Cold Is The Grave

9

It was still dark when Banks drove to Eastvale the following morning, and a thin mist nuzzled in the dips and hollows of the road and clung to the buildings, the cobbles and the ancient cross in the market square. It was that time of morning when lights were coming on in the small offices above the shops, some of which were already open, and the mist diffused their light like thin gauze. The air was mild and clammy.

Across the square, the Bar None was still taped off, and a uniformed officer stood on guard. After leaving Riddle’s house the previous night, Banks had returned to the club to find the SOCOs still at work and Annie taking statements. Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe had also driven in all the way from Lyndgarth.

Banks had hung around for a while, talking the scene over with Gristhorpe, but there was nothing more he could do there. When the media people started pestering him for comments, he drove home and spent a couple of sleepless hours on the sofa thinking about Emily Riddle’s terrible death before heading right back to the station. He tried to keep at bay the feelings of guilt that were crowding at the edge of his mind like circling sharks. He succeeded only partially, and that was because he had a job to do, something to focus on and exclude the rest. The problem was that the bad feelings would continue to accumulate even when he wasn’t looking, and the day would come when there were so many of them he could no longer ignore them. By then, he knew from experience, it was usually too late to end up feeling good about himself. For the time being, though, he couldn’t afford the self-indulgence of guilt.

The renovators hadn’t turned up yet, so things were quiet in the extension. Banks went to his office, read his copies of last night’s reports and made some notes on his own impressions. He did this, as most good coppers did, for himself, not for the files; they were very personal impressions, and sometimes they could lead somewhere, often not. Whatever else they were, they were no substitute for facts or evidence. He included in his notes, for example, his sense that Darren Hirst was telling the truth and a gut feeling that Emily had got the drugs somewhere other than the Cross Keys or the Bar None. Already, he noted from the reports, a couple of very sleepy local dealers were cooling their heels in the detention cells in the basement of the station. More would soon follow.

By the time the sun was sniffing its nose at the cloudy horizon, the station was humming with activity. The incident room was quickly taking on form and function, and DC Rickerd had been up all night getting it organized. Computer links had been set up, phone lines activated and civilian staff were drifting in for data-input, logging and recording duties. By the time Banks felt the need for his breakfast coffee, ACC McLaughlin had arrived from county headquarters at Newby Wiske, outside Northallerton. He set up camp in the boardroom, and fifteen or twenty minutes later, Banks was summoned in.

McLaughlin, Annie Cabbot and Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe were waiting for him. Banks greeted them and sat down. Annie looked tired, and he imagined she had got as little sleep as he had. She also seemed nervous, which was unusual for her.

“Red Ron” McLaughlin was about fifty, tall and slim, with short, thinning gray hair combed forward, and a small gray mustache. He wore silver-rimmed glasses, which balanced on the tip of his nose, and he had a habit of peering over them at whomever he was speaking to. His eyes were the same shade of gray as his hair.

“Ah, DCI Banks,” he said, then he shuffled some papers and looked over his glasses. “Right. I’ll get straight down to brass tacks. I met with Chief Constable Riddle this morning – in fact, he came to see me – and he was most emphatic that he wanted you to head the investigation into his daughter’s death. What do you think of that?”

“I had hoped for the case,” said Banks, “but in all honesty I never expected to be given it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I knew the deceased, sir. Only vaguely, but I knew her. And her family. I assumed we’d have to bring in someone from outside.”

“That would be normal procedure.” McLaughlin scratched his earlobe. “The chief constable did explain your involvement,” he went on. “Apparently, he asked you to go to London and find his daughter, which you did. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you then accompanied her back home?”

“Yes, sir.” Banks felt Annie staring at him but didn’t turn to meet her look.

“I hardly think that disqualifies you from acting as senior investigating officer. Do you?”

Banks thought for a moment. He would have to tell Red Ron about the lunch. Someone was bound to come forward about that, and it wouldn’t take long now that Emily’s murder had featured on the breakfast news. Enough people in the Black Bull had noticed them, and probably at least one or two of them knew who Banks was.

On the other hand, if he told McLaughlin everything, he’d be off the case for certain, no matter what Riddle wanted. It was a delicate balancing act. There was also a risk that someone from the Hotel Fifty-Five in London would see Emily’s photo in the papers and come forward, although Banks thought that had been long enough ago, and Emily had looked sufficiently different that night, dressed up for the party, her hair piled on top of her head, that it was probably very unlikely.

Still, if Banks accepted the post as SIO, he would be in the best position possible to head off any trouble at the pass. He also knew far more about Emily’s life in London than anyone else up there, which gave him an advantage when it came to tracking down possible leads. It was bloody unethical, he knew that, probably more unethical than anything he’d done before. After all, one of Riddle’s bugbears had been that Banks too often acted as a maverick. But, Banks guessed, that was why Riddle had asked him to go to London, and that was why he now wanted him to head the investigation. Riddle had said as much last night.

“No, sir,” Banks answered finally. “I’d like to take the case.” He was aware as he spoke the words that he might well be digging his own grave. The last thing he needed to do was give the new ACC a reason for hating his guts right off the bat. But it couldn’t be helped. Emily came first here; he owed her that much at least. He had said he only knew her vaguely. It wasn’t a lie, but like many unsatisfactory truths, it left too much out. How could Banks describe the bond he had felt with Emily? It wasn’t entirely paternal, but it wasn’t simple friendship either.

“As you all know, I’m new to this job and this region,” McLaughlin explained. “I’ve done my homework, studied the turf, but I can’t hope to be up to scratch this soon. According to Mr. Riddle, you’re the best man for the job. Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe here agrees, and nothing I’ve seen in your file contradicts that.”

That was a surprise to Banks; he thought Riddle had weighed his file down with negative reports. But McLaughlin frowned and continued, “I’m not saying there aren’t a few black marks against you, Banks. You’ve made some mistakes I’d like you to avoid making under my command, but your case results speak for themselves. There’s going to be a lot of changes around here, with the new organization, and I’m hoping you can play a big part in them. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s settled then,” said McLaughlin. “You’ll act as SIO on the Emily Riddle case. I take it you’ll have no objection to acting as deputy investigating officer, DS Cabbot?”

“No, sir,” said Annie. “Thank you.”

McLaughlin turned to Gristhorpe. “And you’ll liaise with me at Regional Headquarters, Superintendent. Okay?”

Gristhorpe nodded.

“What about HOLMES?” McLaughlin asked.

HOLMES, acronym of the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, was a computer database system developed since the Yorkshire Ripper investigation. Everything would be entered there, from witness statements to SOCO reports. It would all be indexed and cross-indexed so that nothing got lost in the mass of disparate paperwork the way the Ripper’s identification had. “I think we should activate it now,” said Banks. “Given the seriousness of the case. I’ll put DC Jackman on it. She’s a trained operator.”

“Very well.” McLaughlin looked from Banks to Annie. “By the way, Dr. Glendenning has offered to conduct the postmortem early this afternoon, so don’t eat a heavy lunch. I think you should both be there. I’ll also get some more DCs assigned as soon as possible,” McLaughlin went on. “There’ll probably be a lot of legwork on this. I understand you already have a murder investigation on the go. Can you handle this one, too?”

“I think so, sir.” Banks remembered often having several serious cases on the go when he worked for the Met. “Officially, the Charlie Courage murder is still DI Collaton’s case. Leicestershire Constabulary. DS Cabbot did some of the preliminary interviews, but I can put DS Hatchley on it.”

McLaughlin paused and made a steeple of his hands and looked over his glasses. “We don’t want to appear as if we’re playing favorites, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “but there’s no denying we’re giving this case a very high priority indeed. Have you any thoughts so far, DCI Banks?”

“It’s too early to say, sir. I’d like to have another talk with the family, maybe later today.”

“Chief Constable Riddle said something about her hanging around with some unsavory types in London. Anything in that?”

“It’s possible,” said Banks. “There was one in particular, name of Barry Clough. I’ll be having a very close look at him.”

“Any other developments? DS Cabbot?”

“We searched the people in the club last night, sir,” Annie said, “but we didn’t find anything except a few tabs of Ecstasy, a bit of marijuana and the odd amphetamine pill or two.”

“All according to PACE, I hope?”

“Yes, sir. Two people resisted and I had them taken over to the station. They were cautioned by the custody officer before being strip-searched. They were both carrying drugs in sufficient quantities for resale. One had crystal meth, the other what appears to be cocaine.”

“Any connection with Ms. Riddle’s death?”

“As far as we could tell, sir, it wasn’t cut with strychnine, but we’re holding him while it goes to the lab for tox testing.”

McLaughlin jotted something on his pad. “What about CCTV?” he asked. “Was the club covered?”

“Unfortunately,” said Banks, “the Bar None hasn’t had any cameras installed yet, but we might get something from ours.”

The installation of closed-circuit television cameras in the market square had been a thorny issue around the division that summer, when Eastvale had experienced a public-order problem caused by drunken louts gathering around the market cross after closing time. Fights broke out between rival gangs, often in town from villages in the Dale, or between locals and squaddies from the nearby army base. In one case an elderly female tourist was hit by flying glass and had to have sixteen stitches in her face.

Knaresborough, Ripon, Harrogate and Leeds had installed CCTV in their city centers and upped their arrest rates considerably, but at first the town council had pooh-poohed the idea of doing the same in Eastvale, arguing that it would take them over-budget and that it wasn’t necessary because the police station itself was located on one side of the market square, and all any officer had to do was look out of the window.

After considerable debate, and mostly because they were impressed by the rise in Ripon’s arrest rate, the council had relented and four cameras were installed on an experimental basis. They fed directly into a small communications room set up on the ground floor of Eastvale Divisional Headquarters, where the tapes were routinely scanned for the faces of familiar troublemakers and any signs of criminal activity. Banks thought it all smacked a bit too much of Big Brother, but was willing to admit that in a case like this the tapes might be of some value.

“They’ll at least tell us if anyone left after Emily and her friends arrived at the club,” he went on. “Darren Hirst was too upset and confused to be certain last night.”

“Good idea,” McLaughlin said. “Any point staging a reconstruction?”

Banks took a deep breath. Now was the time. “I don’t think so, sir. I had a brief lunch with Emily yesterday. She wanted to thank me for persuading her to return home, and she also expressed some concern about this Clough character.”

“Go on,” said McLaughlin, without expression.

Banks felt Annie’s eyes boring into the side of his head again. Even Gristhorpe was frowning. “She left the Black Bull to meet someone, or so she said, at three o’clock. We don’t know where she was between then and when she met her friends in the Cross Keys around seven. Darren said he thought she was a little high when she arrived at the Cross Keys, so I would guess that she’d been taking drugs with someone, perhaps the person who gave her the poisoned cocaine. After that, they were together as a group all evening. I think we’d have more to gain from a concentrated media campaign. Posters, television, newspapers.”

“I’m concerned about this lunch you had with the victim,” said McLaughlin.

“There was nothing to it, sir. We were in public view the entire time, and I remained there after Emily left. I think she was genuinely worried about Clough. She didn’t feel she could talk to her father, but she wanted me to know.”

“Why you?”

“Because I’d met him when I was searching for her. She knew I’d understand what she was talking about.”

“Nasty piece of work, then?”

“Very, sir.”

“Did she give you any idea of where she was going or who she was meeting?”

“No, sir. I wish she had.” Banks wished he had even asked her.

“What did she talk about?”

“As I said, she was grateful to me for persuading her to go home. She talked about her future. She wanted to take her A-Levels and go to university in America.”

“And she expressed concern about Clough?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did she say he’d been in touch with her, threatened her or anything like that?”

“She said he hadn’t contacted her, but she seemed worried. She said he didn’t like to lose his prize possessions. And she thought she saw one of his employees in the Swainsdale Centre.”

“Do you think she knew something was going to happen to her, that she was in fear for her life?”

“I wouldn’t push it that far, sir.”

“Even so,” said McLaughlin, “she was a member of the public expressing concern over a dangerous situation she had got herself into and asking for police help. Wasn’t she?”

“Yes, sir,” said Banks, relieved that McLaughlin had seen fit to throw him a life belt. Banks didn’t see any point in telling him that Emily had been drinking underage in his presence, or that they had spent half a night alone together in a London hotel room.

“Good. I’ll leave you to fill out the appropriate paperwork to that effect, then, so we can put it on file in case of any problems. I should imagine you were busy at the time and simply postponed the paperwork?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Perfectly understandable. And you don’t need me to tell you that quick, positive results on this would be beneficial all around.”

“No, sir.”

With that, ACC Ron McLaughlin left the boardroom.

“You may leave, too, DS Cabbot,” said Gristhorpe. “Alan, I’d like a word.”

Annie left, flashing Banks a tight, pissed-off look. Banks and Gristhorpe looked at one another. “Terrible business,” said Gristhorpe. “No matter what you thought of Jimmy Riddle.”

“It is, sir.”

“This lunch, Alan? It only happened the once, just the way you say it did?”

“Yes, sir.”

Gristhorpe grunted. He was looking old, Banks thought – his unruly hair, if anything, grayer lately, dark bags under his eyes, his normally ruddy, pockmarked complexion paler than usual. He also seemed to have lost weight; his tweed jacket looked baggy on him. Still, Banks reminded himself, Gristhorpe had been up pretty much all night, and he wasn’t getting any younger.

“She was a good lass,” Banks said. Then he shook his head. “No. What am I saying? That’s not true. She was what you’d call a wild child. She was exasperating, a pain in the arse, and she no doubt ran Jimmy Riddle ragged.”

“But you liked her?”

“Couldn’t help but. She was confused, a bit crazy maybe, rebellious.”

“A bit like you when you were a lad?” said Gristhorpe with a smile.

“Perish the thought. No. She was exactly the sort of girl I hoped Tracy wouldn’t turn into, and thank the Lord she didn’t. Maybe it was easy to admire the spirit in her because I wasn’t her father, and she wasn’t really my problem. But she was more confused than bad, and I think she’d have turned out all right, given the chance. She was just too advanced for her years. I want the bastard who did this to her, sir. Maybe more than I’ve ever wanted any bastard before in my career.”

“Be careful, Alan.” Gristhorpe leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. “You know as well as I do that you wouldn’t be anywhere near this case if it weren’t for Jimmy Riddle. But if you screw up just once because it’s too personal for you, I’ll be down on you like the proverbial ton of bricks. Which is probably nothing to what ACC McLaughlin will do. Got it?”

“Got it,” said Banks. “Don’t worry. I’ll play it by the book.”

Gristhorpe leaned back and smiled at him. “Nay, Alan,” he said. “You wouldn’t want to do that. What’d be the point of having you on the case, then? All I’m saying is don’t let anger and a desire for revenge cloud you judgment. Look clearly at the evidence, the facts, before you make any moves. Don’t go off half-cocked the way you’ve done in the past.”

“I’ll try not to,” said Banks.

“You do that.”

Someone knocked at the door and Gristhorpe called out for him to come in. It was one of the uniformed officers from downstairs. “A DI Wayne Dalton, Northumbria CID, to see DCI Banks, sir.”

Banks raised his eyebrows and looked at Gristhorpe. “Okay,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Give him a cup of coffee and sit him in my office. I can spare him a few minutes.”

Banks wasn’t the only one who had spent a restless night; Annie Cabbot had also lain awake during the hour or two she had spent in bed shortly before dawn, her nerve ends jumping at every little sound. She had tried to tell herself not to be so weak. After all, she had prevented Dalton and his crony from raping her two years ago, so why should she be worried about him now? Her martial arts training might be a bit rusty, but she could defend herself well enough if it came to that.

The problem was that reason has no foothold at four or five in the morning; at those hours, reason sleeps and the mind breeds monsters: monsters of fear, of paranoia. And so she had tossed and turned, her mind’s eye flashing on images of Dalton’s sweat-glossed face and hate-filled eyes, and of Emily Riddle dead, her skinny frame wedged in a toilet cubicle at the Bar None nightclub, her eyes wide open in terror and facial muscles contorted into a grimace.

Now, however, as she came out of the meeting and headed for her office in what little light of day there was, she realized that she wasn’t physically afraid of Dalton. She had always known he was the type who could only act violently as part of a gang. His appearance had shaken her, that was all, stirred up memories of that night she would rather forget. The only problem was that she didn’t know quite what to do, if anything, about him.

She thought of telling Banks but dismissed the idea quickly. If truth be told, she was pissed off at him. Why hadn’t he told her about his relationship with the victim last night? There had been plenty of time. It would have made her feel more like a DIO and less like a bloody idiot this morning when the ACC brought the matter up.

In a way, she regretted now that she had even told Banks about the rape in the first place, but such intimacy as they had had breeds foolish confessions; she had certainly never told anyone else, not even her father. And now that she was actually working with Banks, even though she still fancied him, she was going to try to keep things on a professional footing. Her career was moving in the right direction again, and she didn’t want to mess things up. ACC McLaughlin had given her a great chance for kudos in making her DIO. The last thing she wanted to do was go crying to the boss. No, Dalton was her problem, and she would deal with him one way or another.

Banks found DI Dalton standing in his office facing the wall, Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand, looking at the Dalesman calendar. December showed a snow- and ice-covered Goredale Scar, near Malham. Dalton turned as Banks entered. He was about six feet tall and skinny as a rake, with pale, watery blue eyes and a long, thin face with a rather hangdog expression under his head of sparse ginger hair. Banks put his age at around forty. He was wearing a lightweight brown suit, white shirt and tie. A little blood from a shaving cut had dried near the cleft of his chin.

He stuck his hand out. “DI Wayne Dalton. I seem to have come in the middle of a flap.”

“Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“The chief constable’s daughter was killed last night.”

Dalton rolled his eyes and whistled. “I’d hate to be the bastard who did that, when you catch him.”

“We will. Sit down. What brings you this far south?”

“It’s probably a waste of time,” said Dalton, sitting opposite Banks, “but it looks like one of our cases stretches down to your turf.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. We’ve quickly become a very small island indeed.”

“You can say that again. Anyway, late Sunday night – actually, early Monday morning – about twelve-thirty, to be as precise as we can be at this point – a white van was hijacked on the B6348 between the A1 and the village of Chatton. The contents were stolen and the driver’s still in a coma.”

“What’s his name?”

“Jonathan Fearn.”

Banks tapped his pencil on his desk. “Never heard of him.”

“No reason you should have. He lived here, though.” Dalton consulted his notebook. “Twenty-six Darlington Road.”

“I know it,” said Banks, making a note. “We’ll look into him. Any form?”

“No. What’s interesting, though, is that it turns out this white van was leased by a company called PKF Computer Systems, and-”

“Hang on a minute. Did you say PKF?”

“That’s right. Starting to make sense?”

“Not much, but go on.”

“Anyway, we ran a check on PKF and, to cut a long story, it doesn’t exist.”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I say. PKF Computer Systems is not registered as an operating business.”

“That means someone made up the name…”

“…printed some letterhead paper, got a phone line installed, opened a bank account… exactly. A dummy company.”

“Any idea who?”

“That’s where I was hoping you might be able to help. We traced PKF to the Daleview Business Park, just outside Eastvale, and we confirmed that the van must have been on its way to a new trading estate near Wooler. At least PKF had rented premises there starting that Monday morning.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Banks. “PKF, which doesn’t exist, moves lock, stock and barrel from the Daleview Business Park, where they haven’t been operating more than two or three months, on Sunday night and heads up the A1 toward another business park near Tyneside, where they’ve also rented premises. A few miles short of their destination, the van’s hijacked and its contents removed. Right?”

“So far.”

“On Tuesday,” Banks continued, “the night watchman of the Daleview Business Park was found dead in some woods near Market Harborough, Leicestershire. Shotgun wound.”

“Execution?”

“Looks that way. We think he was killed Monday afternoon.”

“Connection?”

“I’d say so, wouldn’t you? Especially when it turns out our night watchman had been putting away another two hundred quid a week over and above his wages.”

“And PKF is a phony.”

“Exactly.”

“Any idea what that van might have been carrying?” Dalton asked.

“The only thing my DS found when she checked out the PKF unit at Daleview was an empty jewel case for a compact disc.”

“Compact discs? First time I’ve ever heard of a CD hijack.”

“We don’t know that that’s the reason. All I’m saying is that we found a jewel case at PKF, which fits with their working in the computer business. Maybe it was computer equipment the thieves were after?”

“Could be. That stuff can be valuable.”

“Any leads at all?”

Dalton shook his head. “We’ve been keeping an eye on the unit they rented near Wooler, but no one’s shown up yet. Given what’s happened, we don’t expect them to now. It was late, on a quiet road, so there were no witnesses. They left the van in a lay-by. As I said, the driver’s still in a coma and fingerprints will be working to sort out their findings till kingdom come. You and I both know that anyone doing a professional job like this would be wearing gloves, anyway. This was the only lead we got – PKF and the Daleview Business Park.”

“Okay,” said Banks, standing. “We’ll keep in touch on this one.”

“Mind if I stick around a day or two, have a look at the business park, poke about?”

“Be my guest.” Banks pulled his pad toward him. “The way things are right now we can use all the help we can get. You could also get in touch with DI Collaton at Market Harborough. It looks as if this is all connected. Where are you staying?”

“Fox and Hounds, on North Market Street. Got in yesterday evening. Nice little en suite.”

“I know the place,” said Banks. “Let us know if you find anything.”

“Will do.” Dalton touched the tips of his fingers in a friendly salute, then left the office.

Banks walked over to the window and looked out on the cobbled market square. The gold hands against the blue front of the church clock stood at quarter past ten. The morning mist had disappeared and it was as light now as it was likely to be all day. He saw DI Dalton walk across the square, pause and linger a moment at the taped-off, guarded entrance of the Bar None, then turn left on York Road toward the bus station and the Swainsdale Centre.

It was difficult for Banks to drum up much enthusiasm for the Charlie Courage investigation since Emily’s murder, but he knew he had to keep on top of it. He also knew that they should have checked into PKF the way Dalton had. Any further signs that he was dragging his feet, and Red Ron would, quite rightly, have him on the carpet. Emily was a priority, yes, but that didn’t mean poor Charlie counted for nothing. Maybe Dalton would come up with something useful. Banks would put him in touch with Hatchley, and with Annie, so she could share what she’d discovered at Daleview.

Looking at the weak gray light that seemed to cling to everything, bleeding the townscape of all color, Banks wished he could escape to somewhere warm and sunny for a couple of weeks, find a nice spot on the beach and read novels and biographies and listen to the waves all day. Normally he didn’t like that kind of holiday, preferring to explore a foreign city on foot, but there was something about the long, dark Yorkshire winters that made him yearn for the Canaries or the Azores. Or Montego Bay. If he could afford it, though, he thought he would like to go to Mexico for a while, see some Mayan ruins. But that was out of the question, especially with the mortgage on the cottage and Tracy at university.

Besides, Banks thought, opening the window a few inches and lighting a cigarette, he couldn’t desert Emily now. He was responsible for what happened to her, at least in part. There was no escaping that. If he hadn’t gone down to London and stirred things up with Clough, then it was unlikely that she would have come back home and ended up dead in a crummy Eastvale nightclub. She had gone the way of Graham Marshall, of Jem and of Phil Simpkins, and he couldn’t, wouldn’t, just let it go; he had to do something.

“Let it roll, Ned,” said Banks. He was in the CCTV viewing room downstairs along with DCs Winsome Jackman and Kevin Templeton, Annie Cabbot and their civilian video technician, Ned Parker.

The screen showed the market square from the police station, including the edge of the Queen’s Arms to the right, the church front to the left and all the shops, pubs and offices directly opposite, including the entrance to the Bar None. The picture was a grainy black and white, with a slight fish-eye effect, and the glare of the Christmas lights caused one or two problems with the contrast, but it was still possible to make out figures coming and going. Whether they would be able to identify someone coming out of the Bar None from this tape alone, Banks was doubtful.

The time appeared in an on-screen display at the bottom right-hand side, and, starting at 10:00, Parker advanced it quickly so that the people crossing the market square looked like extras in a Keystone Cops chase. Somewhere around twenty-five past, Banks noticed a group of people enter the screen from the right, the exit of the Queen’s Arms, and told Parker to slow down to normal speed. He then watched Emily walk across the market square. She seemed a little unsteady on the cobbles as she crossed the square, which didn’t surprise him considering the platform heels she was wearing and the amount she had had to drink that day.

When she got to the market cross, she turned to face the police station and did a little dance, and when she finished, she bowed with a flourish to the camera, but before walking away she gave it the finger, just one, in the American style, then she turned and swung her hips exaggeratedly as she walked on to the nightclub. The others laughed. Banks himself smiled as he watched her, almost forgetting for a moment that this was a little cheeky gesture that would never be repeated.

Banks watched them enter the club and asked Parker to keep it running at normal speed as he watched others follow. As far as he could make out, there was no suspicious activity in the market square. No little packages of white powder exchanging hands. As he watched, he realized how much he wanted to be watching what was happening inside the club, but there were no cameras there.

At 10:47, two people walked out of the club and headed down York Road. Banks couldn’t make out their features, but it looked like a boy in jeans and a short leather jacket and a girl in a long overcoat and a floppy hat. He asked Parker to freeze the frame, but it didn’t help much.

After that, another three couples went in, but no one came out. When DC Rickerd and Inspector Jessup entered the frame, Banks told Parker to turn the machine off.

It was beginning to look very much as if Emily had scored her coke long before she went to the Bar None, as Banks had guessed, and that would make it all the more difficult to find out who had supplied her with the lethal concoction.

“Okay,” Banks said, standing up and stretching. “That’s all your entertainment for today. Winsome, bring in Darren Hirst, would you? Maybe he can help us with the two who left.”

“Friendly, sir?”

“Friendly. He’s not a suspect, just helping us with our inquiries.”

Winsome smiled at the hackneyed phrase. “Will do, sir.”

“Kevin, I’d like you to work with Ned here and see if you can pull a decent image of those two who left. Something we can show around.”

“Okay, Guv.”

“And, Kevin?”

“Guv?”

“Please don’t call me ‘Guv.’ It makes me feel as if I’m on television.”

Templeton grinned. “Right you are, sir.”

Then Banks looked at his watch and turned to Annie. “We’d better go,” he said. “We’ve got an appointment with Dr. Glendenning in a few minutes.”

Banks drove out to the Old Mill after Emily Riddle’s postmortem, Fauré’s Requiem playing on the stereo. He still felt angry and nauseated at what he had just seen. It wasn’t the first young girl he had watched Dr. Glendenning open up on the slab, but it was the first whose vitality he had known, whose fears and dreams had been shared with him, and watching Dr. Glendenning calmly bisecting the black spider tattoo with his scalpel as he made his “Y” incision had almost sent Banks the way Annie went down in Market Harborough. Annie had been fine this time, though. Quiet and tense, but fine, even when the saw ripped into the bone of Emily’s skull.

Dr. Glendenning had confirmed Dr. Burns’s original determination that strychnine, mixed in a high ratio with pharmaceutical cocaine, had caused Emily’s death. Glendenning had performed the simple toxicology test for strychnine himself, dissolving some of the suspect crystals in sulfuric acid and touching the edge of the solution with a crystal of potassium chromate. It turned purple, then crimson, then all color faded. Proof positive. Further tox tests would be done at Wetherby, but for now, this was enough. So far, all the media knew was that she had died of a suspected drug overdose, but it wouldn’t be long before some bright spark of a reporter sniffed out the truth. Sometimes the press seemed even more resourceful than the police.

As it turned out, Emily’s neck wasn’t broken; she had died of asphyxiation. Other than the fact that she was dead, Glendenning had also told Banks, she was in extremely good health. The drugs and drink and cigarettes clearly hadn’t had time to take their toll on her.

The Old Mill stood at the end of a cul-de-sac, like Banks’s more humble abode, so the uniformed officers on guard could stand well over a hundred yards away, where it turned off from the main road, and keep reporters away without even being seen by the Riddles. Banks showed his warrant card and the officer on duty waved him through. Rosalind answered the door and led him through to the same room where he had given Riddle the news. She was dressed in black and her eyes looked dark with lack of sleep. Banks guessed that Riddle must have awoken her as soon as he had left last night. They wouldn’t have had any sleep since then.

“Banks.” Riddle got slowly to his feet when Banks entered the room. He was dressed in the same clothes he had been wearing last night, a little more the worse for wear. He looked haggard, and there was a listlessness and a defeated air about his movements that Banks had never seen him exhibit before. He had always been energetic and abrupt. Perhaps he had taken a tranquilizer, or perhaps this was the toll that recent events had taken on his system. Whichever it was, the man looked as if he could use a doctor as well as a good night’s sleep. “Any news?” he asked, without much hope in his voice.

“Nothing yet, I’m afraid.” Banks didn’t want to mention the postmortem, though he knew Riddle would be aware that it had been conducted. He only hoped the CC had enough common sense not to bring something like that up in front of his wife.

“Confirmed cause of death?” he asked.

“It’s what we thought.”

Rosalind put her hand to her throat. “Strychnine. I’ve read about that.”

Banks glanced at Riddle. “You’ve told her…?”

“Ros understands she’s to talk to no one about the cause of death. I don’t suppose it’ll be a secret for long, though?”

“I doubt it,” said Banks. “Not now the postmortem’s over. Glendenning’s sound as a bell, but there’s always someone there who lets the cat out of the bag. Mrs. Riddle,” he said, perching at the edge of his armchair, “I need to ask you some questions. I’ll try to make it as painless for you as possible.”

“I understand. Jerry explained it to me.”

“Good. Emily had been back from London about a month. During that time, had she given you any cause for concern?”

“No,” said Rosalind. “In fact, she’d been extremely well-behaved. For Emily.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, Chief Inspector, that if she wanted to stay out all night at a rave, she would. Emily always was a willful child, as I’m sure you’re aware, difficult to control. But I saw no evidence of drug use, and she was generally polite and good-natured in her dealings with me.”

“I gather that wasn’t always the case?”

“It was not.”

“Had she been out a lot since her return?”

“Not much. Last night was only the second or third time.”

“When was the last time?”

“The night before. Wednesday. She went to the pictures with some friends. That new cinema complex in Eastvale, and a week or so ago she went to a friend’s birthday party in Richmond. She was home shortly after midnight both times.”

“What did she do with her time?”

“Believe it or not, she stayed in and read a lot. Watched videos. She also made inquiries about getting into a sixth-form college. I think she was finally deciding to take life a bit more seriously.”

“Did she ever confide in you about any problems she might be having? Boys, or anything like that?”

“That wasn’t Emily’s way,” said Rosalind. “She was always secretive, even when she was little. She liked a sense of mystery.”

“What about boyfriends?”

“I don’t think there was anyone special. She hung around with a group of people.”

“It must have been difficult for her to make friends locally, with being off at school down south so much of the time.”

“It was. And you probably know yourself, the locals aren’t always that welcoming of southerners, even these days. But when she was home for the holidays she’d meet people. I don’t know. She didn’t seem to have any real trouble making friends. She was outgoing enough. And of course, she still knew people from when she was at Saint Mary’s School here. That was only two years ago.”

“What about Darren Hirst? Did she ever mention him?”

“Yes. In fact, it was his birthday party she went to last week. But he wasn’t her boyfriend; he was just part of the group she hung out with. The lad with the car. They came to the house to pick her up on Wednesday – Darren and a girl, Nina or Tina or something – and they certainly seemed pleasant enough, although I didn’t approve of her hanging around with people who were, for the most part, three or four years older than she was. I knew she went to pubs and could get served easily enough, and I didn’t like it. I told her often enough, but she just accused me of going on at her, and in the end I gave up.”

“Did she ever mention someone called Andrew Handley?”

“No.”

“Andy Pandy?”

“Is this some sort of joke? Who’s he?”

“It’s not a joke. That’s his nickname. He’s a colleague of the man Emily was living with in London.”

“Never heard of him,” said Rosalind. She reached forward, grabbed a tissue from the box on the table and sniffled into it. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “Please excuse me.”

Riddle moved over to her and touched her shoulder hesitantly, without much warmth, it seemed. In response, Rosalind’s body stiffened, and she turned away. Banks thought he glimpsed something in her eyes as she turned – fear or confusion, perhaps. Did she suspect her husband of being involved in Emily’s death? Or was he protecting her? Whatever it was, there was something desperately out of kilter with the Riddle family.

“Did Emily speak to you of her plans for the future, Mrs. Riddle?” Banks asked, switching the direction of the interview to something he thought might be a little easier for her to deal with.

“Only that she wanted to do her A-Levels and go to university,” said Rosalind, still dabbing her eyes with the tissue. “Preferably in America. I think she wanted to get as far away from here and from us as she could.”

Out of sight, out of mind, thought Banks. And less likely to damage Riddle’s fledgling political career, if that wasn’t already damaged beyond repair. He remembered on his first visit, when the Riddles asked him to go to London and find Emily, how he had got the impression that Rosalind hadn’t particularly wanted her to come back home. He got the same impression now. “And you approved?”

“Of course I did. It’s better than her running off to London and living with some… I don’t know… some drug dealer.”

“We don’t know that he was a drug dealer,” said Banks. “In fact, Emily swore he wasn’t, and I’m inclined to believe her.”

“Well, Emily always could twist men around her little finger.”

“Not Clough. She met her match there.”

“Do you really think he could be responsible?” asked Riddle.

“Oh, yes. The impression I got is that he’s a dangerous man and he doesn’t like to be crossed.”

“But why would he want to harm her? He had no real motive.”

“I don’t know,” said Banks. “All I can say is that I’ve met him and I’m convinced he’s into something. Perhaps he did it out of sheer maliciousness, because he didn’t like to be crossed. Or perhaps he thought she knew too much about his business interests. Did she ever talk about him to you?”

“No. What are you doing about him?” Riddle asked.

“I’m going to London first thing tomorrow. Before that, I just want to find out if there are any more leads I should be following up here.” Banks paused. “Look, I had lunch with Emily the day she died and-”

“You did what?”

“She phoned and asked me to lunch, said she’d be in Eastvale. She wanted to thank me.”

“She never told us,” said Riddle, looking at Rosalind, who frowned.

“Well, your wife did say she was secretive. And given that, my next question is probably a waste of time, but when she left, she said she was going to meet someone else. Did she say anything to either of you about meeting someone in Eastvale that afternoon?”

They both shook their heads. “What did she say to you?” Rosalind asked. “Did she tell you anything?”

“About what?”

“I don’t know. Anything that might help explain what happened.”

“Only that she thought she’d seen one of Clough’s men in Eastvale. I gather she didn’t mention that to you?”

“No,” said Rosalind.

“When did you last see her yesterday?”

“We didn’t,” Riddle answered. “Both Ros and I had gone to work long before she got up that morning, and when we got back she was out.”

“So the last time you saw her was Wednesday?”

“Yes.”

“Did she phone anyone or get any phone calls?”

“Not that I know of,” said Riddle. “Ros?”

Rosalind shook her head.

“Did she spend much time on the telephone while she was up here?”

“Not a lot, no.”

“Do I have your permission to ask British Telecom for a record of your telephone calls since Emily came home?”

“Of course,” said Riddle. “I’ll see to it myself.”

“That’s all right, sir. I’ll put DC Templeton on it. Did she have any visitors from London, make any trips back down there?”

“Not that we know of, no,” said Riddle.

“Are you both sure there’s no one else you can think of who I should be looking closely at for this?”

“No,” said Riddle, after a moment’s pause for thought. “Not up here. As Ros said, she hung around with a group. They were probably with her at the club. You can talk to them and ascertain whether you think any of them had anything to do with it.”

“We’ve already talked to them, but we’ll follow up on that. I must say, on first impressions I don’t think any of them are responsible. Do you know where she got her drugs?”

It was Rosalind who answered. “I told you that I don’t think she was taking drugs since she came back.”

“Are you certain?”

“Not completely. But… I…” She glanced at her husband and blushed before she went on. “I searched her room once. And once or twice, I looked in her handbag. I found nothing.”

“Well, she was definitely taking cocaine the night she died,” said Banks.

“Maybe it was her first time since London?”

“When you searched her handbag, Mrs. Riddle, did you come across a driving license and an age-verification card?”

Rosalind looked puzzled. “A driving license? Good Lord, no. Emily was too young to drive. Besides, I didn’t look in her purse.”

“I’m not saying she did actually drive a car, but when she was found, the officer at the scene found a driving license in her handbag and thought it was hers. He also found one of those cards the clubs issue as proof of age, though they’re nothing of the kind. That’s why there was some confusion over the identity at first.”

“It doesn’t mean anything to me,” said Rosalind. “I don’t understand.”

“What about the name Ruth Walker?”

Banks saw a strange look flash in across Rosalind’s eyes, perhaps the surprise of recognition, but it was gone so fast that he didn’t trust his own judgment. She pressed her lips tight together. “No.”

“She was another friend of Emily’s in London. Apparently this Ruth met her in the street and took her in when she first arrived. You didn’t know about that?”

“No.”

“What about Craig Newton? Ring any bells?”

“Who was he?”

“Her first boyfriend in London. There was a bit of trouble between him and Clough. He seemed a decent enough lad when I talked to him, but he might have been jealous, and he might have held a grudge against Emily for ditching him. She told me he’d been following her around and pestering her.” Banks stood up. “Clearly I’m going to find more answers down there. For the moment, though, are you certain neither of you can think of anyone who would want to harm Emily?”

They both shook their heads.

Banks looked at Riddle. “You’re a policeman, sir,” he said. “Can you think of anyone who might have a grudge against you?”

“Oh, come on, Banks. You know I’ve hardly been fighting in the trenches for years. That’s not a chief constable’s job.”

“Even so…?”

“No, I can’t think of anyone offhand.”

“Would you check through your previous arrests, no matter how old? Just for form’s sake.”

“Of course.” Riddle saw Banks to the door. “You’ll keep in touch, won’t you?” he said, grasping Banks’s arm tightly. “I’ve been advised to stay away from the office for the time being, so I’m taking a leave of absence. But I’m sure I could be more effective there. Anyway, the moment you know, I want to know. Understand? The moment.”

Banks nodded and Riddle released his grip.

Back at the incident room, Banks discovered that Darren Hirst had been and gone. DC Jackman had interviewed him and said he had been unable to shed any light on the couple who had left the Bar None at ten forty-seven. He hadn’t even remembered seeing them in the first place. Now it was a matter of getting the rather blurred and grainy image that Ned Parker had pulled from the CCTV video copied up and shown around. It was possible that someone might have remembered seeing them in the pubs around the market square. It would probably come to nothing, but then most police work did.

He also found out that three people who had been in the Black Bull yesterday at lunchtime had phoned in and said they had seen the victim with an older man. One person had positively identified the man as “that detective who was on telly about that there reservoir business in t’summer.” Just as well he’d told the ACC and the Riddles.

Banks walked into the detectives’ office. Down the corridor, it sounded as if someone was going at the floor with a pneumatic drill. He shut the door behind him and leaned against the wall. Hatchley and Annie Cabbot were at their desks. Annie gave him a dirty look, and Hatchley said he had been out investigating an alien abduction.

Banks smiled. “Come again? Since when have you been working on the ‘X Files,’ Jim?”

“It’s true,” said Hatchley. “Honest to God.” He chuckled; it sounded as if he was coughing up a big one. “Toy shop down on Elmet Street,” he went on. “They put out an inflatable little green man to advertise a new line of toys and somebody nicked it. Some kid, probably. Still, it’s an alien abduction.”

Banks laughed. “There’s one for the books. Ever hear of a fellow called Jonathan Fearn?” he asked.

“Rings a bell.” Hatchley scratched his ear. “If I’m thinking of the right one, he’s an unemployed yobbo, not above a bit dodgy dealing every now and then. We’ve had our eyes on him as driver on a couple of warehouse robberies over the years.”

“But he’s got no form?”

Hatchley shrugged. “Just lucky. Some are. It won’t last.”

“His luck’s already run out. He’s in hospital in Newcastle, in a coma.”

Hatchley whistled. “Bloody hell. What happened?”

Banks told him as much as he knew. “Do you know of any connection between this Fearn character and Charlie Courage?”

“Could be,” Hatchley said. “I mean, they hung out in the same pubs and neither of them was beyond a bit of thievery every now and then. Sound like two peas from the same pod to me.”

“Thanks, Jim,” said Banks. “Poke around a bit, will you? See if you can find a connection.”

Hatchley, always happy to be sent off to do his work in pubs, beamed. “My pleasure.”

“There’s a DI Dalton around the place somewhere. Down from Northumbria, staying at the Fox and Hounds. He might be able to help. Liaise with him on this one.”

“Will do.”

Annie followed Banks out of the office and caught up with him in the corridor. “A word?”

“Of course,” said Banks. “Not here, though. This noise is driving me crazy. Queen’s Arms?”

“Fine with me.”

Banks and Annie walked across Market Street to the Queen’s Arms.

“I want to know just what the hell you think you’ve been playing at,” Annie said when they had got drinks and sat down in a quiet corner. She spoke softly, but there was anger in her voice, and she sat stiffly in the chair.

“What do you mean?”

“You know damn well what I mean. What went on between you and the victim?”

“Emily Riddle?”

“Who else?”

Banks sighed. “I’m sorry it happened the way it did, Annie, sorry if I embarrassed you in any way. I would have told you, honestly. I just hadn’t found the right time.”

“You could have told me last night at the scene.”

“No, I couldn’t. There was too much else going on, too much to do, too much to organize. And I was bloody upset by what I saw – all right?”

“No, it’s not all right. You made me feel like a complete idiot this morning. I’ve been working on the case as long as you had, and here are you coming up with a suspect I’ve never even heard of. Not to mention having lunch with the victim on the day she died.”

“Look, I’ve said I’m sorry. What else can I say?”

Annie shook her head. “It’s not on, Alan. If I’m supposed to be your DIO, I’m not supposed to be the last bloody person on earth who hears about important developments.”

“It wasn’t an important development. It had already happened.”

“Stop splitting hairs. You named a suspect. You had a prior relationship with the victim. You should have told me. It could have a bearing on the investigation.”

“It does have a bearing on the investigation. And I will tell you if you’ll let me.”

“Better late than never.”

Banks told her about London, about GlamourPuss, Clough, Ruth Walker and Craig Newton – everything except the night in the hotel room – and about what he and Emily had discussed over lunch the previous day. When he had finished, Annie seemed to relax in her chair the way she normally did.

“I wasn’t keeping it from you, Annie,” he said. “It was just bad timing, that’s all. Honestly.”

“And that’s all there is to it?”

“That’s all. Scout’s honor.”

Annie managed a smile. “Next time anything like that happens, tell me up front, okay?”

“Okay. Forgive me?”

“I’m working on it. What next?”

“I’m going down to London tomorrow to do a bit of checking up.”

“And me?”

“I want you to take care of things at this end. I’ll only be gone for the weekend, most likely, but there’s a lot to do. Get posters made up, contact the local TV news people and see if you can get an appeal for information on. Anyone who saw her between the time she left the Black Bull just before three and the time she met her friends in the Cross Keys at seven. And stress the fact that even though she was technically only sixteen, she looked older. Men will certainly remember if they saw her. Check local buses and taxis. Get DC Templeton to organize a house-to-house of the area around the Black Bull. Maybe we’ll even get reinforcements. Who knows? We might get lucky. Maybe someone saw Clough handing over a gram of coke to her.”

“Sure.”

“And there’s another thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I had a visit from a DI Dalton this morning. Northumbria CID. It’s about the Charlie Courage business. Seems there’s some connection with a hijacked van up north. Seeing as you did the preliminary interviews at Daleview, I’d like you to have a quick chat with him before you hand over the file to DS Hatchley. He might be able to help us. He’s staying at the Fox and Hounds. You never know. Maybe if you’re lucky he’ll even buy you a pint.”

That evening at home, Banks tossed a few clothes into his overnight bag, followed by Evelyn Waugh’s The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold and his Renee Fleming and Captain Beef-heart tapes. He would have to buy a portable CD player, he decided; it was becoming too time-consuming and expensive to tape everything, and CD timings were getting more difficult to match with the basic ninety- or one-hundred-minute tape format.

When he had finished packing, he phoned Brian, who answered on the third ring.

“Hi, Dad. How’s it going?”

“Fine. Look, I’m going to be down your way again this weekend. Any chance of your being around? I’ll be pretty busy, but I’m sure we can fit in a lunch or something.”

“Sorry,” said Brian. “We’ve got some gigs in Southampton.”

“Ah, well, you can’t blame a father for trying. One of these days, maybe. Take care, and I hope you’re a big success.”

“Thanks. Oh, Dad?”

“Yes?”

“You remember that bloke you were asking about a while back, the ex-roadie?”

“Barry Clough?”

“That’s him.”

“What about him?”

“Nothing, really, but I was talking to one of the producers at the recording studio, name of Terry King. Old geezer like you, been around a long time, since punk. You know: The Sex Pistols, The Clash, that sort of thing? Surely you must remember those days?”

“Brian,” said Banks, smiling to himself, “I even remember Elvis. Now cut the ageism and get to the point.”

“It’s nothing, really. Just that he remembered Clough. Called himself something else, then, one of those silly punk names like Sid Vicious – Terry couldn’t remember exactly what it was – but it was him, all right. Apparently he got fired from his roadie job.”

“What for?”

“Bootlegging live concerts. Not just the band he worked with, but all the big names.”

“I see.” Banks remembered the booming business in bootleg LPs in the seventies. First Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, The Doors and other popular bands were all bootlegged, and none of them made a penny from the illegal sales. The same thing also happened later with some of the punk bands. Not that any of them needed the money, and most of them were too stoned to notice, but that wasn’t the point. Clough’s employers had noticed and given him the push.

“Like I said, it’s not much. But he says he’s heard this Clough bloke is a gangster now. A tough guy. Be careful, Dad.”

“I will. I’m not exactly a five-stone weakling myself, you know.”

“Right. Oh, and there’s one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“There’s this car a mate of mine’s selling. Only three years old, got its MOT and everything. I got another-”

“Brian, what do you want?”

“Well, I’ve got the asking price down a couple of hundred from what it was, but I was wondering, you know, if you could see your way to helping me out?”

“What? Me help out my rich and famous rock-star son?”

Brian laughed. “Give us a break.”

“How much do you need?”

“Three hundred quid would do nicely. I’ll let you have it back when I am rich and famous.”

“All right.”

“You’re sure?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“That’s great! Thanks, Dad. Thanks a lot. I mean it.”

“You’re welcome. Talk to you later.”

Banks hung up. Three hundred quid he could ill afford. Still, he would come up with it somehow. After all, he had saved a bundle by missing out on Paris, and he had given Tracy a bit of spending money that weekend. He remembered how much he had wanted a car when he was young; the kids with cars seemed to get all the girls. He had finally bought a rusty old VW Beetle when he was at college in London. It lasted him the length of his course there, then clapped out on the North Circular one cold, rainy Sunday in January, and he hadn’t got another one until he and Sandra were married. Yes, he’d find a way to help Brian out.

Next, Banks tried Tracy’s number and was surprised when she answered right away: “Dad! I’ve been wanting to talk to you. I just heard about Mr. Riddle’s daughter on the news. Are you all right? I know you didn’t get along with him, but… Did you know her?”

“Yes,” said Banks. Then he told Tracy the bare details about going to London to find Emily instead of going with her to Paris that weekend.

“Oh, Dad. Don’t feel guilty for doing someone a favor. I was disappointed at first, but Damon and I had the most wonderful time.”

I’ll bet you did, thought Banks, biting his tongue.

Tracy went on. “All I heard was that she died after taking an overdose of cocaine in the Bar None, and they’re all saying she lived a pretty wild life. Is it something to do with what happened in London?”

“I don’t know,” said Banks. “Maybe.”

“That’s terrible. Was it deliberate?”

“Could have been.”

“Do you have any idea who…? No, I know I shouldn’t ask.”

“It’s all right, love. We don’t at the moment. A few leads to follow, that’s all. I’m going back to London tomorrow. I just wanted to talk to you first, see if you were still on for Christmas.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Good.”

“She was only sixteen, wasn’t she?”

“That’s right.”

Tracy paused. “Look, Dad… I just want you to know… I mean, I know you worry about me sometimes. I know you and Mum worried about me when we were all together, but you didn’t really need to. I’m… I mean, I never did anything like that.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“No, Dad. You don’t know. You can’t know. Even if you knew what signs to look for, you weren’t there. I don’t mean to be nasty about it. I know about the demands of your job and all, and I know you loved us, but you just weren’t there. Anyway, I’m telling you the truth. I know you think I’ve always been little Miss Goody Two-shoes, but it’s not true. I did try smoking some marijuana once, but I didn’t like the way it made me feel. And once a girl gave me some Ecstasy at a dance. I didn’t like that, either. It made my heart beat too fast and all I did was sweat and feel frightened. I suppose you could say I’m a failure as far as drugs are concerned.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Banks wanted to ask if she’d been sexually active at fourteen, too, but he didn’t think it would be a fair question to put to his daughter. She would tell him what she wanted when she wanted to.

“Anyway,” Tracy went on, “I’m sure you’re very busy. And I’m sure if anyone’s going to catch him, it’ll be you.”

Banks laughed. “I appreciate your confidence in me. Take care, love. Talk to you soon.”

“Bye, Dad.”

Banks hung up the phone gently and let the silence enfold him again. He always had that same empty, lonely feeling after he’d spoken to someone he loved over the telephone, as if the silence had somehow become charged with that person’s absence. He shook it off. It was a mild enough night outside and he still had time to go to his little balcony by the falls for a cigarette and a finger or two of Laphroaig.