Aftermath

15

Banks had always thought that Sunday morning was a good time to put a little pressure on an unsuspecting villain. Sunday afternoon was good, too, after the papers, the pub and the roast beef and Yorkshire pud have put him in a good mood and he was stretched out in the armchair, newspaper over his head, enjoying a little snooze. But on Sunday morning, if they weren’t particularly religious, people were either relaxed and all set to enjoy a day off, or they were hung over. Either way made for a good chat.

Ian Scott was definitely hungover.

His oily black hair stood in spikes on top and lay flat at the sides, plastered to his skull where he had lain on the pillow. One side of his pasty face was etched with crease marks. His eyes were bloodshot and he wore only a grubby vest and underpants.

“Can I come in, Ian?” said Banks, pushing gently past him before he got an answer. “Won’t take long.”

The flat reeked of last night’s marijuana smoke and stale beer. Roaches still lay scattered in the ashtrays. Banks went over and opened the window as wide as it would go. “Shame on you, Ian,” he said. “A lovely spring morning like this, you ought to be out walking down by the river or having a crack at Fremlington Edge.”

“Bollocks,” said Ian, scratching those very items as he spoke.

Sarah Francis stumbled in from the bedroom, holding her tousled hair back from her face and squinting through sleep-gummed eyes. She was wearing a white T-shirt with Donald Duck on the front, and nothing else. The T-shirt only came down to her hips.

“Shit,” she said, covering herself with her hands as best she could and dashing back into the bedroom.

“Enjoy the free show?” said Ian.

“Not particularly.” Banks tossed a heap of clothes from the chair nearest the window and sat down. Ian turned on the stereo, too loud, and Banks got up and turned it off. Ian sat down and sulked and Sarah came back in wearing a pair of jeans. “You could have bloody warned me,” she grumbled to Ian.

“Shut up, you silly cunt,” he said.

Now Sarah sat down and sulked, too.

“Okay,” said Banks. “Are we all comfortable? Can I begin?”

“I don’t know what you want with us again,” said Ian. “We told you everything that happened.”

“Well, it won’t do any harm to go over it again, will it?”

Ian groaned. “I don’t feel well. I feel sick.”

“You should treat your body with more respect,” said Banks. “It’s a temple.”

“What do you want to know? Get it over with.”

“First off, I’m puzzled by something.”

“Well, you’re the Sherlock; I’m sure you can work it out.”

“I’m puzzled by why you haven’t asked me about Leanne.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d hardly be back here interrupting your Sunday morning, would I, if Leanne had turned up dead and buried in a serial killer’s garden?”

“What are you saying? Speak English.”

Sarah had curled herself somehow into a fetal position in the other armchair and was watching the exchange intently.

“What I’m saying, Ian, is that you didn’t ask about Leanne. That concerns me. Don’t you care about her?”

“She was a mate, that’s all. But it’s nothing to do with us. We don’t know what happened to her. Besides, I’d’ve got around to it eventually. My brain’s not working properly yet.”

“Does it ever? Anyway, I’m beginning to think you do.”

“Do what?”

“Know something about what happened to Leanne.”

“That’s rubbish.”

“Is it, really? Let’s back up a bit. First off, we’re pretty certain now that Leanne Wray wasn’t one of the Chameleon’s victims, as we had first thought.”

“Your mistake, isn’t it?” said Ian. “Don’t come looking to us to bail you out.”

“Now, if that’s not the case, then it stands to reason that something else happened to her.”

“You don’t need to be a Sherlock to figure that one out.”

“Which, discounting the possibility of another stranger killing, leaves three possibilities.”

“Oh, yeah? And what are those?”

Banks counted off on his fingers. “One, that she ran away from home. Two, that she did go home on time and her parents did something to her. And three, the main reason I’m here, that she didn’t, in fact, go home after you left the Old Ship. That the three of you stayed together and you did something to her.”

Ian Scott showed no expression but scorn as he listened, and Sarah started sucking on her thumb. “We told you what happened,” Ian said. “We told you what we did.”

“Yes,” said Banks. “But The Riverboat was so busy, the people we talked to were very vague about seeing you. They certainly weren’t sure about the time and weren’t even sure it was that Friday night.”

“But you’ve got the CCTV. For fuck’s sake, what’s Big Brother watching for if you can’t believe what you see?”

“Oh, we believe what we see all right,” said Banks. “But all we see is you, Sarah here and Mick Blair entering the Bar None shortly after half-past twelve.”

“Well, there’s no point going earlier. Things don’t start to warm up till after midnight.”

“Yes, Ian, but that leaves over two hours unaccounted for. A lot can happen in two hours.”

“How was I to know I’d have to account for my every minute?”

“Two hours.”

“I told you. We walked around town a bit, dropped in at The Riverboat, then went to the Bar None. I don’t know what fucking time it was.”

“Sarah?”

Sarah took her thumb from her mouth. “What he says.”

“Is that how it usually goes?” Banks asked. “What Ian says. Haven’t you got a mind of your own?”

“What he says. We went to The Riverboat, then to the Bar None. Leanne left us just before half-past ten outside the Old Ship. We don’t know what happened to her after that.”

“And Mick Blair went with you?”

“Yeah.”

“How did Leanne seem that night, Sarah?”

“Uh?”

“What sort of mood was she in?”

“All right, I suppose.”

“She wasn’t upset about anything?”

“No. We were having a good time.”

“Leanne didn’t confide anything in you?”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Some problem with her stepmother, perhaps?”

“She was always having problems with that stuck-up bitch. I was sick of hearing about them.”

“Did she ever talk about running off?”

“Not to me. Not that I remember. Ian?”

“Nah. She just whined about the old cow, that’s all. She hadn’t the bottle to run away. If I was looking at somebody for it, I’d look at the stepmother first.”

“Somebody for what?”

“You know. If you think someone did something to Leanne, like.”

“I see. What was the idea that excited you all before you left the Old Ship?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Ian.

“Oh, come on. We know you seemed excited by something you were going to do. What was it? Did it include Leanne?”

“We talked about going to the Bar None, but Leanne knew she couldn’t come with us.”

“That’s all?”

“What else could there be?”

“She didn’t give you any hint that she might not be going straight home?”

“No.”

“Or that she might run off, teach her stepmother a lesson?”

“Dunno. Who can tell what’s in a bitch’s mind when it comes right down to it, hey?”

“Tut-tut, such language. You’ve been listening to too much hip-hop, Ian,” said Banks, standing to leave. “Nice choice of partner, Sarah,” he said on his way out, noticing that Sarah Francis looked distinctly put out and, more to the point, even a little frightened. That might come in useful before too long, he thought.

“I just had to get out of the flat, that’s all,” said Janet Taylor. “I mean, I didn’t want to drag you halfway across Yorkshire.”

“That’s all right,” said Annie, with a smile. “I don’t live that far away. Besides, I like it here.”

Here was a rambling old pub on the edge of the moorland above Wensleydale, not far from Banks’s cottage, with a solid reputation for Sunday lunch. Janet’s call had come shortly after ten o’clock that morning, just as Annie was having a nap to make up for her lack of sleep at Banks’s place. Their conversation had bothered her, kept her awake well into the small hours; she didn’t like talking about babies.

Trust Banks to hit a nerve. What she also didn’t like and didn’t seem able to tell him about these personal revelations of his was that they pushed her into examining her own past and her own feelings far more than she felt ready to do right now. She wished he would just lighten up and take it easy.

Anyway, an open-air lunch was just the ticket. The air was pure, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. From where they sat she could see the lush green dalesides crisscrossed with drystone walls, sheep wandering all over, baaing like crazy if any ramblers passed by. Down in the valley bottom, the river meandered and a group of cottages huddled around a village green, the square-towered church a little to one side, gray limestone bright in the midday sun. She thought she could see the tiny silhouettes of four people walking along the top of the high limestone scar over the dale. Christ, it would be good to be up there, all alone, not a care in the world.

But if the setting was ideal, she might have chosen a different companion. Despite the change of environment, Janet seemed distracted, forever flicking back the lock of hair that fell over her tired brown eyes. There was an unhealthy pallor about her that Annie guessed would take more than a lunch on the moors to dispel. Already Janet was on her second pint of lager and lime, and Annie had to bite her tongue not to say something about drink driving. She was on her first half of bitter, might have another half, then coffee after lunch. Annie, who was a vegetarian, had ordered quiche and a salad, but she was pleased to see that Janet had ordered roast lamb; she looked as if she needed some meat on her bones.

“How are you doing?” Annie asked.

Janet laughed. “Oh, about as well as can be expected.” She rubbed her forehead. “I still can’t get the sleep thing sorted out. You know, I keep replaying it, but I’m not sure if I’m seeing it the way it really happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, in the replays I see his face.”

“Terry Payne’s?”

“Yes, all twisted and contorted. Fearsome. But I don’t think I remember seeing him clearly at the time. My mind must be filling in details.”

“Possibly.” Annie thought of her own ordeal, the rape carried out by three colleagues after celebrating her passing her sergeant’s boards. At the time, she could have sworn she would remember every grunt and groan, every obscene facial expression and every sensation of him – the one who actually succeeded in penetrating her while the others held her down – forcing himself inside her as she struggled, tearing at her clothes, every drop of sweat that dripped from his face on to her skin, but she was surprised to find that much of it had faded, and it wasn’t a memory she felt compelled to rerun for herself night after night. Perhaps she was tougher than she thought, or maybe she was compartmentalizing it, as someone had once told her she did, shutting out the pain and humiliation.

“You’ve changed your mind about the statement, then?” Annie asked. They were sitting far enough away that they couldn’t be overheard if they spoke quietly. Not that any of the other diners looked as if they wanted to eavesdrop; they were all family groups talking loudly and laughing, trying to keep track of their adventurous children.

“I wasn’t lying,” said Janet. “I want you to know that, first off.”

“I know that.”

“I was just confused, that’s all. My memory of that night’s a bit shaky.”

“Understandable. But you do remember how many times you hit him?”

“No. All I’m saying is that it might have been more than I thought.”

Their meals arrived. Janet tucked in as if she hadn’t eaten in a week, which she probably hadn’t, and Annie picked at her food. The quiche was dry and the salad boring, but that was to be expected in a place that catered mostly for meat-eaters. At least she could enjoy the view. A high plane left a figure eight of white vapor trail across the sky.

“Janet,” Annie went on. “What do you want to change in your statement?”

“Well, you know, where I insisted I only hit him, what, two or three times?”

“Four.”

“Whatever. And the postmortem found… how many?”

“Nine blows.”

“Right.”

“Do you remember hitting him nine times?”

“No. That’s not what I’m saying.” Janet sawed off a piece of lamb and chewed on it for a moment.

Annie ate some lettuce. “What are you saying, Janet?”

“Just that, well, I suppose I lost it, that’s all.”

“You’re claiming diminished responsibility?”

“Not really. I mean, I knew what was going on, but I was scared and I was upset about Dennis, so I just… I don’t know, maybe I should have stopped hitting him sooner, after I’d handcuffed him to the pipes.”

“You hit him after that?”

“I think so. Once or twice.”

“And you remember doing that?”

“I remember hitting him after I’d handcuffed him, yes. Thinking, this one’s for Dennis, you bastard. I just don’t remember how many times.”

“You realize you’ll have to come to the station and revise your statement, don’t you? I mean, it’s okay just telling me here, now, like this, but it has to be done officially.”

Janet raised an eyebrow. “Of course I know that. I’m still a copper, aren’t I? I just wanted… you know…” She looked away out over the dale.

Annie thought she did know, and that Janet was too embarrassed to say it. She wanted some company. She wanted someone who would at least try to understand her in a gorgeous setting on a beautiful day, before the three-ringed circus that was likely to be her life for the next while went into full swing.

Jenny Fuller and Banks had lunch together in the slightly less exotic Queen’s Arms. The place was bursting at the seams with Sunday tourists, but they bagged a small table – so small there was hardly room for two roast beef and Yorkshire pud specials and the drinks – just before they stopped serving meals at two o’clock. Lager for Jenny and a pint of shandy for Banks because he had to conduct another interview that afternoon. He still looked tired, Jenny thought, and she guessed that the case had been keeping him awake at nights. That and his obvious discomfort over Sandra’s pregnancy.

Jenny and Sandra had been friends. Not close, but both had been through harrowing experiences around the same time and these had created some sort of bond between them. Since her travels in America, though, Jenny hadn’t seen much of Sandra, and now she supposed she wouldn’t see her again. If she had to choose sides, as people did, then she supposed she had chosen Alan’s. She had thought he and Sandra had a solid marriage – after all, Alan had turned her down when she tried to seduce him, and that had been a new experience for her – but clearly she was wrong. Never having been married herself, she would have been the first to confess that she knew little about such things, except that outward appearances often belie an inner turmoil.

So what had been going through Sandra’s mind in that last little while was a mystery. Alan had said that he wasn’t sure whether Sandra met Sean before or after they split up, or whether he was the real reason behind the separation. Jenny doubted it. Like most problems, it hadn’t just happened overnight, or when someone else turned up on the scene. Sean was as much a symptom as anything, and an escape hatch. This business had probably been years in the making.

“The car,” Banks said.

“A blue Citroën.”

“Yes. I don’t suppose you got the number?”

“I must admit it never crossed my mind the first time I saw it. I mean, why would I? It was in Alderthorpe and I parked behind it. Coming back from Spurn Head, it always stayed too far behind for me to be able to see.”

“And you lost it where?”

“I didn’t lose it. I noticed it stopped following me just after I got on to the M62 west of Hull.”

“And you never saw it again?”

“No.” Jenny laughed. “I must admit I felt rather as if I was being run out of town. You know, like in those cowboy films.”

“You didn’t get a glimpse of the driver at all?”

“No. Couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman.”

“What next?”

“I’ve some university work to catch up on and some tutorials tomorrow. I could postpone them, but…”

“No, that’s okay,” said Banks. “Lucy Payne’s out, anyway. No real rush.”

“Well, on Tuesday or Wednesday I’ll see if I can talk to Keith Murray in Durham. Then there’s Laura in Edinburgh. I’m developing a picture of Linda – Lucy, but it’s still missing a few pieces.”

“Such as?”

“That’s the problem. I’m not sure. I just get the feeling that I’m missing something.” She saw Banks’s worried expression and slapped his arm. “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll not go putting my intuitions into my profiles. This is just between you and me.”

“Okay.”

“I suppose you could call it the missing link. The link between Linda’s childhood and the possibility of Lucy’s being involved in the abductions and murders.”

“There’s the sexual abuse.”

“Yes, there’s no doubt that many people who were abused become abusers themselves – it’s a cycle – and according to Maureen Nesbitt, Linda was sexually aware at eleven. But none of that’s enough in itself. All I can say is that it could have created a psychopathology in Lucy that made her capable of becoming the compliant victim of a man like Terence Payne. People often repeat mistakes and bad choices. You just have to look at my history of relationships to see that.”

Banks smiled. “You’ll get it right one day.”

“Meet my knight in shining armor?”

“Is that what you want? Someone to fight your battles for you, then pick you up and carry you upstairs?”

“It’s not a bad idea.”

“And I thought you were a feminist.”

“I am. It doesn’t mean I might not fight his battles, pick him up and carry him upstairs the next day. All I’m saying is that chance would be a fine thing. Anyway, can’t a woman have her fantasies?”

“Depends where they lead. Has it occurred to you that Lucy Payne wasn’t the compliant victim at all, and that her husband was?”

“No, it hasn’t. I’ve never come across such a case.”

“But not impossible?”

“In human psychology, nothing’s impossible. Just very unlikely, that’s all.”

“But supposing she were the powerful one, the dominant partner…”

“And Terence Payne was her sex slave, doing her bidding?”

“Something like that.”

“I don’t know,” said Jenny. “But I very much doubt it. Besides, even if it is true, it doesn’t really get us any further, does it?”

“I suppose not. Just speculation. You mentioned that Payne might have used a camcorder when you visited the cellar, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Jenny sipped some lager and dabbed her lips with a paper serviette. “It would be highly unusual in such a ritualized case of rape, murder and interment for the perpetrator not to keep some sort of record.”

“He had the bodies.”

“His trophies? Yes. And that probably explains why there was no further mutilation, no need to take a finger or a toe to remember them by. Payne had the whole body. But it’s not just that. Someone like Payne would have needed more, something that enabled him to relive the events.”

Banks told her about the tripod marks and the electronics catalog.

“So if he had one, where is it?” she asked.

“That’s the question.”

“And why is it missing?”

“Another good question. Believe me, we’re looking hard for it. If it’s in that house, even if it’s buried ten feet down, we’ll find out. We won’t leave a brick of that place standing until it’s given up all its secrets.”

“If it’s in the house.”

“Yes.”

“And there’ll be tapes, too.”

“I haven’t forgotten them.”

Jenny pushed her plate aside. “I suppose I’d better go and get some work done.”

Banks looked at his watch. “And I’d better go see Mick Blair.” He reached forward and touched her arm lightly. She was surprised at the tingle she felt. “Take care, Jenny. Keep your eyes open, and if you see that car again, phone me right away. Understand?”

Jenny nodded. Then she noticed someone she didn’t know approaching them, walking with an easy, confident grace. An attractive young woman, tight jeans emphasizing her long and shapely legs, what looked like a man’s white shirt hanging open over a red T-shirt. Chestnut hair cascaded in shiny waves to her shoulders, and the only flaw on her smooth complexion was a small mole to the right of her mouth. Even that wasn’t so much an imperfection as a beauty spot. Her serious eyes were almond in shape and color.

When she got to the table, she pulled up a chair and sat down without being invited. “DS Cabbot,” she said, stretching out her hand. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Dr. Fuller.” Jenny shook. Firm grasp.

“Ah, the famous Dr. Fuller. A pleasure to meet you at last.”

Jenny felt tense. Was this woman, surely the Annie Cabbot, staking out her territory? Had she seen Banks touching her arm and thought something of it? Was she here to let Jenny know as subtly as possible to keep her hands off Banks? Jenny knew she was not bad when it came to the looks department, but she couldn’t help feeling somehow clumsy and even a bit dowdy next to Annie. Older, too. Definitely older.

Annie smiled at Banks. “Sir.”

Jenny could sense something between them. Sexual tension, yes, but it was more than that. Had they had a disagreement? All of a sudden the table was uncomfortable and she felt she had to leave. She picked up her bag and started rummaging for her car keys. Why did they always sink to the bottom and get lost among the hairbrushes, paper hankies and makeup?

“Don’t let me interrupt your lunch,” said Annie, smiling again at Jenny, then turning to Banks. “But I just happened to be in the station catching up on some paperwork after lunch. Winsome told me you were here and that she’d got a message for you. I said I’d deliver it.”

Banks raised his eyebrows. “And?”

“It’s from your mate Ken Blackstone in Leeds. It seems Lucy Payne’s done a runner.”

Jenny gasped. “What?”

“Local police dropped by her parents’ house this morning just to make sure everything was okay. Turns out her bed hadn’t been slept in.”

“Bloody hell,” said Banks. “Another cock-up.”

“Just thought you’d want to know as soon as possible,” said Annie, untangling herself from the chair. She looked at Jenny. “Nice to meet you.”

Then she walked out with the same elegant grace she had walked in with, leaving Banks and Jenny to sit and stare at each other.

Mick Blair, the fourth person in the group on the night Leanne Wray disappeared, lived with his parents in a semi in North Eastvale, near enough to the edge of town for a fine view over Swainsdale, but close enough to the center for easy access. After Annie’s revelation about Lucy Payne, Banks wondered whether he should change his plans, but he decided that Leanne Wray was still a priority and Lucy Payne was still a victim in the eyes of the law. Besides, there would be plenty of coppers keeping an eye open for her; it was the most they could do until, and unless, they had anything to charge her with.

Unlike Ian Scott, Mick had never been in trouble with the police, though Banks suspected he might well have been buying drugs from Ian. He had a slightly wasted look about him, not quite all there, and didn’t seem to have much time for personal grooming. When Banks called after his lunch with Jenny that Sunday, Mick’s parents were out visiting family, and Mick was slouching around in the living room listening to Nirvana loud on the stereo, wearing torn jeans and a black T-shirt with a picture of Kurt Cobain on it, above his birth and death dates.

“What do you want?” Mick asked, turning down the volume and flopping on to the sofa, hands behind his head.

“To talk about Leanne Wray.”

“We’ve already been over that.”

“Let’s go over it again?”

“Why? Have you found out something new?”

“What would there be to find out?”

“I don’t know. I’m just surprised at your coming here, that’s all.”

“Was Leanne your girlfriend, Mick?”

“No. It wasn’t like that.”

“She’s an attractive girl. Didn’t you fancy her?”

“Maybe. A bit.”

“But she wasn’t having any of it?”

“It was early days, that’s all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some girls need a bit of time, a bit of working on. They don’t all just jump into bed with you the first time you meet.”

“And Leanne needed time?”

“Yes.”

“How far had you got?”

“What do you mean?”

“How far? Holding hands? Necking? Tongue or no tongue?” Banks remembered his own adolescent gropings and the various stages you had to pass. After necking usually came touching above the waist, but with clothes on, then under the blouse but over the bra. After that, the bra came off, then it was below the waist, and so on until you got to go all the way. If you were lucky. With some girls it seemed to take forever to move from one stage to another, and some might let you get below the waist but not go all the way. The whole negotiation was a minefield fraught with the danger of being dumped at every turn. Well, at least Leanne Wray hadn’t been an easy conquest, and for some odd reason, Banks was glad to know that.

“We necked once in a while.”

“What about that Friday night, the thirty-first of March?”

“Nah. We were in a group, like, with Ian and Sarah.”

“You didn’t neck with Leanne in the cinema?”

“Maybe.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“I suppose so.”

“Might you have had a falling-out?”

“What are you getting at?”

Banks scratched the scar beside his right eye. “It’s like this, Mick. I come here to talk to you again, and it seems to bother you, but you don’t ask me if we’ve found Leanne alive, or found her body yet. It was the same with Ian-”

“You’ve talked to Ian?”

“This morning. I’m surprised he didn’t get straight on the phone to you.”

“He can’t have been very worried.”

“Why should he be?”

“I don’t know.”

“The thing is, you see, that you both ought to be asking me if we’ve found Leanne alive, or if we’ve found her body, or if we’ve identified her remains.”

“Why?”

“Why else would I come to talk to you?”

“How should I know?”

“But the fact that you don’t ask makes me wonder if you know something you’re not telling me.”

Mick folded his arms. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

Banks leaned forward and held Mick’s gaze. “Know what? I think you’re lying, Mick. I think you’re all lying.”

“You can’t prove anything.”

“What would I need to prove?”

“That I’m lying. I told you what happened. We went for a drink in the Old-”

“No. What you told us was that you went for coffee after the film.”

“Right. Well…”

“That was lying, wasn’t it, Mick?”

“So what?”

“If you can do it once, you can do it again. In fact, it gets easier the more you practice. What really happened that night, Mick? Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“Nothing happened. I already told you.”

“Did you and Leanne have a fight? Did you hurt her? Maybe you didn’t mean to. Where is she, Mick? You know, I’m certain of it.”

And Mick’s expression told Banks that he did know, but it also told him that he wasn’t going to confess to anything. Not today, at any rate. Banks felt pissed off and culpable at the same time. It was his fault that this line of inquiry hadn’t been properly followed up. So fixated had he become on a serial killer abducting young girls that he had ignored the basics of police work and not pushed hard enough at those in the position to know best what had happened to Leanne: the people she had been with at the time she disappeared. He should have followed up, knowing of Ian Scott’s criminal record, and that it involved drugs. But no. Leanne was put down as the third victim of the unidentified serial killer, another pretty young blond victim, and that was that. Winsome Jackman had done a bit of follow-up work, but she had pretty much accepted the official story too. Banks’s fault, all of it, just like Sandra’s miscarriage. Just like bloody everything, it seemed sometimes.

“Tell me what happened,” Banks pushed again.

“I’ve told you. I’ve fucking told you!” Mick sat up abruptly. “When we left the Old Ship, Leanne set off home. That was the last any of us saw of her. Some pervert must have got her. All right? That’s what you thought, isn’t it? Why are you changing your minds?”

“Ah, so you are curious,” Banks said, standing up. “I’m sure you’ve been following the news. We’ve got the pervert who took and killed those girls – he’s dead, so he can’t tell us anything – but we found no trace of Leanne’s body on the premises, and believe me, we’ve taken the place apart.”

“Then it must’ve been some other pervert.”

“Come off it, Mick. The odds against one are wild enough, the odds against two are astronomical. No. It comes down to you. You, Ian and Sarah. The last people she was seen with. Now, I’m going to give you time to think about it, Mick, but I’ll be back, you can count on that. Then we’ll have a proper talk. No distractions. In the meantime, stick around. Enjoy the music.”

When Banks left, he paused just long enough at the garden gate to see Mick, silhouetted behind the lace curtains, jump up from the sofa and head over to the telephone.