Murrain gazed back at him for a moment with a faint smile. 'Any views on the grape variety or vintage as well, Pete?' Then he turned to Milton. 'First sighting of a lead, I suppose.'

  'I'll be on to it, boss. Though if she ate in town, it'll be a long-shot.'

  'Better than a no-shot, anyway. Seems to make even less sense. The victim enjoyed a pleasant meal before being very gently tied up and then killed.' He shook his head as if trying to clear it.

  There was a sudden, unexpectedly loud buzzing from Milton's mobile phone on the table. He shrugged apologetically. 'Excuse me if I take this. Might be relevant.'

  Murrain nodded. 'Think we've gone about as far as we can, anyway.'

  Milton left the room, already beginning to talk into the phone as he exited. Murrain turned back to the others. 'Thanks for your efforts, people. Just wish we were making a bit more progress.'

  'I'll get the full report to you later today,' Warwick said. 'We all understand the sensitivities here. But I can't pretend it's going to tell you anything more.'

  'Same here,' Ferbrache said. 'On both counts.'

  'Neither of you fancies working any kind of a miracle, then,' Murrain said. 'Bloody typical.'

  ***

  Beth climbed out of the car and stood for a moment, drinking in the fresh air and the view. She'd been here before, a couple of years previously, for a Christmas do with the marketing department of a company where she'd been freelancing. As a freelancer, it was unusual to get invited to any kind of office Christmas party, and this had been a pretty upmarket affair, more of a dinner-dance than the usual drunken disco. She'd almost declined the invitation as she really knew only a handful of the attendees. In the end, though, she'd had a good time. She'd drunk enough to be relaxed but not so much that she'd found herself doing or saying anything embarrassing. The food had been good and the company, on the whole, even better. She'd got on particularly well with one bloke there—Gid something, she recalled—and she'd harboured vague hopes he might contact her afterwards. But he never had, and she'd concluded he was probably married though he hadn't given that impression on the night. Even so, her memories of this place were positive.

  The hotel's setting had been impressive enough even on a cold December night. She remembered how, after the taxi had dropped her off, she'd stood, just as she was now, gazing into the vast openness of the Cheshire plain. That night, the landscape had been little more than a black space filled with constellations of lights, the orange glow of Manchester rising in the distance. Now, on a clear autumn day, she could see the full panorama from the hazy city towers in the north to the Cheshire pasturelands in the south. In the far distance, north of Manchester, she could make out the curve of Winter Hill. Much closer, there was the brick-built railway viaduct cutting through the heart of Stockport. It was a glorious day, but the chill wind already tasted of winter.

  She turned and looked around her. On this Tuesday lunchtime, the car-park was almost deserted, with only a couple of brightly polished executive vehicles to accompany her own battered Ford Fiesta and a Renault Clio of a similar vintage. She wondered whether the mysterious Jack Brennan was the owner of the Audi or the BMW. It seemed likely. Whatever business had brought him to stay in a hotel like this would be more lucrative than her own brand of freelancing. Still, maybe she'd get a free lunch from him, alongside the return of at least some of what Mac had taken from her.

  The interior of the hotel felt cosily warm after the open moorland. She walked past the reception desk, feeling, as she always did in places like this, as if she were about to be exposed as a charlatan, unfit to be allowed in somewhere so luxurious. It was ridiculous, she knew. In reality this was little more than an upmarket chain hotel—the sort of place that fleeces bored business travellers in the week and offers bargain breaks to young couples and families at the weekend. Even so, it was more upscale than anywhere she normally frequented.

  The hotel bar was situated beyond the reception, forming an anteroom to the restaurant beyond. She'd half-expected that Brennan would be sitting waiting for her, even though she was a few minutes early. But the only other occupant of the room was an earnest-looking business-woman, a year or two younger than Beth herself but looking utterly at home in this context. She was tapping at a laptop, pausing for an occasional sip of coffee, and had glanced up only briefly as Beth had entered the room. Her expression confirmed that she too was waiting to meet someone, but that Beth had definitely not fitted the bill.

  Beth sighed to herself and took a seat as far as possible from the other woman. Beforehand, she'd felt intrigued about this meeting. About who Brennan might be, and what more he might know of Mac and his current circumstances. She'd even been looking forward to the prospect of a lunch with someone who, whoever and whatever he might turn out to be, was at least another human being. It seemed quite a while since she'd had much social interaction with one of those.

  Now she was here, in this alien-feeling environment, she felt much less comfortable. The prospect of a leisurely lunch seemed unenticing. All she wanted was get back what McKendrick owed her, if that were possible, and then put him, and any of his friends, firmly out of her life forever. She just wanted this over with.

  ***

  'Joe?'

  'Yes?' He was standing in the corridor outside the meeting room. Through the glass Murrain was finishing off with Warwick and Ferbrache.

  'It's Rob. Rob Fletcher.'

  'Oh, Christ, sorry, Rob. It said: 'number withheld'. I thought you were selling double-glazing or payday loans.'

  'Not till after retirement. I'm on the office landline. I was following up your call last night.'

  'That's good of you.' He meant it sincerely. He hadn't really expected Fletcher to get back to him and certainly not so quickly. In the light of day, he was feeling almost embarrassed he'd interrupted Fletcher's evening in the first place.

  'Never like to let down you city types when you come crawling to the real workers for help.'

  'Thanks. Imagine it makes a change from dealing with sheep-rustling, anyway. Or whatever it is you woolly-backs do with sheep.'

  'You asked me about Kathy Granger?'

  'Right. Does she work for you lot, then?'

  'Looks like it. Found her in the internal phone book. Assume it's the one you're looking for. Seems she's an administrator in HR.'

  'Oh. Right.' Milton jotted down the phone number, slightly taken aback. 'Hadn't expected that, somehow.' He remembered just in time that Fletcher's partner worked in HR for some Preston law-firm. 'Not that I've anything against HR.'

  Fletcher laughed. 'You're the only one, then. No, I was a bit surprised. I mean, there's no reason why not, but I'd have expected that most of the guests would be colleagues of dear old Andy Barton or his new bride.'

  'Must have known one of them from somewhere, anyway. Suppose we'll find out when we talk to her.'

  'No doubt. Well, hope she helps cast some light on your mystery.'

  'Can't really see it, but you never know. Thanks for tracking her down, anyway.'

  'No problem, mate. Just don't forget you owe me a favour.'

  'I won't.'

  Milton ended the call and stood for a moment, watching Murrain still chatting with the others in the meeting room. No time like the present, he thought. He couldn't imagine that Kathy Granger was going to add anything significant to the sum of their knowledge. But he knew better than to ignore Murrain's instincts. He thumbed in the number Fletcher had given him.

  The phone rang just once, then a voice said: 'HR. How can I help?'

  They'd obviously been taught to answer the phone like that. Milton thought. Wasn't it one of the great lies? 'I'm from HR and I'm here to help.' 'Hi,' he said out loud, 'I'm trying to get in touch with Kathy Granger.'

  There was a pause. 'Who's calling, please?'

  Milton hesitated, wondering how much to say. 'My name's Joe Milton,' he said. 'Is she available, please?'

  Another pause, longer this time. 'She's not available at the moment. Can I ask what it's in connection with?'

  There was no point in beating about the bush, Milton thought. 'Actually, it's DI Milton from Greater Manchester Police. I need to speak to Ms Granger about an ongoing investigation. It's quite urgent. Can you tell me how I can contact her?' Not that invoking the name of GMP was likely to cut much ice up there.

  'Well—' The speaker stopped again. 'I'm afraid I can't, exactly. She's not in work today.'

  There was something odd in his tone, Milton thought. 'Are you expecting her in tomorrow?'

  'This investigation,' the speaker said cautiously. 'Kathy's not in some kind of trouble, is she?'

  'Is there any reason you think she might be?'

  'Well, no, not Kathy. But this isn't like her.'

  'What isn't?'

  'It's just that she hasn't turned into work today. Or yesterday. And she's not called in either. She never usually takes a day's sick.'

  Through the glass partition, Milton saw Murrain turn towards him, almost as if he'd been listening in to the conversation. 'Have you tried calling her?'

  'Well, yes. We were all a bit anxious. But it just rings out. And then when you called—'

  'Yes, I understand, Mr—?'

  'Cartwright. Keith Cartwright. I'm the payroll manager. Kathy's boss.'

  'Thanks, Mr Cartwright. We just want to speak to Kathy as a potential witness in a case we're investigating. Not even a material witness, most likely. She was just one of a number of people who were in the locality at the time the crime was committed.'

  'I see. Well, I can pass on a message when she does come in.' Cartwright sounded disappointed that the story wasn't more exciting. 'Funny, this is about as close as we've ever got to real policing.'

  'Funny,' Milton agreed. 'And you reckon it's unusual for Kathy to behave like this?'

  'Not like her at all. She's never sick. And if she's ever delayed or anything, she's always scrupulous about letting us know where she is.'

  'She didn't give any indication she wouldn't be in this week?'

  'Not at all. We knew she was going away for the weekend. Some old friend's wedding or something.'

  Milton made a mental note that Granger hadn't told her colleagues that the old friend in question was either DI Andy Barton or his new bride. That might or might not be significant. He had no idea whether Barton's name carried any cachet in the rarefied realms of Human Resources.

  'Is anyone planning to check she's OK?' he asked. 'Pay a home visit, I mean.'

  'We don't normally do home visits till someone's been off sick for a couple of weeks. That's the procedure.' Cartwright sounded like someone who would be a stickler for procedure. 'So I don't really know—'

  'From what you've said, these don't sound like ordinary circumstances. Is there any family you can contact? Neighbours?'

  'Not that I know of. Kathy lived alone. I think both her parents are dead. Not sure there's anyone else. I can check the file.'

  'If I were you, I'd get someone to visit her. It's almost certainly nothing. But if it's out of character—well, you can't be too careful, can you?'

  'No, I suppose not,' Cartwright said, doubtfully. 'But I don't want her to think we're snooping.'

  'She'll be pleased you're concerned about her, I should think.'

  'You're probably right. And I'll tell her you want to talk to her.'

  Milton gave his number and ended the call. He looked up to see Murrain still sitting in the meeting room, alone now. He was still gazing at Milton through the glass, and Milton could tell from the older man's expression that he already knew. Not the detail, not what Milton had just been hearing, not about Granger's absence from work.

  But Murrain knew something had happened, and he knew it mattered.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Donovan had worried that Jack Brennan might be waiting when she walked into the Agency office the next morning. But there was no sign of him and, when she checked his on-line office diary, his meeting schedule confirmed he'd been telling the truth about heading back to London the previous night. That was some small relief. She and Holly had spent the evening knocking back too much red wine, watching some crappy old film on TV, and studiously avoiding making any reference to the man who'd unexpectedly invaded their home.

  Now, Donovan was feeling mildly hungover and dreading the thought of another day pretending to carry out a non-job in this place. As it turned out, though, the fates—which had already done a decent job of ensuring that Brennan was at the other end of the country—were on her side for once. She hadn't even finished booting up her computer terminal when Murray Graham poked his head round the office door. 'Must have gone well yesterday, then?'

  Graham was the poor bugger who'd been left managing her when the last burst of organisational music had stopped. He was a decent enough man but out of his depth in a political organisation like the Agency, which was no doubt why he'd ended up with Donovan. His background was as a financial investigator with Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs, and the ways of policing seemed a perennial mystery to him.

  'The interview?' she said. 'Well, I liked what I saw.'

  'They must have felt the same,' Graham said, 'given how quickly they've responded.' He held up a sheet of paper. She had a suspicion he printed off every e-mail he received. 'They seem keen on you.'

  It sounded as if Murrain had been as good as his word. 'What did they say?'

  'If we can release you, they want to offer you a twelve-month secondment. Same pay and conditions but them picking up the tab. This chap Murrain reckons he can sort the paperwork. Rather him than me.'

  'What sort of start-date are they talking about?' She knew that nothing in this environment ever moved quickly.

  'As far as he's concerned you can start immediately. Reckons they've some big investigation on and he needs all the bodies he can get. He's putting pressure on to release you as quickly as we can.'

  She nodded. This was usually the point at which, having stuck you in a non-existent role for weeks on end, they suddenly decided you were indispensable. 'And how do you see that?'

  He looked momentarily embarrassed and she waited for the inevitable refusal. 'Look, Marie, you know I rate you really highly. But, frankly, we both know you're wasted here. I wish I could offer you something better, but—well, I think it's better if you go as soon as possible.'

  'And as soon as possible means what?'

  'Up to you, really. Do you have anything you need to finish off?'

  'Not really.' He knew as well as she did that there was nothing she couldn't hand over immediately. None of it was important, and much of it hardly constituted serious work.

  'My sense was that Murrain would take you straightaway if he could.' He shrugged, the embarrassment still evident. 'I can call him. Say we can release you immediately in the circumstances. If that's OK by you.'

  'Fine by me,' she said. It would be good to be out of here, good to be doing a real job again. Good, she thought, to be working alongside Murrain and Milton.

  'Just hope he's right about the paperwork,' Graham said, as he turned to leave. 'Need to get the funding sorted ASAP. It's hitting my budget.'

  Thanks, she thought. Nice to be just an unwanted financial overhead. Whatever the future might hold for her, it had to be better than this.

  ***

  'Sir?'

  Murrain had seen Sparrow hovering by his desk, ostentatiously standing out of earshot but close enough to be noticed. Murrain had been on the phone for a long time—half an hour or so—trying to sort the administration for Marie Donovan's transfer, but Sparrow had shown no sign of departing. Something important, obviously, if only to Sparrow.

  Sure enough, as soon as Murrain replaced the receiver, Sparrow appeared in front of him. 'Sir?'

  Murrain looked up wearily. He'd persuaded HR to agree to the transfer, despite it being 'highly irregular' and 'outside normal procedures'. Murrain hadn't really seen the problem. He was carrying enough unfilled vacancies to ensure there was plenty of budget to pay for her. He'd managed, without too much difficulty, to get sign off from his Chief Superintendent. The only thing preventing the move was bureaucracy, but that of course was the biggest hurdle of all.

  'We can't afford to be setting a precedent?' the HR Business Partner had intoned.

  'What sort of precedent?'

  'Well, encouraging managers to act outside normal procedures.'

  'Why not?'

  'There'd be chaos.'

  'There's already chaos. Because we don't have enough staff.'

  It had taken another thirty minutes to persuade the HRBP that it really was possible to step outside procedure. It was a victory and a significant one, in that Murrain needed all the experienced hands he could get, but it had felt like an unnecessary diversion of his time and energy from the task at hand. Around him, officers were collating information from the interviews and other sources, but still nothing of substance was emerging.

  'Sir? Sparrow said again.

  'Sorry, Will. Miles away. What can I do for you?'

  'You asked me to check that car numberplate, sir?'

  Please just call me Kenny, Murrain wanted to say. The old hierarchical certainties were gradually being eroded and most officers were happy to be called simply by their forenames these days, whatever their rank. But that tended to leave some of the younger ones, like Will Sparrow, unsure where they stood. 'Car numberplate?' For a moment, he had no idea what Sparrow was talking about.

  'When we made the visit to Mrs Berenek,' Sparrow explained. 'The son's car. As we were leaving.'

  'Right.' He remembered now. There'd been something about the son. It had been he, rather than the mother, who'd triggered the response. 'Find anything?'

  'Maybe. I'm not sure. I only just got around to looking because—well—' He gestured apologetically at the activity around them.

  'It's probably not a priority, given everything else we're dealing with. Just curiosity, really. But you found something?'

 

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