Children of the Revolution

Chapter 3

There weren’t many shops on Coverton High Street. On one side stood a row of detached houses set back behind low stone walls or fences and hedges, most with trees and well-tended gardens. Each house was unique; and one even had an octagonal clock tower attached. Banks guessed it was probably an old converted schoolhouse. All were built from local limestone, with the occasional dark seam of gritstone in a lintel or a cornice. Where the row of houses ended, across from the entrance to the car park, there was about six feet of grass before the narrow drive that led down to the Old Station. The station, empty for years, had recently been converted into a combination café and gift shop, the kind of place that smells of potpourri and scented candles, and some of its wall space had been given over to exhibitions of works by local artists. Behind the station, on the road that ran at a right angle to the high street, stood the Star & Garter, a low-roofed, whitewashed building. No doubt, in spring and summer, hanging baskets of geraniums would festoon its facade, but in the grip of a wet and chilly November, it was noticeably bare and unwelcoming.

There was one TV van in the car park, Banks noticed, and a few media types sniffing about, but not very many. Gavin Miller’s death wasn’t especially sensational, and the only reason it had drawn any interest at all was that it had happened in such an out-of-the-way spot. A press conference back in Eastvale later in the day should satisfy all their needs, at least for a while.

Before he had left Eastvale, Banks had given the list of Miller’s mobile calls to Gerry Masterson and asked her to match names and addresses to the numbers. He had brought Winsome along with him to Coverton and dropped her off down the road to talk to Mrs Stanshall, the woman who had said she had seen someone get into a car at 10.30 p.m. Sunday evening. They would meet up later in the mobile unit, parked in the car park over the road.

A smattering of lunchtime drinkers clustered around the bar, and one or two of the tables were taken by out-of-season tourists, but other than that, the Star & Garter was a quiet enough place. Banks ordered bangers and mash and an orange juice and asked the landlord if he would come over and join him when he had a free moment.

‘I suppose it’s about Gavin, isn’t it?’ said the balding, broad-shouldered man who joined him a few minutes later, bringing Banks’s lunch with him. ‘Mind if I talk to you while you eat?’

The use of the victim’s first name didn’t pass Banks by. ‘Not at all. Friend of yours, was he, Gavin Miller?’

The landlord, Bob Farrell, pulled out a chair, sat down and pushed forward until his belly touched the edge of the table. ‘I wouldn’t exactly call him a “friend”,’ he said. ‘But I knew him. It’s terrible, what happened. Someone said they thought he might have been murdered. Is that true, or did he jump?’

‘We don’t know for certain, yet, Mr Farrell. Did he ever give you any reason to think he might harm himself?’

‘No. I’m just saying, like. Who knows what goes on in his fellow man’s mind, when you get right down to it?’

‘Who, indeed. Was he a regular here?’

‘When he could afford to be. He was usually a bit strapped for cash.’

‘Did he ever pester anyone for a loan, for a drink?’

‘Not that I’ve heard. He always paid his way.’

‘Gambling?’

‘I don’t hold by it. You might have noticed, we don’t even have any one-armed bandits in here, no matter how much the brewery puts the pressure on. A man has to stand by his principles.’

‘Of course,’ said Banks. ‘I was just wondering if Gavin Miller ever mentioned a flutter on the ponies, fiver on a cup match, that sort of thing.

‘I never heard him. I don’t think Gavin was a gambler. If he ever had any money, he spent it on his record and DVD collection. The rest went on booze and fags.’

‘Did he drink a lot?’

Farrell considered the question for a moment, then said, ‘He wasn’t what I’d call a real serious boozer. And I’ve seen a few of those in my time. Never caused any trouble, if that’s what you mean. On the other hand, he could put it away when he wanted to. And I think he drank a fair bit at home, too. A lot do, these days, you know. It’s cheaper. Killing the local pub trade.’

Banks was aware how many of the Dales pubs had closed down over the past few years, victims of recession, cheap canned lager and drink-driving laws. ‘How much would he drink on an evening here? On average?’

‘Five pints was his limit. I’ve rarely seen him have more than that. But he wasn’t in here more than once every two weeks or so. And he’d always walk out as straight as he walked in.’

‘Did he usually drink alone?’

‘Mostly. He did come with another bloke from time to time. Not very often, though. About the same age. Dressed a bit too young for his age, if you know what I mean. Earring. Hair over the collar. Probably thought he looked trendy.’

‘Did you catch his name?’

‘Jim, I think.’

Annie had told Banks that Trevor Lomax had mentioned someone called Jim Cooper, a friend of Miller’s from Eastvale College. Perhaps it was him? It would be easy enough to find out. ‘What about your regulars? Did he mix with them?’

‘Some of the other locals would join him every now and then. He wasn’t exactly unsociable, you understand, but he didn’t seek out company. You’d have to approach him, then he’d be happy enough to have a chat for a while. He wasn’t stand-offish, really, but he wasn’t very good at small talk, at blethering, you know what I mean? People didn’t usually like to spend very long talking to him. He wasn’t interested in football or rugby, and he didn’t seem to watch telly much, either, which I must say form the main topics of conversation in here of an evening. He was a bit of an egghead. He was more interested in those foreign films of his.’

‘So that’s what he talked about?’

‘Nobody here’s interested in that stuff. People like things you can watch without having to read the bottom of the screen.’

‘But people tolerated him?’

‘Oh, aye. He were harmless enough, were Gavin. I mean, they might have had a bit of a laugh at him, but he’d no side, Gavin hadn’t, and he took it all in good humour. And he knew his stuff. Arts, really. Films, music, books, that sort of thing. If ever there was a trivia question needed answering, Gavin was your man. He could be funny, too, sometimes. He did a passable imitation of that old Monty Python philosophers song. Mind you, he’d have to be well in his cups before that. And then there were times he’d tell stories about travelling around in the States, too, hitchhiking and going to Grateful Dead concerts, and they were quite interesting, I must admit.’

This must have happened during the ‘lost years’ Gerry Masterson had referred to. It would be worth passing it on to her. ‘Did he ever mention drugs?’

Farrell’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you thinking that’s what got him killed?’

‘I’m not thinking anything yet, Mr Farrell,’ said Banks. ‘As I told you, we don’t know what happened. I’m just trying to keep an open mind and find out as much as I can.’

‘Aye, well there’s no drugs in here, I can tell you that. I wouldn’t have it. I’m not saying there aren’t some in town might indulge, you’d get that anywhere, wouldn’t you, but I’ll have none of it in here.’

‘So Gavin Miller never mentioned drugs?’

‘Not in front of me.’

Banks moved on. ‘Do you know of anyone who wished him any harm?’

‘Not here, in the village, certainly.’

‘What about women? Did he ever come here with a girlfriend, try to chat up any of the regulars, tourists, whatever?’

‘I never saw him try. Not that we get many in here worth picking up. He was quite pally with Josie, the barmaid over there.’

Banks followed his glance towards the bar and saw a woman with bottle-blonde hair, probably in her mid-forties, pulling a pint. ‘I understand that he was in here on Friday night. Did you see him then?’

‘No. I wasn’t working — had a Licensed Victuallers do — but Josie was on. She might remember something.’

‘Can you send her over?’

Banks finished his bangers and mash while Bob Farrell went to cover for Josie. She came and perched on the chair beside him just as he had emptied his plate. ‘Josie. I’m DCI Banks. I wonder if I could have a quick word with you about Gavin Miller. I understand you knew him?’

Josie nodded. ‘I can’t believe it. I just can’t get my head around it. I was saying to Geoff over there at the bar that he was in here just the other night, Gavin, Friday it was, living and breathing, just like you and me.’

‘Was he any different from usual on Friday?’

‘Come to think of it, he was. Quite chipper, really. For Gavin. He even managed to crack a smile or two.’

‘What time did he come in?’

‘About half past five, with his shopping. Almost forgot it and all when he left about half nine.’

‘That’s a long time to spend here, isn’t it?’

‘He did drink a bit more than usual, though I wouldn’t say he was really drunk, if you know what I mean. He just seemed in a good mood right from the moment he came in. Not that he was a misery all the rest of the time, mind you, though, like I said, he often did seem a bit sad, depressed, you know, weighted down with the burdens of the world. He seemed in a much lighter mood on Friday.’

‘You say he had more to drink than usual?’

Josie nodded. ‘I asked him if his boat had come in, and he just tapped the side of his nose, like, and said, “Never you mind, Josie, my love, never you mind.” Then he asked if I wanted a drink, myself. First time he’s ever done that.’

Banks guessed that Miller had been less cautious about spending what little money he had because he was expecting a larger sum in a few days, which meant that he already knew by Friday that he was going to receive five thousand pounds on Sunday. It was just another little piece of evidence that seemed to indicate Miller might have arranged to meet someone at the bridge, and that meeting had ended in his death. Also, if he was in such good spirits on Friday, it was hardly likely that he committed suicide on Sunday, though circumstances could change drastically in three days. ‘Did he say why he was in such a good mood?’

‘No. It were just general good spirits, I thought. And I know not to look a gift horse in the mouth.’

‘What did you think of him, in general? You said you knew him. Did he tell you his troubles?’

‘No. Nothing like that. We just passed the time of day. He might tell me about a book he was reading — he was a great reader, was Gavin — or some music he’d listened to. You know, just chit-chat.’

‘What about his friend? Apparently he sometimes came in with a chap called Jim. Did you ever meet him?’

‘Yes. I think they used to work together or something,’ said Josie. ‘I can’t I say as I took to Jim at all. Far too full of himself.’

‘Did he try to chat you up?’

‘Thought he was God’s gift.’

‘And Gavin?’

‘Gavin? That’s a good one. If you’d known him you wouldn’t be asking that. Gavin wouldn’t know how to chat up a paid escort.’

Banks laughed but said nothing.

‘I suppose in a way he might have been interested, though,’ Josie went on, touching her hair.

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Well, you know, a woman can tell these things.’

‘Indeed.’

‘But it would never have worked.’

‘No? Why not?’ Banks sipped his orange juice. ‘Not your type?’

‘I wonder if he was anybody’s type,’ Josie said wistfully. She leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘And just between you and me, he wasn’t exactly number one in the personal hygiene chart, if you catch my drift.’

Banks remembered the absence of toothbrush and deodorant at Miller’s cottage.

‘All in all,’ Josie concluded, ‘I felt sorry for him, and I quite liked him, he was a nice bloke, but frankly speaking, I thought he’d be too much work. Sorry, I’d better get back behind the bar now, Bob’s giving me some funny looks. Ta-ta.’

Banks thanked Josie for her time and told her there was an incident van in the car park in case she, or any of her customers, thought of anything else, then he left to pick up Winsome.

After he had dropped off Winsome back at the station, Banks had spent a good part of the afternoon watching Dr Glendenning at work on the post-mortem, which revealed that Miller’s poor general state of health before his death was partly due to malnutrition and alcohol, and partly to personal neglect. The main thing as far as the investigation was concerned, though, was that Dr Glendenning had been able to confirm time of death and that some of the contusions on Miller’s body, along with internal injuries, a broken nose and a split lip, were ante-mortem, and were indicative of some sort of a violent struggle. According to the traces of post-mortem lividity that remained, despite the blood loss, the body had also not been moved after it had hit the ground.

Dr Glendenning was also able to establish that the violence was caused very shortly before death, certainly not hours or days, and as no one knew anything about Gavin Miller getting beaten up, they now had a probable killing on their hands. Given that it would have taken a bit of effort to lift Miller up and heave him off the bridge, Banks was leaning more towards murder than manslaughter, though a clever barrister might convince a jury that no killer could be certain that such a fall would have resulted in the death of his victim.

At half past five, Banks gathered the troops in the squad room for an informal end-of-the-day meeting. Doug Watson was still out manning the mobile unit in the car park off Coverton High Street, and PC Kirwan was making the rounds of the local farms, but Winsome, Annie and Gerry were all present, along with some of the civilian staff and CSIs. All Winsome had been able to discover from Mrs Stanshall was that the car was dark, shiny and ‘ordinary-looking’, by which she meant not a van or a people mover, and that she was positive the person who got in was a man, medium height and build. He had hair, but she couldn’t say what colour other than ‘darkish’. There had been no interesting mail in Miller’s post-office box, either, only final demands for electricity and broadband bills.

What was it they used to say on the old quiz programme? ‘Would the real Gavin Miller please stand up?’ Where was the real Gavin Miller? Banks wondered. They still didn’t know why he had been out on the bridge that Sunday night — probably some time between ten and half-past, if Mrs Stanshall was as right as she thought she was. They didn’t know why a man who was, to all intents and purposes, broke had five thousand pounds in his pocket, or why he had got into a scuffle that may have resulted in his death. More than twenty-four hours had gone by since the discovery of the body on Monday morning, and they didn’t seem to be any the wiser. The only other thing close to a lead they had was the list of calls, and Gerry Masterson was working on them.

‘So what have we come up with today?’ he asked the assembled team. ‘Gerry? Please tell me you’ve got some leads from the phone calls.’

‘Well, sir, there are one or two I still have to track down, but in addition to Trevor Lomax and Jim Cooper from the college, there’s not much else.’ Gerry opened the file in front of her. ‘The most recent calls,’ she said, ‘were on Friday morning. He made three calls, which is very unusual in the light of his limited usage. One was to a dentist on Coverton High Street.’

‘What was that about?’

‘I rang the dentist, and he was only too happy to tell me that Mr Miller had made an appointment to come in for some bridgework, whitening, and possible implants. The dentist was quite chatty, really. Even asked if I’d ever thought of having any cosmetic work done, myself.’

‘Cheeky bastard.’ Banks smiled and perched on the edge of Doug Watson’s empty desk. ‘Dr Glendenning remarked on the poor condition of his teeth at the PM,’ he said, feeling that terrible fear in the pit of his stomach because he had been avoiding a visit to the dentist’s for too long now, and he would have to make an appointment soon. ‘I must say, the timing is interesting. Isn’t that kind of dental work expensive?’

‘It can be,’ said Gerry. ‘Usually is. Anyway, the second person he spoke to that day was a fellow vinyl collector. There was some rare Japanese pressing of an early John Lennon LP on eBay, and they were discussing whether it was worth making an offer for it. The other chap — George Spalding, he’s called — said it was a pity neither of them would be able to afford it, but apparently Miller seemed to think he might be in with a chance if the price didn’t go too high. Spalding checks out. He lives in Splot and he’s got an alibi. It sounded legit to me, sir.’

‘Splot?’ said Winsome. ‘Where on earth is that?’

Gerry Masterson smiled. ‘Cardiff,’ she said. ‘Lovely-sounding place, isn’t it?’

‘And the third phone call?’ Banks asked.

‘Interesting. An estate agent called Keith Orville. I’ve talked to him, too, and it seems that Gavin Miller was interested in renting a small storefront in Coverton High Street. Apparently, he was thinking of opening a specialist vinyl record shop.’

‘Interesting, indeed,’ said Banks. ‘So here we have a man who’s so poor he can’t pay his mortgage or his utility bills, is suffering from malnutrition, and can only afford a night at the pub every two weeks or so, and two days before he dies he’s making appointments for expensive dental work, planning to bid for a pricey piece of vinyl on eBay, and inquiring about renting retail premises. Doesn’t that tell us something?’

‘Other than that he didn’t have any business sense?’ said Annie. ‘Well, let’s see. No money had been reported missing, so he couldn’t have just found it in the street, and he hadn’t withdrawn it from his bank account, so obviously he had come into, or was soon expecting to come into, some money.’

‘Right.’ Banks told them about Miller’s good mood in the Star & Garter the Friday before his death. ‘He hadn’t got it by then,’ he went on, ‘but he seemed certain enough of getting it, and he already had plans for using it. Which pretty much convinces me that the five thousand pounds he was carrying was definitely his, wherever it came from, whoever gave it to him, and that he was hardly likely to be giving it away. In fact, it seems to indicate that he had been given it at a meeting shortly before he was killed, either by the person who had given him it — who for some reason or other wasn’t able to take it back — or by someone who watched the meeting, or who knew about the transaction in advance, and planned to rob Miller afterwards. Again, he didn’t manage to get his hands on the five thousand pounds, either. I’ve thought and thought about that, and apart from the obvious — that the killer thought he heard someone approaching and ran off — I can think of only two other reasons offhand why the money was still in Gavin Miller’s pocket when his body was found some ten or eleven hours after his death. First, and most obvious, is that the killer didn’t know about it. And second, perhaps less obvious, is that the killer didn’t want it.’

‘What do you mean, sir?’ Winsome asked.

‘I mean, maybe money didn’t mean anything to the killer. Maybe that wasn’t what it was all about. Maybe the killer already had enough money. Maybe he could afford to leave five thousand pounds behind?’

‘Nobody ever has enough money, sir,’ said Winsome. ‘With all due respect, I don’t believe anyone would leave five thousand pounds behind just because he didn’t need it. Certainly not anyone capable of murder.’

‘Maybe you’re right,’ said Banks. ‘I’m only putting it forward as a vague possibility. Maybe he was worried it was marked with SmartWater or something? Anyway, I can’t think of any other reasons than those three. If one of you can, please let me know.’

‘I’ll tell you something else,’ said Annie. ‘If he was planning on getting his teeth fixed and renting a shop, he wouldn’t get much change out of five thousand pounds to bid for anything on eBay.’

‘That’s true,’ said Banks. ‘So perhaps it was only the first instalment?’

‘Blackmail?’

‘Possibly. All we know is that it meant a lot to Gavin Miller, even if we don’t know how he came by it. Meant enough for him to start making plans about turning his life around. Perhaps he had some valuable records to sell, to get the business started? Or could he simply have been selling drugs? Winsome? Is this all about a drug deal gone sour?’

‘It could have been,’ Winsome answered, ‘but we’ve no evidence of that. Apart from the cannabis and two LSD tablets he had at his cottage, clearly for personal consumption, I’ve not been able to get a lead on any other activities in that area. I spoke with the drugs squad earlier this afternoon. They’ve never heard of Gavin Miller.’

‘Still,’ said Banks, ‘they don’t know everything. Especially if he was just starting out.’

‘No, sir. But I think they’d know if he was dealing in any sort of quantity. Certainly five thousand pounds’ worth.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘Anyway, I’m still liaising with them, like you suggested, and right now they’re trying to track down anyone who might have sold him the stuff we found. Stefan’s given them an accurate chemical analysis, so they’ve got plenty to go on. I understand that many of these illegal substances have various tags or markers that can link them to certain batches and shipments. Anyway, because it’s not a great amount, just street level, and because Miller doesn’t appear to have travelled any further than Eastvale or Coverton in the past while, they think they should be able to get a lead on his local supplier soon enough. There aren’t that many in the area. If we lean on the supplier a bit, he should be able to tell us whether Miller was a player. Personally, though, I doubt it. I mean, look at the way he lived. If he was selling drugs, he certainly wasn’t making much money at it, was he? And how would he get around to meet his contacts? He didn’t even have a car.’

‘Good point,’ said Banks. ‘But maybe this was the first shipment? And maybe he wasn’t working alone? Keep at it.’

‘I don’t really know if this is worth mentioning,’ Annie said, ‘But Trevor Lomax at Eastvale College suggested that Miller’s murder could be part of a series. Watching too much telly, I said, but I thought it was worth an hour or two on the computer.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing so far. I’ve been checking national records for the past three years. No mysterious deaths under similar circumstances — victims thrown from high places — and no vinyl-collecting connections or anything as far as I can tell.’

‘So Lomax thought there was some homicidal Dead Head running around killing vinyl collectors?’

Annie smiled. ‘Something like that. I suppose it must be hard for him to accept that Miller killed himself, or that he was killed by someone close to him. He was a bit full of himself, but he’s the closest we’ve found to a friend of Miller’s so far, and he did give me a couple more names to check out.’

‘We know about Cooper,’ said Banks. ‘Who else did he mention?’

‘A woman called Dayle Snider, an old girlfriend of Miller’s.’

‘Excellent,’ said Banks. ‘Keep working the college angle. Talk to Cooper. Talk to the Snider woman. There could be something there. I’m far from convinced that we know all there is to know about this sexual misconduct business, too.’

‘It’s ludicrous,’ said Annie. ‘The word of two “gum-chewing airheads”, as Lomax put it. There has to be more to it.’

‘If there is,’ said Banks, ‘I’m counting on you to find out what. OK, that’s it for today.’

Banks had picked up a Chinese takeaway on the road out of Eastvale and was warming it up in the microwave. The drive to Helmthorpe and Gratly hadn’t been too bad when he made it around seven o’clock, but if the rain continued to fall all night, as the forecasters predicted, then there was a good chance that the area by the bridge at the Relton turn-off in Fortford would be closed by morning. That would mean a two-mile diversion via the Lyndgarth road, if the Leas weren’t flooded, and three if they were. Still, he was getting used to it now. The same areas had flooded every time it had rained that summer, and there was no reason for them not to flood now. Neither the county nor the local councils had done a thing to change the situation, as far as Banks knew. People just learned to avoid the affected areas and wait for the water to go away, the same way they did with the snow and ice.

Still, he was home now, in his cosy cottage, with the prospect of music, perhaps a little Patrick Hamilton to read, and maybe even a DVD later — something from the new noir collection that the postman had left around the back that day. It was a long time since he’d seen Kiss Me Deadly or In a Lonely Place, for example.As he poured himself some wine and checked the chicken fried rice and Szechuan beef, which weren’t quite ready, he thought about the post-mortem he had attended earlier in the afternoon. He still felt slightly shaken by it. Some people said the more autopsies you attended, the more you got used to them, but for Banks it was the opposite. Each one was worse than the one before. It wasn’t the blood and guts, intestines and exposed fat layers, but he thought, perhaps in a fanciful way, it was the presence of death in the room that unnerved him, the aura of a violent end. He was starting to feel the same at murder scenes, too. This was no beautiful young woman raped and strangled, no innocent child killed to satisfy some paedophile’s fear of discovery; it was an emaciated, out-of-shape, unattractive man in late middle age. Nor was it a friend or acquaintance. Banks hadn’t known Miller, despite feeling some sense of kinship with him due to their closeness in age and their shared musical interests. But the older he got, the more he felt that when a man’s body is lying there twisted and abandoned on some remote railway track, or naked on the pathologist’s slab, and someone is pulling out his internal organs, it doesn’t have to be personal, it becomes somehow universal. Death with a capital D. The Reaper is in the building. He felt vaguely sick thinking about it; a healthy slug of Aussie red helped. Maybe retirement wasn’t such a bad idea. Could he really handle the extra years on the job if he got promoted? Did he really want to?

That evening, he ate in the kitchen again, this time listening to an old episode of I’m Sorry I’ll Read That Again on Radio 4 Extra and half-heartedly working on a half-finished crossword from The Sunday Times on the table in front of him. He hadn’t realised before that ‘in crime scene’ was an anagram for ‘reminiscence’. Maybe the clue was trying to tell him something?

When he had finished his meal, he filled up his glass, went into the entertainment room and put on Miles Davis’s film score from Ascenseur pour l’échafaud. He loved the atmospheric music, though he had never seen the film, and he thought he might check online later to see if it was available on DVD. He carried his wine and book into the conservatory and settled down to read. The wind rattled the flimsy structure, and the rain poured down the windows and roof as if someone were throwing bucketsful of water at them. Sometimes it felt as if the little island, and Banks’s little part of it in particular, had been under assault for months. He wondered how much more the old place could take. He had thought it was a solid enough conservatory, but there had been two leaks there already that summer, in addition to one in the main roof. If the wind got much worse, it could blow the whole damn structure away. Still, not much he could do about it now.

As he listened to Miles’s haunting, muted trumpet on ‘Générique’, he thought again about his experience in the mortuary. Was it his own approaching mortality that made him feel that way? He had never really thought about it much, but Madame Gervaise’s remarks about retirement the other day had made him feel his age, as had seeing Miller’s body on the abandoned railway. It had been hard to believe they were almost the same age. He had always been reasonably healthy, even though he could have taken better care of himself. His blood pressure was a bit high, but his weight was fine, and his doctor had recently lowered the dosage of statins he took to control cholesterol, remarking that his ‘good’ cholesterol was getting much better. A bit less cheese and fewer takeaways would probably solve the problem altogether, but he would miss them too much, and would rather take a little pill every night and avoid grapefruit.

So why was it that he found himself becoming so morbid? True, friends had died recently, including Paul Major, one of his old classmates, of lung cancer just last month. They hadn’t been in touch often over the years, weren’t really close, but he remembered when he and his friends used to gather around Paul’s Dansette on summer afternoons in the mid-sixties and listen to the Who, Bob Dylan and the Rolling Stones.

Luckily, his elderly parents were both still alive, despite his father’s angina and his mother’s brush with cancer. They were still active, off on cruises all over the world since they had inherited his brother Roy’s fortune. Right now, while he was sitting in his rickety conservatory, they were somewhere in South-east Asia — Vietnam or Thailand, he wasn’t quite sure — spending his inheritance. And this was a couple who had thought Blackpool was a long way to go for their summer holidays when Banks was young. Banks sipped some wine. It must be his job, he thought. The homicide rate in North Yorkshire was hardly comparable to New York or even London, but one or two a year were quite enough, he found. Each death was a story, pathetic, tragic, even comic on occasion, but they accumulated and weighed him down like the snow on a rolling snowball. He became encrusted with death, heavy with it.

Enough morbid thoughts, he decided. Maybe it was time to crack out the Chicken Dance CD, open the bubbly and invite a few friends over. As if.

Miles played ‘Florence sur les Champs Élysées’ and Banks opened his Patrick Hamilton. He had hardly finished a paragraph when his mobile rang. He picked it up from the matching table beside his wicker chair and slid his thumb across the bottom.

‘Banks.’

‘Sir,’ came the familiar voice. ‘It’s me. DC Masterson. I’m sorry to bother you at home.’

Banks thought he could hear the noise of a crowd and the overexcited voices of football commentators in the background. Gerry must be watching the game on TV. He had forgotten about the European Cup match tonight. Not that he really gave a toss about Manchester United. ‘It’s all right, Gerry. I’m open all hours. What is it? Something important?’

‘It could be, sir. I’ve traced the other numbers Gavin Miller called.’

‘Anything interesting?’

‘I think so. One of them was ex-directory. That’s why it took me a bit more time.’

‘And?’

‘Veronica Chalmers, sir.’

‘As in Lady Veronica Chalmers?’

‘Er, yes, sir. Gavin Miller rang her up a week ago yesterday just before two o’clock in the afternoon. They talked for close to seven minutes.’

‘There’s no mistake?’

‘No, sir. Seven minutes, less a few seconds.’

‘That’s quite a long time.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Just a week before his death. And he was the one who rang her?’

‘Yes. I don’t think anyone else used his mobile. Her number was also scribbled on his scratch pad, sir, along with the others he called. No names. She lives up on The Heights.’

‘Yes, I know. Right. Thanks again, Gerry. You’ve done a terrific job. Maybe you can do a bit of digging tomorrow morning, if you can spare a bit of time from HOLMES, and find out all you can about Lady Veronica Chalmers. But tread softly. We don’t want to set off any alarms. And it might be best if we keep her name to ourselves, just for the time being.’

‘Yes, sir.’