Children of the Revolution

Chapter 6

‘So let me get this straight. You’re all concerned about protecting poor Little Miss Masterson, but you’re quite happy to drag me down in the shit with you. Is that the way it is?’

Banks laughed. ‘Well, since you put it like that, I suppose so. But look at it another way, Annie. Would you be really happy spending the whole day at your desk on the phone and computer instead? Would you like to enter the data into HOLMES? Do you want to be the crime analyst on this?’

‘You’ve got a point. How do we approach Lady Chalmers?’

Banks pulled into the drive and stopped outside the front door. ‘Softly, softly. Leave her to me. But we know more than she knows we know this time, so let’s see if we can’t corner her somewhere she can’t scramble out of so easily.’

‘How did she sound on the phone?’

This time, Banks had telephoned ahead to set up an appointment in the interests of making the visit more official. Perhaps it wasn’t a full official interview, but it was more than just a social chat, and he wanted Lady Chalmers to know that. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘A little puzzled, even anxious, perhaps, but fine on the whole. At least she didn’t try to wriggle out of it.’

Oriana answered the door, though she wasn’t smiling this time. Loyalty to her mistress no doubt dictated that she disapproved of police interest, even when it came from Brian Banks’s father. Banks hoped he wasn’t losing his son a fan in the process of the investigation. Two, if you counted Samantha Chalmers.

Lady Chalmers was waiting in the same room as before, and she had two people with her. A young man in an expensive pinstriped suit sat beside her. Banks thought he had seen him before, around the courts. The other man leaned against the fireplace. He was wearing a tan V-neck jumper over a cream shirt, and he looked as if he might have just come from the golf course. He was probably a few years older than Banks, with a fine head of grey hair and a reddish complexion. There was an air of authority about him, as well as anger, and Banks’s first thought was that he must be Lady Chalmers’ husband Sir Jeremy, hurriedly returned from New York. He tried to run any photographs he might have seen of Sir Jeremy through his mind, but he couldn’t remember paying attention to any.

‘This is Mr Ralph Nathan, our family solicitor,’ Lady Chalmers said, pointing to the younger man first. ‘And this is my brother-in-law, Anthony Litton.’ Nobody made a move to smile or shake hands. The two men just nodded curtly at Banks and Annie.

‘Hardly necessary, I’d have thought,’ muttered Banks. The presence of the solicitor and the doctor raised his hackles; it would change the whole tenor of the interview. So this was what it was going to be like from now on, he thought. War. Whether she knew it or not, Lady Chalmers had raised the stakes.

‘I’m simply here as an observer, Mr Banks,’ said Nathan, with a smarmy grin. ‘Please don’t pay me the slightest bit of attention.’ Anthony Litton just cast his cold eye over them all from his spot by the hearth.

‘Easily enough done,’ said Banks. When they were all seated, and Annie had her notebook out, he glanced through the rain-streaked windows at the town below, noting the shafts of sunlight on the river and the castle keep, the faint beginnings of a rainbow over the hill. ‘Lady Chalmers,’ he began, ‘is it true that you attended the University of Essex between the years 1971 and 1974?’

‘Why, yes,’ said Lady Chalmers, apparently surprised by the question. ‘Didn’t I tell you before that was where I went? I studied History and Politics. Why?’

‘Just out of interest, why did you choose Essex?’

‘Why does one choose any one thing over another? It was a new university. Progressive. I was young. Progressive. I really didn’t want to go to one of those old fuddy-duddy establishments where people like me were expected to go.’

‘Like Oxford or Cambridge?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Though you went to Cambridge later to do postgraduate work.’

‘Maybe I’d grown up a bit by then. I was a rebellious young woman, Mr Banks, as many people were at that time. Though why it should be of any interest to you is beyond me.’ She cocked her head. ‘Tell me, weren’t you also just the teeniest bit rebellious when you were young?’

‘I still am. Did you know Gavin Miller?’

Her expression hardened, and the air around her seemed to chill. Banks noticed she was twisting her hands on her lap. ‘I told you yesterday. No.’

‘But he was also at the University of Essex between the years 1971 and 1974, studying English literature.’

‘Then there’s no reason we would have met. It’s a big university.’

‘Not that big. Not then. Around two thousand students, I believe. And both departments were on the Wivenhoe Park campus, just outside Colchester. You were both students. You’d have shared certain facilities, the student pub, residences, the refectory, perhaps gone to the same concerts? Lou Reed? Slade? King Crimson?’

‘You’ve got me there,’ said Lady Chalmers. ‘And you’ve done your homework. I went to two of those. I can’t say I was ever a Slade fan.’

‘And yet you maintain that you never met this man?’ Banks showed her the photo again.

‘She’s already answered that,’ said Anthony Litton. It was the first time he had spoken, and his voice had an impatient edge. He sounded like a man who was used to being listened to. Obeyed, even, without having to explain himself.

Lady Chalmers glanced at her brother-in-law, then turned back to Banks and went on. ‘No. At least, I certainly don’t recognise him from that photograph. I suppose he must have looked much younger back then.’

Banks made a mental note to try to get Liam to put a rush on copies of the older photos of Miller they had got from the search of his house. The only photo they had at the moment, from the camera in his computer, made him appear more like a tramp than anything else. ‘But he hadn’t changed his name,’ he said.

‘Then, no. I don’t remember him. But I’m not very good with names.’

That sounded a bit disingenuous to Banks. Someone in her position, with a heavy social calendar, had to be good with names. He looked out of the window again. Two magpies landed high in a tree below the garden, frightening away a flock of sparrows. Mr Nathan was starting to fidget, straightening the creases in his trousers and brushing imaginary hairs from his lapels, as if he were eager for an opportunity to break into the conversation. Banks turned back to Lady Chalmers. ‘Yesterday you told me you received a telephone call from Gavin Miller at two p.m. a week ago last Monday.’

‘That’s right. Around that time. And I think that’s what he said his name was.’

‘It was him. The call that lasted for almost seven minutes, as I told you yesterday. You said it was something to do with alumni donations, but that hardly takes seven minutes, especially if you weren’t interested. Can you tell me what else the two of you talked about during that time?’

‘My client doesn’t have to tell you anything,’ interjected Nathan. ‘Her word should be enough.’

Anthony Litton beamed down on the lawyer.

‘Of course,’ said Banks. ‘But I’m sure you understand, Mr Nathan, that we need all the information we can get on Gavin Miller and his state of mind in the period leading up to his death. If Lady Chalmers could help us in any way—’

‘But I can’t,’ protested Lady Chalmers. ‘It was exactly as I told you. Some chat about how the university was doing in tough economic times and so on. New building projects, residences. I wasn’t really paying attention.’

‘You’ve heard what Lady Chalmers has to say,’ said Litton. ‘Is there really any point in continuing with this?’

Banks ignored Litton and kept his eyes on Lady Chalmers. ‘As far as we can ascertain,’ he said, ‘Gavin Miller had no connection whatsoever with the Alumni and Development Team at the University of Essex. He had nothing to do with the place since he graduated in 1974.’

‘Then he was lying,’ said Lady Chalmers. ‘But that’s what he told me. I don’t know what else I’m supposed to say.’

‘The man was clearly trying to con my sister-in-law out of some money,’ said Litton. ‘He was nothing but a common criminal. These things happen all the time, in case you didn’t know. Telephone fraud. Perhaps if you devoted a bit more of your time to protecting honest, law-abiding citizens instead of interrogating them...?’

‘How long have you lived in Eastvale?’ Banks asked Lady Chalmers. He could see Litton in his peripheral vision, clearly irritated by the lack of response to his sarcasm.

‘Since Angelina was born, in 1988.’

‘Did you know that Gavin Miller worked as a lecturer at Eastvale College from 2006 until he was dismissed four years ago?’

‘How would I know that?’

‘He was dismissed for sexual misconduct. You might remember the case? It was pretty well hushed up, though you can’t keep a scandal like that completely under wraps.’

‘I don’t remember it. But then I usually don’t pay much attention to such scandals.’

‘Do you know Kayleigh Vernon or Beth Gallagher?’

‘No. Who are they?’

A sudden idea came to Banks. Winsome had mentioned that Lisa Gray was working on a dark fantasy script. Lady Chalmers wrote historical fiction under a pseudonym, but everyone knew it was her, and Sir Jeremy was in theatre production. Perhaps Lisa had approached them, asked for their advice on how to get published or produced. ‘What about Lisa Gray?’

Lady Chalmers didn’t waver. ‘No.’

‘Mr Banks. Please stop badgering my client.’

‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware that I was badgering her. Pardon me if it seemed that way, Lady Chalmers. I’m just confused, that’s all.’

‘That makes two of us,’ said Lady Chalmers, smiling, clearly emboldened by Nathan’s interruption. ‘I’m confused as to why you’re here questioning me for the second day in a row when I’ve already told you everything I know.’

‘You haven’t told me anything. Consider it from my perspective. You were at the same university as the victim during exactly the same time period, yet you say you never met him. You lived in the same town as him for three years, yet you say you never met him. You were both in North America between 1979 and 1983. He made a seven-minute telephone call to your number a week before he was murdered, which you admit you took, yet you say you never knew him. Don’t you know how suspicious that all seems?’

‘Suspicious?’ said Litton. ‘In what way? This has gone far enough. What you’re implying is absurd. Thousands of people live in this town, and my sister-in-law doesn’t know all of them. And as for the population of North America — well, I suggest you work out the odds on that one yourself. Besides, why should she know a bloody college teacher who was fired for, what did you say, sexual misconduct? It’s ridiculous. Are you suggesting that my sister-in-law is lying? That she was somehow responsible for this man’s death?’

‘Not at all, sir,’ said Banks. He turned back to Lady Chalmers. ‘I’d just like to know why you’re not telling me the whole truth.’

‘That’s enough,’ said Nathan, getting authoritatively to his feet. ‘This is nothing but a mass of coincidences and circumstance. I don’t know how you dare suggest such things.’ He glanced at Lady Chalmers and Sir Anthony, then back to Banks and Annie. ‘And now, Mr Banks, Ms Cabbot, I think it’s time for you to go. I’m sure you can find your own way out.’

Not inclined to give Nathan any kind of concession, Banks ignored him and asked Lady Chalmers, ‘What are you hiding? Why don’t you want to admit to knowing Gavin Miller? Was he blackmailing you?’

‘Because I don’t know him! Didn’t know him. Why can’t you just believe me and leave me alone?’ Her eyes were pleading. She turned away. ‘I’ve got nothing more to say on the matter. If you want to talk to me any further, you’ll have to arrest me and take me down to the station, or whatever it is you people do.’

‘I don’t think we’ve quite got to that point yet,’ said Annie.

Lady Chalmers shot her a glance. ‘Then perhaps you should leave.’

Anthony Litton walked over to Lady Chalmers and rested his hand on her shoulder. ‘I think my sister-in-law is right,’ he said. ‘You’re bullying her, and you’ve got no proof of anything. She’s had enough. She’s upset. It’s time for you to leave. She clearly had nothing to do with this man.’

There was no Oriana to lead them back across the broad chequered floor this time. They had definitely gone down in the world, Banks thought as they got back in the car.

Winsome had decided to take Gerry Masterson with her to interview Beth Gallagher because the young DC needed the experience, and Gerry had located both Beth and Kayleigh for her. Kayleigh Vernon was a researcher at the new BBC studio complex on Salford Quays. They would talk to her later. Beth Gallagher, whom they were on their way to see at the moment, had moved to London to work for a TV production company, but she was presently assigned to a TV police drama near Thornfield Reservoir. Gerry had told her that Beth was a floor runner, which Winsome guessed was a sort of gofer or general dogsbody.

The flooding wasn’t too bad on the road out of Harrogate towards Thornfield Reservoir, apart from a deceptively deep puddle every now and then, when the car sent sheets of water whooshing up on either side. Luckily, there was never anyone walking by the roadside so far from civilisation. Gerry had got good directions over the phone, and she seemed to be a decent enough driver, even if she did go too fast on occasion, Winsome thought as they followed the makeshift signs to the base unit.

The reservoir appeared below them, beyond the woods that straggled down the hillside. It was full almost to the brim, and there were no signs of the village that used to be there, cupped in the hollow. Winsome vaguely remembered Banks telling her once about an old case there, before her time, when the water had dried up one summer and revealed the remains of an old village, including a body that dated back the Second World War. Not much chance of it drying up these days, she thought.

Just past the eastern end of the reservoir, the road dipped down into a vale and a sign on a tree showing an arrow pointing left directed them through the farm gate and into the field the TV people were using as their base camp. It was filled with caravans, trailers, vans and cars, people wandering everywhere, like an encampment of Travellers. At the centre of it all stood a blue double-decker bus, which seemed to have been converted into a canteen. The gate was closed, and a rent-a-guard asked them their business and examined their identification before opening it for them.

Winsome suggested that they park close to the gate to avoid getting the car too bogged down in the mud, which was churned up and glistening everywhere. There had not been enough heat recently to allow the water to evaporate from the rain-soaked earth. Anticipating the lie of the land, Gerry had put their wellies in the back of the car, and they struggled to get them on before stepping out. Winsome’s felt half a size too small. The mud squelched unpleasantly beneath her feet, like the slippery innards of some slaughtered farmyard animal.

They walked towards the first group of caravans and saw a row of several trailers with the actors’ names on the doors. The star’s was the largest, of course; it seemed quite luxurious from the outside, big enough for an en suite, Winsome thought. The people they passed paid them no attention, as if they were used to strangers wandering around their camp. Winsome accosted a bearded young man in torn jeans and a woolly jumper and asked him where they could find the floor runner.

‘Probably running somewhere,’ he said. When Winsome didn’t respond to his attempt at humour, he pointed to a white caravan not far from the bus. ‘That’s the office,’ he said, and went on his way.

Winsome and Gerry squelched on towards the caravan and knocked on the door. Though they had talked to the line producer, they hadn’t called Beth Gallagher to let her know they were coming because Winsome stressed the need for the element of surprise. If Beth had lied or was keeping something back, then they didn’t want to give her time to fabricate a story or bolster it up or, worse, run away. There was no answer.

‘If you’re looking for Beth,’ said a young woman passing by, ‘she’s just gone out to the shooting location to deliver some script revisions to the AD.’

‘AD?’

‘Sorry. Assistant director. Anyway, it’s open. You can wait inside for her if you want. She shouldn’t be long.’

Winsome thanked her, and they scraped the mud off their boots as best they could on the metal steps and went inside. Someone had placed a sheet of cardboard just inside the door, and it was covered with muddy footprints. The office was heated by a small electric fire, turned off at the moment. There were two desks, both of them rather messy, and the walls were plastered with schedules, notes and photos of the cast. There was a battered sofa against the only free wall, and they both sat down.

It was only about ten minutes or so before the door opened, during which time Gerry had played a game of Solitaire on her smartphone and Winsome had gone over her notes for the interview. The woman who came in would have been about Beth’s age, and they confirmed that it was indeed her. She seemed surprised to see them waiting, and then nervous when she found out who they were. She was taller than Winsome had expected, long-legged, with her jeans tucked into her wellies, and full-breasted under the tight sweater, with an oval face framed in curly chestnut hair. She positively radiated youth and health.

‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Has something happened? Is my dad all right?’

‘Your dad’s fine, as far as we know,’ said Winsome. ‘No, it’s about something else entirely.’

Beth sat down on the swivel chair at the desk and swung it around so she was facing them, stretching out her legs and crossing them. The chair squealed. ‘What is it?’

‘Did you hear about Gavin Miller?’

‘Gavin Miller? No. What...?’

‘He’s dead,’ Gerry said. ‘We think he was killed, in fact.’

‘Oh... I... I don’t know what you expect me to say.’

‘As long as you don’t say you’re glad he’s dead,’ said Winsome, smiling.

‘Oh, I would never say that. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. But why come to me?’

‘We’re talking to everyone we can find who was ever connected with him. He didn’t seem to have a lot of friends, so we’re mostly talking to his enemies.’

‘We weren’t enemies,’ said Beth. ‘He abused me, yes. But we weren’t enemies.’

‘You forgave him?’ Winsome asked.

Beth twirled one of her curls around her long tapered index finger. ‘I suppose so. It was a long time ago. I don’t think about it any more.’

‘Four years, give or take a bit.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re doing all right?’

‘I know it doesn’t seem like much,’ Beth said, ‘but it’s what I want. It’s a rung on the ladder. Lots of ADs, even line producers, start as floor runners. You do a bit of everything, get to learn all about the business from the ground up.’

‘Is that what you want to be?’ Winsome asked. ‘A director?’

‘I wouldn’t necessarily aim that high — I’m not really that artistic — but I’d like to get into production at some level.’

Winsome, who had never been clear about the difference between directors and producers, let alone assistant directors and line producers, let that go. ‘Well, good luck, then.’

‘Thank you. Er... I really am very busy. I’m still the junior around here. We’ve got the author coming in this afternoon — the author of the books the series is based on — and I have to take care of him. We like to keep the authors happy. That way they won’t complain too much about what we do to their books.’

‘We shouldn’t keep you very long,’ Winsome said, and nodded towards Gerry, who took out her notebook. ‘We’d like to talk to you about Gavin Miller.’

‘I really thought I’d put all that behind me. I don’t know anything about him.’

‘Things have a way of coming back to haunt us all. Were you telling the truth about what happened in his office?’

‘What do you mean? Of course I was. Are you suggesting that I was lying?’

‘Well, were you?’

‘No.’

Someone opened the door to the caravan, another woman, a few years older than Beth. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said, glancing at Winsome and Gerry. ‘Didn’t know you had company. I’ll come back later, shall I?’

‘Sure, fine,’ said Beth. She glanced at her watch. ‘Give us fifteen minutes.’

The door closed again and Winsome carried on. ‘Can you tell us exactly what happened that day?’

Beth slouched sulkily in her chair. ‘I’ve been over it hundreds of times with the board and the committee and whatever. Do I have to go through it all again?’

‘Humour me,’ said Winsome.

Beth scowled and twisted her lips about a bit, then said, ‘I was in his office. Professor Miller’s. He wasn’t really a professor, but we called him that. We were going over an essay I’d done on the production problems in Heaven’s Gate. I don’t know if you’ve heard of it, but—’

‘If you want this to be quick, Beth, you’d better skip the movie précis.’

Beth glared at Winsome briefly, then went on, ‘It was an important project. Twenty per cent of my final mark. And part of it was that you had to be able to discuss it, defend it, to the prof. So, anyway, there I was, sitting on the other side of his desk, reading out a particular section, when he got up, walked behind me and reached down to point out something on the page over my shoulder, and as he did so, his fingers brushed... you know... by my breast.’

‘Was there any possibility this was accidental?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I mean, I’d seen him taking surreptitious glances at them before, when he thought I didn’t know about it. Even in class sometimes. It wasn’t as if I wore low-cut tops or tight sweaters or anything. I can’t help having large breasts.’

‘Did he grasp it or squeeze it?’

‘No.’

‘Just brushed his fingers lightly against it?’

‘Hard enough that I could feel it. Isn’t that enough?’

‘And what did you do?’

‘I told him to geroff, and he scuttled off back to his chair a bit red-faced. He wrapped things up pretty quickly after that, told me the essay was fine, and I left.’

‘What did you do then?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Why not?’

Beth chewed her lower lip. ‘I know it doesn’t look good, but I was worried that if I said anything, if I reported him before the end of term, then he’d fail me. I was doing quite well, and I didn’t want to screw things up.’

‘Did he have that much power? Enough to derail your academic chances?’

‘I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking it through logically. All I know is that he still hadn’t marked me on the essay or the final exam, and I didn’t want to jeopardise my chances of passing.’

‘That makes sense,’ said Winsome.

‘Weren’t you concerned about other students, though, Beth?’ Gerry asked. ‘If it had happened to you, it could happen to others, couldn’t it? And it could have gone further with some. I mean, what if he’d asked you to have sex with him in order to get a good mark. Would you have done that?’

Beth seemed flustered. ‘But he didn’t, did he? He touched my breast.’

‘Even so, you can’t have felt very secure with someone like that working in the department.’

‘I didn’t really think it through, I told you. I just... you know... I tried to forget about it. I didn’t want to make a fuss.’

‘But you didn’t succeed in forgetting about it, did you?’ Winsome said. ‘When your friend Kayleigh Vernon complained about Gavin Miller, you came forward and added your complaint to the list. That was also before your final marks were in, I believe.’

‘If there were two of us, then they would have to listen to what we said, wouldn’t they? They wouldn’t just be able to ignore us. He wouldn’t be able to get revenge by failing us.’

‘Is that really what you thought?’

‘Of course. Wouldn’t you?’

Winsome didn’t know. If there had been any such behaviour going on at her school, everyone in the community would have known about it, and it wouldn’t have been tolerated. Her father was always complaining about how people took the law into their own hands, but he was a part of the community, too. He understood the people, and he turned a blind eye on many occasions. Later, when Winsome was at university in Manchester, she had thought she was more than capable of taking care of herself in such a situation, though it had never occurred. ‘I suppose it’s true that there’s strength in numbers,’ she said. ‘Could that have been why you added your story to Kayleigh’s?’

‘I told you. That’s what happened. Why don’t you believe me?’

‘Because it’s come to our attention that the two of you were hanging out with a drug dealer called Kyle McClusky. Kyle dealt bad stuff, like methamphetamines, oxycodone, cocaine and Rohypnol, or roofies, used for slipping into unsuspecting girls’ drinks and making them compliant for sex. What we heard was that Gavin Miller warned Kyle to leave or he’d report him. Kyle left, but he was angry, he wanted revenge, and for that he enlisted you and Kayleigh. You probably thought it was a great lark. Isn’t that what really happened?’

Beth had gone quiet and very pale during Winsome’s interpretation of events. For a while, she said nothing, then she muttered, ‘I can’t speak for Kayleigh, but I know what happened to me.’

‘That doesn’t sound very convincing,’ said Winsome. ‘Listen to yourself, Beth. Strength in numbers. You made it all up, didn’t you, both of you, partly to get revenge for Kyle, and partly — well, for fun, or perhaps out of cruelty? It was a lark.’

‘No!’

‘Someone overheard you boasting about what you’d succeeded in doing when you thought there was no one listening.’

‘Who? Who said that? When? Where?’

‘It doesn’t matter who, when or where,’ said Winsome. ‘The point is that it’s true, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know. How could I remember something like that? It’s probably a lie. I don’t remember doing anything like that. But it doesn’t matter now, anyway, does it? Professor Miller’s dead and we’ve all moved on.’

‘You did terrible damage to his career, to his life,’ Winsome said. ‘Doesn’t that bother you?’

‘He was always staring at my breasts.’

‘But he didn’t touch them, did he?’

Beth’s lips drew tight together. She said nothing, but Winsome could see it in her eyes, that mixture of fear and defiance; Beth was working out what they could do to her, how brazen she could be. In the end she whispered, ‘No.’

‘And Kayleigh?’

‘We were talking. She said he was always ogling her, too. He was a creep. We thought we’d get our own back and give him one for forcing Kyle out of college at the same time.’

‘Don’t you realise that he probably did Kyle a big favour by not reporting him to the authorities immediately?’

‘We didn’t see it that way at the time.’

Winsome nodded to show her understanding, and that she was being non-judgemental. In fact, she was thinking what an utter worthless soul this girl and her friend were, and how they deserved some sort of punishment for what they had done to Gavin Miller. But she wasn’t going to express any of that. It would only put Beth on the defensive when they needed to get her to relax her guard. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘That’s better. I’m interested in the drugs. Did Kyle supply Mr Miller with drugs while he was at Eastvale?’

‘Mr Miller? No way,’ said Beth incredulously. ‘Mr Miller was a prof. He... I mean, he wouldn’t be taking drugs, would he?’

‘Might Kyle have wanted to take his own revenge on Gavin Miller? Perhaps he felt that Miller robbed him of his education, of a chance to make something of his life.’

‘How would I know? Kyle was pissed off, sure. Who wouldn’t be?’

‘Which one of you was going out with him?’

‘Kyle? Neither of us, really. I mean, we just hung out and partied. I suppose him and Kayleigh used to fuck sometimes when they were high. Kayleigh liked coke, and Kyle usually had some.’

‘And you?’

‘I never touched any of it.’

And the moon is made of green cheese, thought Winsome, but again she nodded sagely, and with understanding. Kyle and Kayleigh, what a funny combination it sounded. As if they should be on a reality TV show.

‘Do you still see one another?’ Gerry asked, glancing up from her notebook. ‘You and Kayleigh.’

‘What?’ Beth looked as if she had almost forgotten Gerry was there. ‘Oh, no. We went our separate ways. It’s four years ago. A lifetime. We’ve both moved on.’

Right, thought Winsome, and Banks is still chasing the connection between Gavin Miller and Lady Chalmers that, if it existed at all, goes back forty years. Four didn’t seem so long by comparison; it was all relative. ‘So you don’t see one another, you never meet up for a drink, anything like that, talk about old times, have a laugh?’ she asked.

‘Nope.’

‘And Kyle?’

‘I’ve no idea where he is or what he’s doing, and I don’t care.’

‘So it was all just a bit of a lark to you?’

‘I suppose it was, yeah. What of it? There’s nothing you can do. Not now. Why don’t you give it a rest? Too much time has gone by. Nobody at the college would thank you for raking it up. And Professor Miller’s dead, so he doesn’t care, does he?’

‘I suppose not,’ said Winsome. ‘Can you think of anything in any of this mess that could possibly be linked with Gavin Miller’s murder?’

‘Well I certainly didn’t do it!’

‘Did he ever come to you and ask for money?’

‘No. Why would he do that?’

‘Where were you last Sunday night around ten o’clock?’ Gerry asked.

‘Here. Ask anyone. We work Sundays, and we don’t finish till midnight or one o’clock.’

‘Did you ever see Gavin Miller again after he was dismissed and you graduated?’

‘No. Why would I? It was just something I wanted to forget, put behind me.’

‘But why? It was fun, wasn’t it? Didn’t you want to carry on torturing the poor man?’

Beth rubbed at an imaginary patch on her jeans. When she looked up again, Winsome thought her eyes were glistening a little, as if brimming with tears, though none came. ‘It was fun at first, yes. Just to have something actually happening around that bloody mausoleum was fun. It was fun to see just how pompous they all got, all pompous and holier than thou. But then... I mean, I just wanted it to stop, wanted to say let’s put an end to it, let it go.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘It was too late. I couldn’t. It seemed to have a momentum all of its own by then. Everything was in motion. If we’d retracted, then we’d have been the ones out on our ears. I mean Kayleigh and me. Kyle was already out.’

‘So you went on with the farce right to the bitter end?’

‘Yes. I mean, it’s not as if he didn’t ogle us or anything.’

Ogling’s one thing, Winsome wanted to say, and touching is quite another, but she kept quiet.

‘Beth, have you ever heard of Lady Veronica Chalmers?’ Gerry asked. ‘Did Gavin Miller ever mention her to you?’

‘Who?’

‘Lady Veronica Chalmers. She writes as Charlotte Summers.’

Beth shook her head slowly in incomprehension. ‘I’ve heard of her, of course, read about her — isn’t she the one who writes bodice-rippers, whose husband produces those big Broadway spectaculars? — but just from the entertainment sections in the papers. Not from Professor Miller or anyone else.’

‘From Kyle or Kayleigh?’

‘No. Why?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Gerry.

‘Is there anything more you can tell us?’ Winsome asked, standing up to leave.

‘No,’ said Beth. ‘It was a stupid thing to do, I know, but it’s over. I’ve got my life to live now. There’s no point dwelling on the past, is there?’

When Banks and Annie returned to the station from Brierley House, after a brief stop for coffee and a post-mortem of the interview on their way, there was a message for Banks at reception, asking him to go up to Area Commander Gervaise’s office as soon as he was available. Annie raised her eyebrows, grinned and said, ‘Good luck,’ then hurried up to the squad room.

Banks took a deep breath and began following her up the stairs. When he reached Gervaise’s office door, he knocked and was immediately asked to come in. He shouldn’t have been surprised to see Assistant Chief Constable Ron McLaughlin sitting opposite AC Gervaise, but he was. Lady Chalmers must have been very quick off the mark indeed, he thought. Unless it was that smarmy lawyer, Ralph Nathan.

McLaughlin grunted a greeting, and Gervaise told Banks to sit down. There was no offer of coffee. ‘I assume you know what this is about?’ she began.

‘No idea,’ said Banks.

‘Cut the crap, Alan,’ McLaughlin cut in. ‘I’ve had the bloody chief constable bellowing fire in my ear for half an hour already this morning, and I’m in no mood for flippancy.’

‘Sir.’

‘As I understand it, you’ve paid two visits to Lady Veronica Chalmers in the last two days. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What was the reason for these visits?’

‘A man called Gavin Miller was found dead on a disused railway track near Coverton. Dr Glendenning’s post-mortem revealed that he had been involved in a scuffle before going over the side of a bridge. We checked his mobile phone records and found out that he had called Lady Chalmers a week ago. Her number is ex-directory, so he had gone to a bit of trouble to get it from their old university, Essex, and the whole thing smelled very suspicious.’

‘How?’

‘The phone call lasted almost seven minutes. Yesterday, Lady Chalmers told me it was something to do with the University of Essex alumni donations.’

‘And the problem is?’

‘We’ve discovered that Gavin Miller had no connection whatsoever with the alumni team at Essex, or anywhere else. Lady Chalmers was extremely vague about the whole thing. I don’t believe her version, sir.’

‘Why would she lie to you?’

‘That’s what I’d like to know. I can’t think of any good reason, unless she’s hiding something.’

‘Isn’t it more likely that Miller was lying to her, trying to pull some sort of a scam?’ said Gervaise. ‘You already know he was short of money and not averse to criminal activity, a drug addict, if the drugs found in his cottage are anything to go by. He was clearly trying to con her out of some money.’

‘That’s what Anthony Litton suggested,’ said Banks. ‘And that’s the most logical explanation.’

‘Well?’

‘Why didn’t she say so? All she had to tell us was that Miller was trying to con her and we’d have believed her. Instead she gives us some bollocks about alumni donations. And how did Miller know she was an Essex alumnus?’

‘Surely that’s a matter of public record? Anyway, it can’t have been that difficult to find out.’

‘It was dead simple, actually,’ said Banks. ‘He was at Essex at exactly the same time as she was. They probably knew one another. But Lady Chalmers never mentioned anything about that. And Miller wasn’t a drug addict or a dealer. His drugs were for personal use.’

‘So that makes it all right, does it?’ McLaughlin butted in. ‘Come off it, Alan. You surely don’t think Lady Veronica Chalmers had anything to do with this man’s death, do you? A drug user, a sex offender and a loser like Miller?’

‘I don’t know, sir. All he did was smoke a bit of marijuana from time to time. I’m just saying that I don’t think that makes him a junky. I doubt that Lady Chalmers was strong enough to throw him over the railway bridge, but she was rich enough to pay someone to do it.’

‘Don’t be absurd. What evidence do you have?’

Banks glanced from McLaughlin to Gervaise and back again. He shifted in his chair. It wasn’t the comfortable one he usually got. McLaughlin had that one. ‘I’ll admit that at the moment it’s pure conjecture, but it’s logical conjecture, if we can find a motive.’ He told them what he knew about the points at which Lady Chalmers’ and Miller’s paths coincided.

‘And you believe that all these things are connected and might make her a murderer?’ said Gervaise.

‘I’m saying that it’s possible, that’s all. If it were anyone else, we’d investigate it without question.’

‘And you have actual evidence that they knew each other at Essex, in America, in Eastvale?’

‘Not yet. Nothing concrete.’

‘These “connections” are preposterous,’ said Gervaise. ‘Circumstantial. So they lived in Eastvale at the same time. Lots of people do. I should imagine they moved in very different circles.’

Banks glanced at McLaughlin. ‘Obviously.’

‘Enough of that, Alan,’ McLaughlin said, reddening.

‘And the same in America,’ a tight-lipped Gervaise went on. ‘Besides, as I understand it, Miller was in Western Canada, not America — or at least not the United States of America — which is some distance from Beverley Hills, isn’t it?’

‘He could have travelled there, or she could have gone to Canada.’

‘But why? Do you have any evidence to suggest that?’

‘No,’ said Banks. ‘And it’s beginning to seem like I’ll never get the chance to dig up any.’

‘Is this some sort of witch hunt?’ McLaughlin said. ‘Have you got something against the woman?’

‘I don’t like being lied to, sir. Not by anyone.’

‘Then you’re in the wrong line of work.’

Banks half rose from his chair. ‘Is that some sort of threat?’

‘Alan, sit down,’ Gervaise intervened, and he noticed she also gave McLaughlin a chastising glance. The ACC looked uncomfortable, but he didn’t pull rank, as a lesser man might have done. ‘As far as I can see,’ Gervaise went on, ‘all you have against Lady Chalmers is nothing but vague suspicions and coincidence. You have no evidence that she knew this Miller character at all. You ought to know you need a lot more than that before you go around challenging or accusing people.’

‘Challenging titled people, you mean. And I haven’t accused anyone of anything, except perhaps not telling the full truth. What did Anthony Litton and Ralph Nathan tell you?’

‘Oh, come off it, Alan,’ Gervaise said. ‘Get real, as they say. Yes, Lady Chalmers is a respected and honoured member of the community, as is her brother-in-law in his. This isn’t some street-corner drug dealer you’re questioning. A bit of decorum, a bit of respect, wouldn’t go amiss.’

‘I was respectful,’ Banks said. ‘They just didn’t like what I was saying.’

‘Insinuating, more like it. And I can’t say I blame them,’ said Gervaise. ‘As I understand it, you even suggested that Lady Chalmers was being blackmailed by Miller. I’m not sure I’d like it if someone came around to me suggesting that sort of thing.’ Her tone softened, and she seemed to relax in her chair. ‘Don’t you think you’re letting yourself get a bit carried away by this, Alan?’ she went on. ‘There’s nothing sinister about any of it as far as I can see. I’m sure ACC McLaughlin agrees.’ McLaughlin nodded to show that he did. ‘Haven’t you heard of Occam’s razor? The simplest explanation is usually the best one. Yet you choose to go for the complicated conspiracy theory stretching back forty years. Take this business of going to university together. It turns out that I was at the same university as Liam in the lab, and at the same time. I didn’t know him. I was doing Sociology, and he was in Computer Studies. I wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t read over his CV when he started working here. For crying out loud, Alan, this was forty years ago you’re talking about. How could any of that possibly have any impact on the murder of an antisocial, disreputable character in the here and now?’

‘So I gather you’re asking me to lay off?’ Banks said.

‘Not asking,’ said McLaughlin. ‘I don’t want you visiting Lady Chalmers and her family again, or even talking to her on the telephone. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘We can count ourselves damn lucky the press haven’t found out about it. Let’s keep it that way. Is there any media interest, by the way?’

‘In Miller’s murder?’

‘Yes.’

‘Minimal,’ said Banks. ‘It’s not as if he was rich or famous or anything.’ He was about to add, ‘Or played golf with the chief constable,’ but thought better of it and bit his tongue.

‘Any chance of a leak?’

‘I can’t see how. Nobody’s approached me, at any rate.’

‘So we should be able to keep all this under wraps, if you stay away from The Heights from now on. We don’t want some keen young reporter spotting you going in or coming out of Brierley House.’

Banks shrugged.

‘Let me and the press office handle all media requests to do with the Miller case in future.’

‘No problem,’ said Banks. He hated dealing with the media, anyway.

‘Surely you’ve got other promising lines of inquiry to pursue?’ Gervaise added. ‘I’ve read all the statements and reports that have come in. I’m up to speed. What about that drug dealer Miller got kicked out of Eastvale College? Kyle McClusky. He sounds like a nasty piece of work. Or the girls who accused Miller of sexual harassment? Or Lisa Gray, another drug dealer? Who’s working on all that?’

‘DS Jackman, mostly, ma’am, and DI Cabbot and DCs Masterson and Watson. We also have some of the local Coverton officers helping out. As you know, we’re short staffed.’

‘You’d be able to manage perfectly well if you didn’t go around tilting at windmills,’ added McLaughlin.

Gervaise went on, reading from her copy of the file. ‘Then there’s a woman called Dayle Snider, who clearly had no time for Miller. There could be some sort of sexual angle involved. Not to mention his two lecturer colleagues, Trevor Lomax and Jim Cooper. There could be something there, too, going back to his dismissal. Yet you choose to spend your time sniffing around one of Eastvale’s most prominent citizens who just happened to go to the same university as the victim forty years ago.’

‘Is that what it is, Alan?’ said McLaughlin. ‘That working-class chip on your shoulder again? Can’t you accept that anyone who comes from a background of wealth and privilege can be any good? Do they always have to be crooks and liars? Is that what it’s all about?’

Banks struggled to remain calm. He knew that the ACC had a point. ‘We’ll investigate all those avenues,’ he said. ‘And any others we may come across. It’s still something of a scattershot approach.’

‘Well, just keep Lady Chalmers out of your sights,’ McLaughlin said. ‘That’s all.’ He got up, dusted off his trousers and stalked out of the office.

‘Ma’am, I—’

‘I don’t want to hear it,’ Gervaise said. ‘You know the lie of the land, Alan. Remember what we talked about the other day. Concentrate on the drugs angle. You’re on a very short leash. Now get back to work and find us a killer.’

In the car heading back to Eastvale, Winsome seemed unusually quiet. Gerry concentrated on the driving, enjoying snatches of countryside every now and then, the lemon and red leaves still clinging to the trees, and replayed the interview in her mind. After a while, she risked a sideways glance. ‘Anything wrong, boss?’

‘No.’

‘You sure? You’re awfully quiet.’

There was a longish pause, then Winsome said, ‘I just wish you hadn’t mentioned Lady Chalmers to Beth Gallagher. That’s all.’

‘But I wanted to see her reaction.’

‘I can understand that, but by mentioning her, you’ve put the idea in Beth’s head that Lady Chalmers might have something to do with the Gavin Miller case.’

‘Well, she might.’

‘Yes, but do you really trust someone like Beth Gallagher to keep her mouth shut, especially after what she just told us? How do you know she won’t go blabbing to the press?’

‘She only told us because she thinks she’s safe now, that we can’t touch her.’

‘We can’t.’

‘I was thinking about that, boss,’ said Gerry after a few moments. ‘Maybe there’s a way we can.’

‘Oh. How?’

‘Well, we can’t prosecute her, right, and we can’t get Gavin Miller his job or his life back, but we could blacken her character with her employers, make sure she suffers for what she’s done by losing her job, like he did, her prospects.’

‘That would be revenge.’

‘But look at what she did. She colluded with her friend to ruin a man’s life because of a worthless drug dealer, and because she thought it would be fun.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Winsome said. ‘That’s not part of our job. Revenge isn’t for us to mete out. If she’s meant to suffer for her sins, it’ll happen without our interference.’

‘What? Like karma?’

‘Something like that.’

‘But isn’t that rather like the story of the drowning man who refused all the help that was offered to him because he believed God would save him, then cried about being abandoned?’

‘And God told him he had been given every opportunity to escape but that he had turned them all down? I don’t really think so. Honestly, Gerry, I’ve thought about it. Believe it or not, I have the same impulse for revenge as you. Those girls deserve to suffer for what they did to Gavin Miller. But we’re not the instruments of that kind of justice. If we could build up some sort of case against her, fair enough, but it’s not our job to go around and tell her employer that we think she once did a bad thing. Beth Gallagher confessed to something we suspected anyway. She only did so because she thought it didn’t matter any more. From now on, it’s between her and her conscience. I’d say she has at least the beginnings of one. She’s certainly not entirely comfortable with what she’s done. Maybe a few sleepless nights is the best punishment we can expect for her.’

‘Are you religious, boss?’

Winsome thought for a moment. ‘No, not really. I mean, I had a religious upbringing, Sunday School and all that, but I don’t go to church or anything. Only weddings, christenings and funerals. Why?’

‘But do you believe in God?’

‘Yeah,’ said Winsome. ‘Yeah, I suppose I do. You?’

‘I don’t know. I try to be a good person.’

Winsome turned and smiled at her. ‘Well, that’s a start.’

‘I wish I shared your certainty about Beth Gallagher having a conscience.’

Winsome glanced at her. ‘I don’t have any more certainty about that than you do,’ she said. ‘Just hope. But I’ll save my anger for the one person who probably could have done something about Miller’s predicament when he was offered the chance.’

‘Trevor Lomax?’

‘Indeed. Left here.’

They sat in silence for a while, and Gerry digested what Winsome had said. ‘There’s probably not much we can do about Lomax, either, you know,’ she said, ‘except try to make him feel guilty, too.’

‘Well, if we can manage that, at least it’s a start, isn’t it.’ Winsome paused. ‘You know what really disappoints me about our trip this afternoon?’

‘No,’ said Gerry. ‘What?’

‘We didn’t see any stars.’

Banks supposed he was sulking, though he preferred to think of it as nursing his wounds. Either way, he had driven off in a huff after his session with Red Ron and Madame Gervaise. After splashing around some of the more remote dales roads, by fields half submerged in water tinged reddish with mud, he decided that he was hungry. It was after two thirty, so he didn’t expect much in the way of pub grub, but a sandwich would fill the gap nicely, and if he couldn’t get any food, then a pint and a packet of crisps would do.

Turning a tight bend at a dip in an unfenced moorland road running north-west out of Lyndgarth, he came to a pub he had never seen before. At least he thought it was a pub. It didn’t have the most welcoming of facades, only large blocks of weathered limestone darkened by the morning’s showers. Banks could imagine that the walls were probably about three feet thick to survive the wind and cold up here in winter. The swinging sign was so cracked and weather-beaten that he could hardly read it, though he thought it said ‘Low Moor Inn.’ The wind was howling around the moors, but though the ground was boggy, it had the advantage of being high, and much of the moisture had drained off into the system of becks and streams that criss-crossed the lower pastures and fed eventually into the Swain, now close to bursting its banks and flooding the Leas, just outside Eastvale. Up here, there were only the tangled roots of gorse and heather under a huge iron-grey sky; a few sheep wandered, bleating as they searched for anything they could find to eat in the woody undergrowth.

There were three cars outside the pub, which Banks took as a good sign. He parked beside a mud-spattered Range Rover and walked into the arched entrance. A handwritten sign said ‘Walkers Welcome’ with an arrow pointing towards an old boot scraper beside a wooden bench and a rack for muddy boots. The creaky door opened inwards. He had to stoop as he went in, but he found himself in a cosy, stone-walled room with a huge fireplace blazing away, its flames reflected in the polished brasses on the walls and around the bar, in the dark-varnished wood and rows of coloured bottles in front of the long mirror. What little lighting there was in the bar was dim, and the stone walls were decorated with gilt-framed paintings, horse brasses and what Banks assumed to be old-fashioned farming implements. The handful of customers looked up as he entered, then, seeing nothing of interest, returned to their conversations and their drinks. The barman, wearing a scuffed leather waistcoat over a collarless shirt, gave a brisk nod of greeting.

Banks hadn’t known that places such as this existed any more, as if untouched by modern times. So many pubs in the Dales had closed over the past few years, or fallen into the hands of London landlords and breweries who wanted to modernise them, turn them into chain family-style pubs, and get the young crowd back in at night with large-screen football broadcasts and cheap beer. But this place was a throwback. Banks could be happy here. There was no television blaring, no music playing, only the muffled conversations around him and the fire crackling and spitting sparks in the broad stone hearth. A bundle of grey fur that was probably the landlord’s dog lay curled up in front of it. The dog made no investigation of the newcomer. Banks had to look carefully to see that it was breathing.

‘I’ll have a pint of Sneck Lifter, please,’ Banks said, glancing towards the handpump. He didn’t usually drink the stronger beers and ales, but he felt that his sneck needed a bit of lifting after the session with Red Ron and Madame Gervaise. As the man poured, Banks asked if there was any chance of food.

‘Hot pie in t’oven,’ was all the answer he got.

‘What sort of pie?’

The landlord looked at him as if he were gormless. ‘Game pie.’

‘I’ll have a slice of that, too, then,’ Banks said.

‘Tha’ll have to wait till it’s ready.’

‘No problem.’

‘Aye.’ The landlord handed him his pint. Beer and foam dribbled down the glass.

‘By the way,’ Banks asked before going to take his pick of the empty tables. ‘This is the Low Moor Inn, right?’

The landlord scratched his whiskers. ‘That’s what t’sign says.’

‘Where’s the High Moor Inn?’

Again, he got the look reserved for the village idiot as the landlord gestured behind him with his gnarled thumb. ‘Up there, o’course.’

‘Of course,’ said Banks and went to sit down. He decided on a small round wooden table not far from the fire. The floor was unevenly flagged, and his chair legs scraped on the stones as he pulled it out. The table was a bit wobbly, but the slip of paper summoning him to Gervaise’s office, folded and stuck under one of the legs, soon took care of that. He had the latest copy of Gramophone magazine in his briefcase, along with a folder of Gerry Masterson’s notes, so he decided he would just take a long leisurely late lunch away from it all. He also had his mobile, so if there were any developments or emergencies, he could be easily reached. Or so he thought until he checked it for messages and found out there was no reception. Maybe it was the thick stone walls.

For the moment, though, he didn’t care. He was warm, he had a pint in front of him, Gramophone open at the review section on the table, and a piece of hot game pie was on its way. He was also a long way from the office. Despite his rebellious ways, Banks rarely found himself on the carpet. It had happened a lot with Jimmy Riddle, who had been a very hands-on chief constable a few years ago, and had taken against him for some reason, but since then most of the CCs had kept their distance and stayed out at county HQ, where they belonged, sending out press releases, opening village fetes and giving out sound bites, leaving their assistants, like Red Ron, to do most of the real work. He had run afoul of ACC McLaughlin once or twice, but only in minor ways. He liked the man and had never seen him as angry as he had been earlier. It must have been a hell of a bollocking he had got from the CC, who, he remembered, was a good friend of Sir Jeremy and Lady Veronica Chalmers. No doubt he called them Jem and Ronnie.

What rankled most of all was being told to lay off, especially when he thought he was on to something. Madame Gervaise and Red Ron probably thought they had explained away all his suspicions and convinced him that what he thought was evidence was nothing more than a tangle of circumstance, contradiction and coincidence, but a real copper thrives on circumstance, contradiction and coincidence; they are the warning signals he keeps a lookout for. OK, perhaps there was nothing he could prove yet, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that the possible link between Lady Veronica Chalmers and Gavin Miller was a line of inquiry worth pursuing, and Red Ron had closed it off, like Dr Beeching did to the old railway track where Miller’s body had been found.

Banks and his team could take as many easy shots as they liked at the drug dealers and the college crowd, it seemed, as long as they didn’t disturb the landed gentry. But the real truth lay beyond Eastvale College, Banks felt. In his experience, no drug dealer would leave five thousand pounds in a dead man’s pocket, even if he did think he heard someone coming. And nobody talked for seven minutes on the telephone to someone they professed not to know, about a matter he wasn’t even connected with. Not if they had been at the same university at the same time, even if it was forty years ago. Gavin Miller had been more cheerful the week before his death than he had in a long time, so the few witnesses who knew him — such as the Star & Garter staff — had said. And the phone call to Lady Chalmers had been made almost a week before his death. Coincidence? Banks didn’t think so.

So what was the connection? What was the Chalmers family holding back? And more to the point, how could Banks find out? If the matter went back forty years, there wasn’t a lot of hope, and he certainly couldn’t expect any help from Lady Chalmers, even if he was allowed to talk to her. If he were to continue investigating against orders, he would have to rely on Gerry Masterson’s research abilities and risk damaging her career. On the other hand, she was only following the instructions of her SIO. He had given her more or less free rein and saw no reason to curtail that since his warning. It wasn’t as if she was planning on talking to Lady Chalmers, Anthony Litton, Sir Jeremy, or any other members of the family. If she could somehow come up with just one bona fide connection between Lady Chalmers and Gavin Miller from the Essex days, then perhaps Gervaise would reconsider and give Banks a bit more leeway. After all, he wasn’t insisting that Veronica Chalmers had killed Miller, only that she knew something and might be able to help.

In the meantime, there was something he could do. The beautiful Oriana Serroni. Gerry had already dug up a bit of background on her. There was nothing incriminating, nothing to link her with Miller, though her history was certainly interesting and colourful. Her grandfather had spent most of the war as POW in a camp near Malton, in North Yorkshire. Like most of the prisoners there, he hadn’t tried to escape. Life was soft and relatively safe there. Most of the POWs worked on the land, and many of them formed friendships with the local farmers — and the local farmers’ daughters. After the war, like many others, Giuseppe Serroni had remained in the UK and married a local girl, Betty Garfield. They lived on her parents’ farm and soon took over most of the work. They had two sons, the youngest born in 1953. Young Stefano was a restless soul, and in 1974 he left for Italy, where he wanted to explore his roots in Umbria. Time passed, and four years later, he married a local girl called Maria. The couple had several children, including a daughter they named Oriana, born in 1980. Maria wanted to escape the poverty and rural isolation of the place, so Stefano was persuaded to take her back to England with him in 1986, and his parents took them in. They visited Umbria often, though, as Maria missed her family there, and Oriana enjoyed a truly international upbringing.

As it happened, Sir Jeremy Chalmers’ family was also from North Yorkshire and had known the Serronis for years. When Veronica came into the fold, Oriana was only five or six, of course, but she was a beautiful, bright child. Jeremy and Veronica soon became very fond of her, and she became a big sister, and later babysitter, to Angelina and Samantha. As she grew up, Oriana also showed remarkable academic skills, in addition to becoming a very organised and efficient researcher. After university, she drifted a little, uncertain about her career path, and that was when Veronica stepped in and suggested she work as her researcher, and perhaps also take on a few household duties, things she had already done with ease at her own family’s home, such as cooking the occasional meal, organising appointment calendars, keeping the books, and so on. Thus, Oriana became Lady Chalmers’ amanuensis. As far as Gerry Masterson could ascertain, Oriana was still single and didn’t appear to have a steady boyfriend.

Oriana seemed to be close to Lady Chalmers, Banks thought. He had noticed how her attitude had changed between visits, how the smile had disappeared and the frozen demeanour taken its place. She was loyal to her mistress, however old-fashioned that might seem, and that was surely a good thing, but perhaps she was also concerned about Lady Chalmers, and perhaps Banks could exploit that concern. He thought he knew how he could go about contacting her with minimum fuss and little chance of official reprisal, though there was always the risk that Oriana might go running to Lady Chalmers, Nathan or Anthony Litton.

Interrupting his chain of thought, a short, plump red-faced woman in an apron came over and deposited a knife and fork on his table, along with an assembly of chutneys and bottled sauces, some of the bottles without labels, indicating that they were probably home-made. There was no sign of a serviette. Moments later she returned with a plate, upon which rested the largest slice of pie Banks had ever seen, surrounded by mounds of vegetables covered in steaming gravy. ‘Watch out for t’shot,’ was all she said before she waddled away. As he watched her go, Banks was reminded of the line from the old folk song, the one about ‘the cheeks of her arse going chuff, chuff, chuff’.

Most of the game pies he had ever eaten had been cold, but this was fresh from the oven, and he had to wait a few minutes for it to cool. It was delicious, however, and he soon found out what she meant about the shot, luckily just sensing a piece of buckshot before it broke one of his teeth. He ate even more slowly and carefully after that, not wishing to precipitate a visit to the dentist. The pie was gamey, of course, but not too much so, and the pastry was light and flaky. Banks ate and drank, reading the reviews in Gramophone and making mental notes for his next shopping trip. He would try to talk privately with Oriana, he decided, but before then, he would try to put Lady Chalmers out of his mind and wrap up the Eastvale College angle.

So what next? Banks wondered when he had finished his pie. He certainly didn’t feel like going back to the station. He was too full, for a start, and if he sat in his office chair he would probably doze off. He would finish his pint, he decided, then head out to Coverton, see what was happening with Doug Watson at the mobile unit, maybe have another quick stroll up to the crime scene, see if anything leaped out at him. Then home. It was a plan.