems they were here later on in the evening," he said.

"And Cyril served them?"

"Cyril wasn't here last night. The young lad at the far end was, though. He said they were quiet enough by then. Maybe a bit the worse for wear, but nobody was acting so drunk he thought he ought to refuse to serve them. They had a drink each, just the one, and left in an orderly fashion half an hour or so before closing time."

"That would be about half past eleven, then," said Banks.

"Did he see where they went?" Hatchley asked.

"Over to the Fountain."

The Fountain was the pub on the far side of the square, on the corner of Taylor's Yard, and it was known to stay open until about midnight, or not long after. "The others must have quietened Hayley down after that fracas in the Trumpeter's so they could get more drinks," Hatchley said. "I wonder if they went to the Bar None when the Fountain closed? They've been stricter about who they serve in there since the last time they were in trouble, but it's the only place in town you can get a drink after midnight, unless you fancy a curry and lager at the Taj."

DC Wilson's mobile buzzed and he put it to his ear. When he had asked a couple of questions and listened for a while, the frown deepened on his brow.

"What is it?" Banks asked when Wilson turned the phone off.

"It was that barmaid at the Duck and Drake," he said. "She remembered where she'd seen the bloke sitting by himself. Got a tear in her leather jacket a couple of months ago and someone recommended that shop on the corner of Taylor's Yard for invisible mending. Said she didn't know the bloke's name, but it was him, the bloke from the leather shop."

Mel Danvers, Karen Drew's assigned carer, was a slender young thing of twenty-something with doe eyes and a layered cap of chocolate brown hair. Grace Chaplin seemed in control, but Mel seemed nervous, fiddling with a ring on her finger, perhaps because she was in front of her supervisor. Annie didn't know if the nervousness meant anything, but she hoped she would soon find out. Someone had managed to get their hands on an assortment of sandwiches, she noticed, along with some digestive biscuits and a pot of tea. Things were looking up in the conference room.

Mel turned from Annie to Grace. "I can't believe it," she said. "Karen? Murdered?"

She had checked Karen's room, and her colleagues had searched the rest of Mapston Hall, just in case Karen had somehow returned without anyone knowing, but she was nowhere to be found. And Karen fit the description that Annie gave Grace and Mel. Tommy Naylor was busy searching her room.

"Tell me what happened." Annie said. "Were you there when she left?"

"Yes. I even advised her against it. The weather...but her friend was quite adamant. She said a bit of wind and rain never bothered her, and it would be a long time before she could come again. I couldn't stop her from going. I mean, she wasn't a prisoner or anything."

"It's all right," said Annie. "Nobody's blaming you. What was her friend's name?"

"Mary."

"No surname?"

"She didn't give me one. It should be in the log," Mel said with a glance at Grace. "They have to sign the log."

Annie showed her the signature. Mel narrowed her eyes and shook her head. "I can't read it," she said.

"Nobody can," said Annie. "I think that was the intention."

"But you can't mean...Oh, dear God!" She put her hand to her mouth.

Grace touched her shoulder gently. "There, there, Mel," she said. "Be strong. Answer the inspector's questions."

"Yes," said Mel, stiffening and straightening her uniform.

"Is the time right? Half past nine?" Annie asked.

"Yes," Mel answered.

Well, that was something, Annie thought. "Do you require any sort of identification from people signing patients out?" she asked.

"No," said Grace. "Why would we? Who would want to..." She let her words trail off when she realized where she was heading.

"I understand," said Annie. "So basically anyone can walk in and take any one of your patients out?"

"Well, yes," said Grace. "But usually they're friends or relatives, unless they're social workers or volunteers, of course, and then they take whoever requires them." She paused. "Not all our patients have relatives who recognize their existence."

"It must be difficult," Annie said, not entirely sure what she meant. She turned to Mel again. "Had you ever seen this Mary before?" she asked.

"No."

"Are you certain it was a woman?"

"I think so," Mel said. "It was mostly her voice, you know. I couldn't see much of her face because she was wearing a hat and glasses, and she had a long raincoat on with the collar turned up so, you know, it sort of hid her shape, her figure and her neck. I'm pretty sure, though."

"What was her voice like?"

"Just ordinary."

"Any particular accent?"

"No. But not Yorkshire, like, or Geordie. Just sort of neutral. She didn't say very much, just said she was a friend and had come to take Karen for a walk."

"What did you notice about her?"

"She was quite slight. You know, wiry. Not very tall."

"Did you catch a glimpse of her hair colour at all?"