Final Account

1

A tape of Satie’s piano music, especially the “Trois Gymnopédies,” kept Banks calm on his way to Leeds, even though the A1 was busy with juggernauts and commercial travellers driving too fast. He found the car park without too much difficulty; it was an old school playground surrounded by the rubble of demolished buildings just north of the city center.

“Cheers, Alan,” said Detective Inspector Ken Blackstone. “You look like a bloody villain with those sunglasses on. How’s it going?”

“Can’t complain.” Banks shook his hand and took off the dark glasses. He had met Blackstone at a number of courses and functions, and the two of them had always got along well enough. “And how’s West Yorkshire CID?”

“Overworked, as usual. Bit of a bugger, isn’t it?” said Blackstone. “The weather, I mean.”

Banks scratched the scar beside his right eye. Sometimes when it itched, it was trying to tell him something; other times, like this, it was just the heat. “I remember an American once told me that all we English do is complain about the weather,” he said. “It’s either too hot or too cold for us, too wet or too dry.”

Blackstone laughed. “True. Still, the station could do with a few of those air-conditioner thingies the Yanks use. It’s hotter indoors than out. Sends the crime figures up, you know, a heat wave. Natives get restless.”

A light breeze had sprung up from the west, but it did nothing to quell the warmth of the sun. Banks took off his sports jacket and slung it over his shoulder as they walked across the soft tarmac to the abandoned car. His tie hung askew, as usual, and his top shirt button was open so he could breathe easily. He could feel the sweat sticking his white cotton shirt to his back. This weather was following a pattern he recognized; it would get hotter and hazier until it ended in a storm.

“What have you got?” he asked.

“You’ll see in a minute.” Despite the weather, Ken Blackstone looked cool as usual. He wore a lightweight navy-blue suit with a gray herringbone pattern, a crisp white shirt with a stiff collar, and a garish silk tie, secured by a gold tieclip in the shape of a pair of handcuffs. Banks was willing to bet that his top button was fastened.

Blackstone was tall and slim with light brown hair, thin on top but curly over the ears, and a pale complexion, definitely not the sun-worshipping kind. His Cupid’s bow lips and wire-rimmed glasses made him look about thirty, when he was, in fact, closer to Banks’s age. He had a long, dour sort of face and spoke with a local accent tempered by three years at Bath University, where he had studied art history.

Blackstone had, in fact, become something of an expert on art fraud after his degree, and he often found himself called in to help out when something of that nature happened. In addition, he was a fair landscape artist himself, and his work had been exhibited several times. Banks remembered Blackstone and Sandra getting into a long conversation about the Pre-Raphaelites at a colleague’s wedding once, and remembered the stirrings of jealousy he had felt. Though he was eager to learn, read, look and listen as much as his time allowed, Banks was always aware of his working-class background and his lack of a true formal education.

They arrived at a car guarded by two hot-looking uniformed constables and Banks stood back to survey it. Ancient, but not old enough to attract attention as an antique, the light blue Ford Escort was rusted around the bottom of the chassis and had spider-leg cracks on the passenger side of the windscreen. It matched the description, as far as that went.

“How long’s it been here?” Banks asked.

“Don’t know,” said Blackstone. “Our lads didn’t notice it until last night. When they ran the number they found it was stolen.”

Banks knelt by the front tire. Flat. There was plenty of soil and gravel lodged in the grooves. They could have it analyzed and at least discover if it came from around Arkbeck Farm. He looked through the grimy window. The beige upholstery was dirty, cracked and split. A McDonald’s coffee cup lay crushed on the floor at the driver’s side, but apart from that he could see nothing else inside.

“We’ve looked in the boot,” said Blackstone. “Nothing. Not even a jack or a spare tire. I’ve arranged for it to be taken to our police garage for a thorough forensic examination, but I thought you’d like a look at it in situ first.”

“Thanks,” said Banks. “I don’t expect we’ll get any prints, if they were pros, but you never know. Who’s the lucky owner?”

“Bloke called Ronald Hamilton.”

“When did he report it missing?”

Blackstone paused before answering. “Friday morning. Said he left it in the street as usual after he got in about five or six in the evening and it was gone when he went out at ten the next morning. Thought it was maybe kids joy-riding. There’s been a lot of it on the estate lately. It’s not the safest place in the city. He lives on the Raynville estate in Bramley. Ring any bells?”

Banks shook his head. Pamela Jeffreys lived in Armley, which wasn’t far away, and Daniel Clegg lived in Chapel Allerton, a fair distance in both miles and manners. Most likely the killers had picked it at random a good distance from where they lived. “That’s four days ago, Ken,” said Banks. “And nobody spotted it before last night?”

Again, Blackstone hesitated. “ Hamilton ’s an unemployed laborer,” he said finally. “He’s got at least one wife and three kids that we know of, and lately he’s been having a few problems with the social. He’s also got a record. Dealing. Aggravated assault.”

“You thought he’d arranged to have it nicked for the insurance?”

Blackstone smiled. “Something like that. I wasn’t involved personally. I don’t know what you lot do, but here in the big city we don’t send Detective Inspectors out on routine traffic incidents.”

Banks ignored the sarcasm. It was just Blackstone’s manner. “So your lads didn’t exactly put a rush on it?”

“That’s right.” Blackstone glanced toward the horizon and sighed. “Any idea, Alan, how many car crimes we’ve got in the city now? You yokels wouldn’t believe it. So when some scurvy knave comes on with a story about a beat-up old Escort, you think he’d have to pay somebody to steal that piece of shit. So let the fucking insurance company pay. They can afford it. In the meantime we’ve got joy-riding kids, real villains and organized gangs of car thieves to deal with. I’m not making excuses, Alan.”

“Yeah, I know.” Banks leaned against a red Orion. The metal burned through his shirt, so he stood up straight again.

“Didn’t you once tell me you came up from the Met for a peaceful time in rural Yorkshire?” Blackstone asked.

Banks smiled. “I did.”

“Getting it?”

“I can only suppose it’s got proportionately worse down there.”

Blackstone laughed. “Indeed. Business is booming.”

“Have you talked to Hamilton?”

“Yes. This morning. He knows nothing. Believe me, he’s so scared of the police he’d sell his own mother down the tubes if he thought we were after her.” Blackstone made an expression of distaste. “You know the type, Alan, belligerent one minute, yelling that you’re picking on him because he’s black, then arse-licking the next. Makes you want to puke.”

“Where’s he from?”

“ Jamaica. He’s legit; we checked. Been here ten years.”

“What’s his story?”

“Saw nothing, heard nothing, knows nothing. To tell you the truth, I got the impression he’d driven back from the pub after a skinful then settled in front of the telly with a few cans of lager while his wife fed the kiddies and put them to bed. After that he probably passed out. Whole bloody place smelled of shitty nappies and roll-ups and worse. We could probably do him for possession if it was worth our while. At ten the next morning he staggers out to go and sign on, finds his car missing and, bob’s your uncle, does the outraged citizen routine on the local bobby, who’s got more sense, thank the lord.”

Blackstone stood, slightly hunched, with his hands in his pockets, and kicked at small stones on the tarmac. You could see your face in his shoes.

“Do me a favor, Ken, and have another go at him. You said he was done for dealing?”

“Uh-huh. Small stuff. Mostly cannabis, a little coke.”

“It’s probably just a coincidence that the car used belongs to a drug dealer, but pull his record and have another go at him all the same. Find out who his suppliers are. And see if he has any connections with St. Corona. Friends, family, whatever. There might be a drug connection or a Caribbean connection in Rothwell’s murder, and it’s a remote possibility that Mr. Hamilton might have done some work for the organization behind it, whoever they are.”

“You mean he might have loaned his car?”

“It’s possible. I doubt it. I think we’re dealing with cleverer crooks than that, but we’d look like the rear end of a pantomime horse if we didn’t check it out.”

“Will do.”

“Have you questioned the neighbors?”

“We’re doing a house-to-house. Nothing so far. Nobody sees anything on these estates.”

“So that’s that?”

“Looks like it. For the moment, anyway.”

“No car-park attendant?”

“No.” Blackstone pointed to the rubble. “As you can see, it’s just an old schoolyard with weeds growing through the tarmac. The school was knocked down months ago.”

Banks looked around. To the southwest he could see the large dome of the Town Hall and the built-up city center; to the west stood the high white obelisk of the university’s Brotherton Library, and the rest of the horizon seemed circled with blocks of flats and crooked terraces of back-to-backs poking through the surrounding rubble like charred vertebrae. “I could use a break on this, Ken,” Banks said.

“Aye. We’ll give it our best. Hey up, the lads have come to pick up the car.”

Banks watched the police tow-team tie a line to the Escort. “I’d better be off,” he said. “You’ll let me know?”

“Just a minute,” said Blackstone. “What are your plans?”

“I’m checking into the Holiday Inn. For tonight, at least. There’s a couple of people I want to talk to again in connection with Clegg and Rothwell – Clegg’s secretary and his ex-wife, for a start. I’d like to get a clearer idea of their relationship now we’ve got a bit more to go on.”

“Holiday Inn? Well, la-di-dah. Isn’t that a bit posh for a humble copper?”

Banks laughed. “I could do with a bit of luxury. Maybe they’ll give me the sack when they see my expenses. These days we can’t even afford to do half the forensic tests we need.”

“Tell me about it. Anyway, if you’re going to be sticking around, I’d appreciate it if we could have a chat. There seems to be a lot going on here I don’t know about.”

“There’s a lot I don’t know about, too.”

“Still… I’d appreciate it if you would fill me in.”

“No problem.”

Blackstone hesitated and shifted from foot to foot. “Look,” he said, “I’d like to invite you over for a bit of home-cooking but Connie left a couple of months ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Banks. “I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, well, it happens, right? Comes with the territory. Still taking care of that lovely wife of yours?”

“You wouldn’t think so by the amount of time we’ve spent together lately.”

“I know what you mean. That was one of the problems. She said we were living such separate lives we might as well make it official. Anyway, I’m not much of a cook myself. Besides, Connie got the house and I’m in a rather small bachelor flat for the moment. But there’s a decent Indian restaurant on Eastgate, near the station, if you fancy it? It’s called the Shabab. About half past six, seven o’clock? We might have something on Hamilton and the car by then, too.”

“All right,” said Banks. “You’re on. Make it seven o’clock.”

“And, Alan,” said Blackstone as Banks walked away, “you watch yourself. Hotels give married men strange ideas sometimes. I suppose it’s the anonymity and the distance from home, if you know what I mean. Anyway, there’s some seem to act as if the normal vows of marriage don’t apply in hotels.”

Banks knew what Blackstone meant, and he felt guilty as an image of Pamela Jeffreys flashed unbidden through his mind.

2

Susan Gay heard Sergeant Hatchley burp before she had even opened the office door after more fruitless interviews with Rothwell’s legitimate clients. She felt apprehension churn in her stomach like a badly digested meal. She could not work with Hatchley; she just couldn’t.

Hatchley sat at his desk smoking. The small, stifling room stank of stale beer and pickled onions. The warped window was open about as far as it would go, but that didn’t help much. If this oppressive weather didn’t end soon, Susan felt she would scream.

And, by God, he’s repulsive, she thought. There was his sheer bulk, for a start – a rugby prop forward gone to fat. Then there was his face: brick-red complexion, white eyelashes and piggy eyes; straw hair, thinning a bit at the top; a smattering of freckles over a broad-bridged nose; fleshy lips; tobacco-stained teeth. To cap it all, he wore a shiny, wrinkled blue suit, and his red neck bulged over his tight shirt collar.

From the corner of her eye, Susan noticed the colored picture on the cork-board: long blonde hair, exposed skin. Without even stopping to think, she walked over and pulled it down so hard the drawing-pin shot right across the room.

“Oy!” said Hatchley. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?”

“I’m not playing at anything,” Susan said, waving the picture at him. “With all respect, sir, I don’t care if you are my senior officer, I won’t bloody well have it!”

A hint of a smile came to Hatchley’s eyes. “Calm down, lass,” he said. “You’ve got steam coming out of your ears. Maybe you’re being a bit hasty?”

“No, I’m not. It’s offensive. I don’t see why I should have to work with this kind of thing stuck to the walls. You might think it’s funny, but I don’t. Sir.”

“Susan. Look at it.”

“No. Why-”

“Susan!”

Slowly, Susan turned the picture over and looked at it. There, in all her maternal innocence, Carol Hatchley, with her long blonde hair hanging over her shoulders, held her naked, newborn baby to her breast, which was covered well beyond the point of modesty by a flesh-tone T-shirt. Susan felt herself blush. All she had seen were the woman’s face, hair, and a lot of skin color. “I… I thought… ” She could think of nothing else to say.

“I know what you thought,” said Hatchley. “You thought my daughter’s head was a tit. You could apologize.”

Susan felt such a fool she couldn’t even bring herself to do that.

“All right,” Hatchley said, putting his feet up on the desk, “then you can listen to me. Now, nobody’s ever going to convince me that looking at a nice pair of knockers is wrong. Since time immemorial, since our ancestors scratched images on cave walls, men have enjoyed looking at women’s tits. They’re beautiful things, nothing dirty or pornographic about them at all.”

“But they’re private,” Susan blurted out. “Don’t you understand? They’re a woman’s private parts. You don’t see pictures of men’s privates all over the place, do you? You wouldn’t like people staring at yours, would you?”

“Susan, love, if I thought it would make you happy I’d drop my trousers right now. But that’s not the point. What I’m saying is it’s my opinion that there’s nowt wrong in admiring a nice pair of bristols. A lot of people agree with me, too. But you don’t like it.” He held up his large hand. “All right, now I might not be the most sensitive bloke in Christendom, and I certainly reserve my right to disagree with you, but I’m not that much of a monster that I’d use my rank to expose you to something you feel offends you day in, day out, however wrongheaded I think you are. I respect your opinion. I don’t agree with you, and I never will, but I respect it. I can live without.

“And another thing. I know you’re a bugger about smoking. I’ll try and cut down on the cigarettes in the office, too. But don’t expect miracles, and don’t expect it’s going to be all bloody give and no take on my part. You don’t like my smoke. I don’t like your perfume. It makes my nose itch and it’s probably rotting my lungs as we speak. But for better or for worse, lass, we’ve got to work together, and we’ve got to do it in the same damn little cubby-hole for the time being. Mebbe one day we’ll have separate offices. Myself, I can hardly wait. But for now, let’s just keep the window open and make a bit of an effort to get along, all right?”

Susan nodded. She felt all the wind go out of her sails. She swallowed. “All right. Sorry, sir.”

Hatchley swung his legs to the floor and rubbed his hands together. “We’ll say no more, then. Now, about that wadding?”

“Yes, sir?”

Hatchley burped again and put his hamlike hand to his mouth. “Shaved pussies. Smooth and shiny as a baby’s bottom.”

“Yes, sir.” Susan felt herself blush again and hated herself for it. Hatchley smiled at her. He seemed to be enjoying himself. Her spirits sank. She had thought for a moment that he might be getting serious about the case, but here he was simply creating another opportunity to embarrass her.

“Aye. Now, I know that’s not a lot to go on, but at least we know it’s not kiddie porn or the bum brigade. And we’ve got penetration and a clear image of ‘a penis in an excited state,’ as it says in the book, so this is definitely under-the-counter stuff.”

“True, sir.”

“And as far as I can tell,” he went on, “there’s no sign of dogs or cats, either.”

“Sir, can you get to the point?” Susan couldn’t keep the impatience out of her voice.

“Hold your horses, lass.” He started to laugh. “Get that? No animals. Hold your horses? Never mind. The point is, shaved pussies aren’t exactly ten a penny, though if we’d come up with something really kinky it would have made my job a lot easier. I mean, there aren’t many people sell photos of Rottweilers bonking thirteen-year-old girls that we don’t know about.”

“I still don’t see what you’re getting at, sir,” said Susan, a little calmer. She should have known that, if anyone was, Hatchley would be an expert on pornography. “Surely most of that stuff is sent through the mail from abroad, or from London?”

“Not all of it. There’s a fair chance it was bought under the counter somewhere. When I did my stint on Vice with West Yorkshire a few years back, I made one or two useful contacts. Now, if we’re assuming these lads were at all local, the odds are they’re from the city, as there aren’t that many killers-for-hire living in rural areas. Too exposed. That means Leeds, Bradford, Manchester, maybe Newcastle or Liverpool at a stretch. Now if the boss thinks this Clegg chap from Leeds was involved, then Leeds is as good a choice as any, agreed?”

Susan nodded. “Yes. The daughter, Alison, thought the man had a Leeds accent. She could be wrong about that, of course. Not everyone’s accurate on voices. I don’t reckon I could tell the difference. But it looks like they’ve found the car used for the job there. Anyway, as I’ve already told you, West Yorkshire ’s got some men asking around. Have had for days.”

“Well, you know how I hate sitting idle,” Hatchley said. “Guess where I’ve been this lunch-time.”

“The Queen’s Arms, sir?”

Hatchley smiled. “Not far off. We’ll make a detective of you yet, lass. I’ve been having drinks with an old informer of mine in The Oak, that’s what.” He touched the side of his nose. “Lives in Eastvale now, but he used to live in Leeds. Gone straight. See, I thought I probably remembered a few purveyors of this kind of porn – if they’re still around, that is – and it’s odds on that some wet-behind-the-ears young pansy DC fresh from university doesn’t even know they exist. There aren’t as many as you think, you know, at least not selling shaved pussy porn. It is something of a specialist taste. Anyway, there’s still plenty prefer the friendly old corner shop to the impersonal supermarket, if you get my drift. I’m not talking about sex shops – I imagine they’ve all been checked already – just regular newsagents that sell a bit of imported stuff from under the counter along with their Woman’s Weeklys and gardening magazines. Harmless enough. Hardly any reason for our lads to be interested, really. So I asked my old friend.”

“And?”

“Yes. They’re still in business, still selling the same kind of stuff to the same old customers. Some of them, anyway. A couple have retired, some have moved on, and one’s dead. Heart attack. Not business related. The point is, I knew these blokes were a bit bent, but I left them alone. In exchange, they’d pass on the odd tip if anyone came hawking really serious stuff, like kiddie porn or snuff films. Live and let live. Now, what I propose is that you and me go to Leeds and ask a few questions of our own.” He looked at his watch. “Tomorrow, of course. Don’t worry, I’ll arrange permission from the super and from West Yorkshire CID. Are you game?”

Susan was aware of her jaw dropping. He made sense, all right, and that was the problem. She was about to go on a porn hunt with Sergeant Hatchley, she could feel it in her bones. But it could pay off. If it led to the owner of the wadding, that would be feathers in both their caps. She swallowed.

“It’s a hell of a long shot,” she said.

Hatchley shrugged. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. What do you say?”

Susan thought for a moment. “All right,” she said. “But you’ve got to convince Superintendent Gristhorpe.”

“Right, lass,” Hatchley beamed, rubbing his hands together. “You’re on.”

Oh my God, thought Susan, with that sinking feeling. A porn hunt. What have I let myself in for?

3

By the looks of it, the heat had drawn one or two refugees from the Magistrates Court over to the Park Square. Two skinheads, stripped to the waist, dozed on the grass under a tree. One, lying on his back, had tattoos up and down his arms and scars criss-crossing his abdomen, old knife wounds by the look of them; the other, on his stomach, boasted a giant butterfly tattoo between his shoulder-blades.

In Clegg’s offices, Betty Moorhead was still holding the fort and fighting off her cold.

“Oh, Mr. Banks,” she said when he entered the anteroom. “It’s nice to see a friendly face. There’s been nothing but police coming and going since you were last here, and nobody will tell me anything.”

Had she forgotten he was a policeman, too? he wondered. Or was it just that he had been the first to arrive and she had somehow latched onto him as a lifeline?

“Some men in suits took most of his papers,” she went on, “and there’s been others asking questions all day. They’ve got someone keeping an eye on the building as well, in case those two men come back. Then there was that man from Scotland Yard. I don’t know what’s what. They all had identification cards, of course, but I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.”

Banks smiled. “Don’t worry, Betty,” he said. “I know it sounds complicated, but we’re all working together.”

She nodded and pulled a tissue from the box in front of her and blew her nose; it looked red raw from rubbing. “Is there any news of Mr. Clegg?” she asked.

“Nothing yet. We’re still looking.”

“Did you talk to Melissa?”

“Yes.”

“How is she?”

Banks didn’t really know what to say. He wasn’t used to giving out information, just digging it up, but Betty Moorhead was obviously concerned. “She didn’t seem unduly worried,” he said. “She’s sure he’ll turn up.”

Betty’s expression brightened. “Well, then,” she said. “There you are.”

“Do you mind if I ask a few more questions?”

“Oh, no. I’d be happy to be of help.”

“Good.” Banks perched at the edge of her desk and looked around the room. “Sitting here,” he said, “you’d see everyone who called on Mr. Clegg, wouldn’t you? Everyone who came in and out of his office.”

“Yes.”

“And if people phoned, you’d speak to them first?”

“Well, yes. But I did tell you Mr. Clegg has a private line.”

“Did he receive many calls on it?”

“I can’t say, really. I heard it ring once in a while, but I was usually too busy to pay attention. I’m certain he didn’t give the number out to just anyone.”

“So you didn’t unintentionally overhear any of the conversations?”

“I know what you’re getting at,” she said, “and you can stop right there. I’m not that sort of a secretary.”

“What sort?”

“The sort that listens in on her boss’s conversations. Besides,” she added with a smile, “the walls are too thick. These are old houses, solidly built. You can’t hear what’s being said in Mr. Clegg’s office with the door shut.”

“Even if two people are having a conversation in there?”

“Even then.”

“Or arguing?”

“Not that it happened often, but you can only hear the raised voices, not what they’re saying.”

“Did you ever hear Mr. Clegg arguing with Mr. Rothwell?”

“I don’t remember. I don’t think so. I mean if they ever did, it would certainly have been a rarity. Normally they were all cordial and businesslike.”

“Mr. Clegg specializes in tax law, doesn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“How many clients does he have?”

“That’s very hard to say. I mean, there are regular clients, and then people you just do a bit of work for now and then.”

“Roughly? Fifty? A hundred?”

“Closer to a hundred, I’d say.”

“Any new ones?”

“He’s been too busy to take on much new work this year.”

“So there’s been no new clients in, say, the past three months?”

“Not really, no. He’s done a bit of extra work for friends of friends here and there, but nothing major.”

“What I’m getting at,” Banks said, leaning forward, “is whether there’s been anyone new visiting him often or phoning in the past two or three months.”

“Not visiting, no. There’s been a few funny phone calls, though.”

“What do you mean, funny?”

“Well, abrupt. I mean, I know I told you people are sometimes rude and brusque, but usually they at least tell you what they want. Since you were here last, I’ve been thinking, trying to remember, you know, if there was anything odd. My head’s so stuffed up I can hardly think straight, but I remembered the phone calls. I told the other policeman, too.”

“That’s okay. Tell me. What did this brusque caller say?”

“I don’t know if it was the same person each time, and it only happened two or three times. It was about a month ago.”

“Over what time period?”

“What? Oh, just a couple of days.”

“What did he say? I assume it was a he?”

“Yes. He’d just say, ‘Clegg?’. And if I said Mr. Clegg was out or busy, he’d hang up.”

“I see what you mean. What kind of voice did he have?”

“I couldn’t say. That’s all I ever heard him say. It just sounded ordinary, but clipped, impatient, in a hurry.”

“And this happened two or three times over a couple of days?”

“Yes.”

“You never heard the voice again?”

“I never had that sort of call again, if that’s what you mean.”

“Nobody visited the office who sounded like the man?”

She sneezed, then blew her nose. “No. But I told you I don’t think I would recognize it.”

“It wasn’t anything like one of the men who came around asking questions?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right.”

“What’s going on?”

“We don’t know,” Banks lied. He was testing Gristhorpe’s theory about Clegg’s involvement in Rothwell’s murder, but he didn’t want Betty Moorhead to realize he suspected her boss of such a crime. Certainly the odd phone calls could have been from someone giving him orders, or from the people he hired to do the job. The timing was about right. “Do you think Mr. Clegg might have given this caller his private number?”

She nodded. “That’s what must have happened. The first two times, Mr. Clegg was out or with a client. The third time, I put the caller through, and he never called me again.”

“And you’re sure you never put a face to the voice?”

“No.”

Banks stood up and walked around the small room. Well-tended potted plants stood on the shelf by the small window at the back that looked out onto narrow Park Cross Street. Clegg had obviously been careful where Betty Moorhead was concerned. If he had been mixed up with hired killers and Caribbean dictators, he had been careful to keep them at arm’s length. He turned back to Betty. “Is there anything else you can tell me about Mr. Clegg?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“How would you describe him as a person?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know.”

“You never socialized?”

She blushed. “Certainly not.”

“Had he been depressed lately?”

“No.”

“Did Mr. Clegg have many women calling on him?”

“Not as far as I know. What are you suggesting?”

“Did you ever see or hear mention of a woman called Pamela Jeffreys? An Asian woman.”

She looked puzzled. “No. She wasn’t a client.”

“Did he have a girlfriend?”

“I wouldn’t know. He kept his private life private.”

Banks decided to give up. Melissa Clegg might know a bit more about her husband’s conquests, or Ken Blackstone’s men would question his colleagues and perhaps come up with something. It was after five and he was tired of running around in circles. Betty Moorhead clearly didn’t know anything else, or if she did she didn’t realize its importance. Getting at information like that was like target practice in the dark.

Why not just accept Gristhorpe’s theory that Clegg had arranged for Rothwell to be killed, and that they hadn’t a hope in hell of finding either Clegg or the killers? And what could they do to Martin Churchill, if indeed he was behind it all? Banks didn’t like the feeling of impotence this case was beginning to engender.

On the walk back to his hotel, Banks picked up a half-bottle of Bell ’s. It would be cheaper than using the minibar in his room. As he threaded his way among the office workers leaving the British Telecom Building for their bus-stops on Wellington Street, Banks wished he could just go home and forget about the whole Clegg-Rothwell-Calvert mess.

After leaving Blackstone at the car park, he had phoned Pamela Jeffreys at home, half-hoping she might be free for a drink that evening, but he had only got her answering machine. She was probably playing with the orchestra or something. He had left a message anyway, telling her which hotel he was staying at, and now he was feeling guilty. He remembered Blackstone’s warning about hotels.

On the surface, he wanted to apologize for their misunderstanding yesterday, but if truth be told, he had let himself get a bit too carried away with his fantasies. Would he do anything if he had the chance? If she agreed to come back to his hotel room for a nightcap, would he try to seduce her? Would he make love to her if she were willing? He didn’t know.

He remembered his attraction to Jenny Fuller, a professor of psychology who occasionally helped with cases, and wondered what his life would be like now if he had given in to his desires then. Would he have told Sandra? Would they still be together? Would he and Jenny still be friends? No answer came.

Rather glumly, he recalled the bit at the beginning of the Trollope biography he was reading, where Trollope considers the dreary sermons persuading people to turn their backs on worldly pleasure in the hope of heaven to come and asks, if such is really the case, then “Why are women so lovely?” That set him thinking again about Pamela’s shapely, golden body, her bright personality and her passion for music. Well, at least he had a curry with Ken Blackstone to look forward to, and time for a shower and a rest before that. He thought he might even check out the hotel’s Health and Leisure Club, maybe have a swim, take a sauna or a whirlpool.

There were no messages. Banks went straight up to his room, took off his shoes and flopped on the bed. He phoned Sandra, who wasn’t in, then called the Eastvale station again and spoke to Susan Gay. Nothing new, except that she sounded depressed.

After a brisk shower, much better than the tepid dribble at home, he poured himself a small Scotch and put the television on while he dried off and dressed. He caught the end of the international news and heard that the St. Corona riots had been put down swiftly and brutally by Martin Churchill’s forces. And Burgess wanted to give the man a retirement villa in Cornwall?

After that, he was only half paying attention to the local news, but at one point, he saw a house he recognized and heard the reporter say, “… when she failed to report for rehearsals today. Police are still at the scene and so far have refused to comment…”

It was Pamela Jeffreys’s house, and outside it stood two patrol cars and an ambulance. Stunned, Banks sat on the side of the bed and tossed back his Scotch, then he got his jacket out of the cupboard and left the room so fast he forgot to turn off the television.