The Price of Love and Other Stories

The Eastvale Ladies’ Poker Circle An Inspector Banks Story

The man was very dead. Even Dr. Glendenning, the Home Office pathologist, who hesitated to pronounce death even when a victim was chopped into little pieces, admitted that the man was very dead. He also speculated as to time of death — another rarity — which he placed at between 7:00 P.M. and 10:00 P.M. that same evening.

All this took place in the spacious study of the Vancalms’ detached eighteenth-century manor house on the western fringe of Eastvale’s chic Dale Hill area, sometime after midnight. The man lying on the carpet was Victor Vancalm, a wealthy local businessman, and a large bloodstain shaped like South America had spread from his skull and ruined the cream shag carpet.

The stain came from a massive head wound, which had been inflicted with enough force to splinter the cranium and drive several sharp shards of bone into the soft tissue of Victor Vancalm’s brain. Blood spatter on the flocked wallpaper and on other areas of the carpet testified as to the power of the blow. A brass-handled poker lay on the carpet not far from the body, surrounded by a red halo, as if it were giving off heat.

The rest of the study was in just the sort of mess Detective Chief Inspector Alan Banks would have expected after someone had been pulling books from shelves and overturning furniture looking for valuables. From one wall, a gilt-framed painting of the Blessing of the Innocents had been removed and dumped on the floor, exposing a small safe, the door of which hung open. It was empty. Someone had smashed the computer monitor, which sat on a desk by the window, and emptied the contents of the drawers on the floor. The Scenes-of-Crime officers had cordoned off the study, from which they zealously repelled all comers, even Banks, who stood at the door gazing in, looking rather forlorn, a child not invited to the party.

In the living room across the hall, discreetly out of the sight line of her husband’s body, Denise Vancalm sat on the sofa sniffling into a soggy tissue. Music played faintly in the background, the andante movement from Schubert’s “Rosamunde” quartet, Banks noted as he returned to the room. Chandeliers blazed in the high-ceilinged hall, and outside in the night, police officers were going up and down the street waking up neighbors and questioning them.

The problem was that Hill Crest was one of those expensive streets where the houses were not exactly cheek by jowl as in the poorer neighborhoods, and some of them had high walls and gates. Hardly conducive to keeping an eye on your neighbor. Hill Crest was aptly named, Banks thought. It stood at the crest of a hill and looked out west over the river Swain, along the meandering valley where the hillsides of the dale rose steeper and steeper as far as the eye could see. On a clear day you could see the bare limestone outcrops of Crow Scar, like a skeleton’s teeth grinning in the distance. The skull beneath the skin.

But this wasn’t a clear day. It was a foggy night in November, not long after Bonfire Night, and the police officers outside blew plumes of mist as they came and went. Even inside the house it wasn’t that warm, Banks thought, and he hadn’t taken his overcoat off.

“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Vancalm,” he said, sitting in an armchair opposite her, “but I do have to go over this with you again. I know you talked to the first officer on the scene, but—”

“I quite understand,” said Denise Vancalm, crumpling her tissue and dropping it on top of the copy of Card Player that lay on the glass coffee table. The magazine looked out of place to Banks, who had been expecting something more along the lines of Horse and Hound or Country Life. But each to her own. He knew nothing about Victor and Denise Vancalm; he didn’t move in those kinds of circles.

“You say you arrived home at what time?” Banks asked.

“Half past eleven. Perhaps a few minutes after.”

“And you found your husband...”

“I found Victor dead on the study floor, just as you saw him when you arrived.”

“Did you touch anything?”

“Good Lord, no.”

“What did you do first?”

A V formed between her eyes. “I... I slumped against the wall. It was as if all the air had been forced out of me. I might have screamed, cried out, I really can’t remember.” She held out her hand. “I bit my knuckle. See.”

Banks saw. It was a slender, pale hand with tapered fingers. The hands of an artist. She was an attractive woman in her late thirties, with tousled ash-blond hair falling over her shoulders, framing a heart-shaped face, perfect makeup ravaged by tears and grief. Her clothes were expensive casual, black trousers of some clinging, silky material, a burgundy blouse tucked in at the waist. A waft of delicate and expensive perfume emanated from her whenever she moved. “And then?”

“I called the police from the hall telephone.”

“Not an ambulance?”

She shook her head impatiently. “I dialed 999. I can’t remember what I said. I might have asked for all of them.”

She hadn’t, Banks knew. She had asked for the police, said there’d been a murder, and the emergency operator had dispatched an ambulance. Banks could see what Mrs. Vancalm meant. Even someone who has never watched Taggart or Lewis would be hard-pressed to miss a murder scene like the one in the study, a body more obviously dead than Victor Vancalm’s. But people panic and call an ambulance anyway. Denise Vancalm hadn’t.

“What did you do next?” Banks asked.

“I don’t know. I suppose I just sat down to wait.”

“And then?”

“Nothing. People started to arrive very quickly. The paramedics. A police patrol car. Your assistant. Those crime scene people. You must know how long it took. I’m afraid I lost all sense of time. I was in a daze.”

“That’s understandable,” said Banks. He also knew that it had taken seven minutes from the emergency phone call to the arrival of the first patrol car. A good response time, especially given the weather. “How many people knew about the wall safe?” he asked.

Denise Vancalm shrugged. “I don’t know. Victor always kept the key in his pocket, with all his keys. I suppose Colin must have known. Anyone else who visited the house, really.”

“Colin?”

“Colin Whitman. Victor’s business partner.”

Banks paused and made a note. “Where had you been all evening?” he asked.

“Me? Gabriella Mountjoy’s house, on Castle Terrace.”

Banks knew the street. Expensive, in the town center, it commanded superb views of Eastvale Castle, rumored, like so many others in the Dales, to have provided a brief home for Mary Queen of Scots. He estimated it was probably a fifteen- or twenty-minute drive from Hill Crest, depending on the traffic.

“What were you doing there? Book club or something?”

She gave Banks a cool glance. “The Eastvale Ladies’ Poker Circle. It was Gabriella’s turn.”

“Poker?”

“Yes, hadn’t you heard, Chief Inspector? It’s become quite popular these days, especially among women. Texas Hold ’Em.”

“I’ve heard of it,” said Banks, not much of a card player himself.

“Four or five of us get together once a month for dinner, drinks and a few games. As I said, it was Gabriella’s turn to host us this time.”

“How many of you were there tonight?”

She raised an eyebrow at the question but said, “Five. Gabriella, me, Natasha Goldwell, Evangeline White and Heather Murchison. I’ll give you their addresses if you like.”

“Please,” said Banks.

Denise Vancalm picked up her handbag and took out a sleek PalmPilot encased in tan leather. She read out the names and addresses. “Is that all?” she asked. “I’m tired. I...”

“Nearly finished,” said Banks. “What time did you arrive at Ms. Mountjoy’s house?”

“I went there straight from the office — well, I met Natasha in the Old Oak after work for a drink first, then I drove her over to Gabriella’s. It’s not far, I know, but I had the car with me for work anyway.”

The Old Oak was a trendy pub off the market square. Banks knew it but never drank there. “What kind of car do you drive?” he asked.

“A Mercedes cabriolet. Red.”

Hardly inconspicuous, Banks thought. “Where was your husband?”

“He’d been away on a business meeting. Berlin. He was due back from the airport about half past seven?”

“Did you see him?”

“I haven’t seen him since last week. Look, Chief Inspector, I’ve had a terrible shock and I’m very tired. Do you think...?”

“Of course,” said Banks. He had wanted to get as many of the preliminaries out of the way as possible — and whether she knew it or not, the spouse was usually the first suspect in a domestic murder — but he didn’t want to appear as if he were grilling Denise Vancalm. “Is there someone you can go to, or would you like me to—”

She shook her head. “There are plenty of people I could go to, but believe it or not, I just want to be by myself.”

“You don’t... I mean, are there any children?”

“No.” She paused. “Thank God.”

“Right. Well, you clearly can’t stay here.” It was true. Banks had checked out the house, and whoever had killed Victor Vancalm and ransacked the study had also been through the master bedroom, separating the expensive jewelry from the cheap — not that there was much of the latter — and even going so far as to cut up several of Denise Vancalm’s most elegant dresses and strew them over the bed. It could take days to process the scene.

“I realize that,” she said. “There’s a small hotel just off the market square, the Jedburgh. My husband often suggests it for clients when they happen to be visiting town.”

“I can take you there,” said Banks.

She regarded him coolly with moist, steady blue eyes. “Yes,” she said. “Thank you. I probably shouldn’t be driving. May I collect a few things? My nightdress? Toothbrush?”

Banks went in to the hallway and saw Detective Constable Winsome Jackman coming through the front door. “Winsome,” he said. “Mrs. Vancalm will be spending the night at the Jedburgh Hotel. Will you accompany her to her room while she gathers a few essentials?”

Winsome raised her eyes in a “Why me?” expression.

Banks whispered, certain he was out of Mrs. Vancalm’s earshot, “And make sure there’s someone posted outside the Jedburgh Hotel all night.”

“Yes, sir,” said Winsome.

A short while later, as Banks followed Denise Vancalm out into the chilly night, where his Porsche stood waiting, he again reminded himself why he was taking such precautions and feeling so many reservations in the face of the poor bereaved wife. By the looks of it, Victor Vancalm had disturbed a burglar, who might have been still in the building. Confronted with a dead husband, a wrecked den, and a big empty house, most people would have run for the hills screaming, but Denise Vancalm, after the immediate shock had worn off, had dialed 999 and sat down to wait for the police.

By late morning the next day, a weak gray sun cut through the early mist and the sky turned the color of Victor Vancalm’s corpse spread out on Dr. Glendenning’s postmortem table. Banks stood on the steps on Eastvale General Infirmary wishing he still smoked. No matter how many postmortems he attended, he could never get used to them, especially just after a late breakfast. It was something to do with the neatness and precision of the gleaming tools and the scientific process contrasted with the ugly slop of stomach contents and the slithery lump of liver or kidneys. As far as stomach contents were concerned, Victor Vancalm’s last meal had consisted of currywurst, a German delicacy available from any number of Berlin street vendors.

There had been no surprises. Vancalm had been in general good health and the cause of death, barring any googlies from toxicology, was most certainly the head wound. The only interesting piece of news was that Vancalm’s pockets had been emptied. Wallet. Keys. Pen. All gone. In Banks’s experience, burglars didn’t usually rob the persons of anyone they happened to bump into on a job. They didn’t usually bump into people, for that matter; kids on drugs aside, burglars were generally so careful and elusive one might think them quite shy creatures. They didn’t usually bump people off either.

Even after the postmortem, Dr. Glendenning stuck by his estimate of time of death: between seven and ten. If Mrs. Vancalm had gone straight from work to the Old Oak and from there to the poker evening with Natasha Goldwell, and if she had not arrived home until eleven thirty, then she couldn’t have murdered her husband. Banks would still check her alibi with the rest of the poker crowd. It was a job for a detective constable, but he found he was curious about this group of wealthy and powerful women who got together once a month to play Texas Hold ’Em. Did they wear shades, smoke cigars and swear? Perhaps more to the point, could they look you straight in the eye and lie like a politician?

Banks took a deep breath of fresh air and looked at his watch. It was time to meet DI Annie Cabbot for lunch at the Queen’s Arms, though whatever appetite he might have had had quite vanished down the drain of the autopsy table plug hole, along with Victor Vancalm’s bodily fluids.

It was lunchtime in the Queen’s Arms and the place was bustling with clerks and secretaries from the solicitors’ and estate agents’ offices around the market square, along with the usual retirees at the bar and terminally unemployed kids on the pool tables and slot machines. The smoke was thick and the language almost as bad. Banks found that he could hardly wait until the following July, when smoking was to be banned in all the pubs in England. He had never suspected he would feel that way, and a few years ago he wouldn’t have. Now, though, the smoke was just an irritant, and the people who smoked seemed like throwbacks to another era. Banks still suffered the occasional craving, which reminded him what it had been like, but they were becoming few and far between.

Banks and Annie managed to find themselves a free table wedged between the door to the Gents and the slot machines, where Annie sipped a Britvic Orange and nibbled a cheese roll, while Banks nursed a half of Black Sheep bitter and worked on his chicken in a basket.

“So how was the redoubtable Gabriella Mountjoy?” Banks asked, when the person playing the slot machine beside them cursed and gave up.

“She seemed very nice, really,” said Annie. “Not at all what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“Oh, you know, some upper-class twit with a braying laugh and horsey teeth.”

“But?”

“Well, her teeth are actually quite nice. Expensive, like her clothes. She seems every inch the thoroughly modern woman.”

“What does that mean?”

“Oh, really, Alan, you’re seriously out of touch.”

“With the thoroughly modern woman? Tell me about her. It’s not for want of trying.”

“First there’s the career,” Annie said. “Gabriella’s a book designer for a big London publisher. Works from home a lot.”

“Impressive,” said Banks.

“And then there’s the house. Cottage, really, and only a semi at that. It’s small, but the view must be worth a million quid.”

“Does she live alone?”

“As far as I can gather. There’s a boyfriend. A musician. He travels a lot. It suits them both perfectly.”

“Maybe that’s my problem with the modern woman,” Banks said. “I don’t travel enough. I’m always there when she needs me. Boring.”

“Tell Sandra that.”

Banks winced. “Touché.”

“I’m sorry,” said Annie. “That wasn’t very nice of me.”

“It’s OK. Still a bit tender, that’s all. That’ll serve me right for being so flippant. Go on.”

Annie finished her roll first. “Nothing to add, really. She swears blind that Mrs. Vancalm was there all evening. Natasha Goldwell was at the cottage, too, when I called, and she confirmed it. Said they arrived together about seven thirty after a quick drink and Mrs. Vancalm dropped her off at home — it’s on her way — sometime after eleven.”

“Well,” said Banks, “it’s not as if we expected otherwise.”

“I just had a word with Winsome,” Annie went on, “and she told me that the other two say exactly the same thing about the poker evening. Denise Vancalm’s alibi is watertight.”

“God help me, but I’ve never liked watertight alibis,” said Banks.

“That’s because you’re contrary.”

“Is it? I thought it was my suspicious nature, my detective’s instinct, my love of a challenge.”

“Pull the other one.”

“Whatever it is, it seems as if we’ll have to start looking elsewhere. You’ve checked out our list of local troublemakers?”

“Winsome has. The only possibility at all is Windows Fennester. He’d know all about wall safes.”

“He’s out?”

“Been out three weeks now. Living back on the East Side Estate with Shania Longbottom and her two kids. Thing is, according to Winsome, he’s got a pretty good alibi, too — in the pub with his mates.”

“And whatever he is, he’s not a killer.”

“Not as far as we know.”

“The lads have also been out doing a house to house in Denise Vancalm’s neighborhood,” Banks said.

“And?”

“Someone heard and glimpsed a car near the house after dark. Couldn’t say what make. A dark one.”

“Nothing fancy like Mrs. Vancalm’s red sports car, then?”

“No,” said Banks. “Your standard Japanese hatchback, by the sound of it. And several witnesses have told us that Mrs. Vancalm’s Cabriolet was parked outside Gabriella Mountjoy’s house until after eleven.”

“One woman did tell us that Denise Vancalm had a visitor the day before the murder.”

Banks’s ears pricked up. “A man?”

“No, a woman. During the day.”

“So she wasn’t at work. I wonder why?”

“From the description we got, it sounds very much like Natasha Goldwell.”

“Well,” said Banks, disappointed. “There’s nothing odd about that. They’re good friends. Must have been a coffee morning or something.”

“Afternoon.”

“Coffee afternoon, then. It still takes us back to square one.” Banks finished his drink. Someone else came to play the slot machine and the noise started up again. “Nothing in the way of a motive.”

“Not so far,” said Annie. “Look, I don’t want you to make too much of this, but I thought there was something a bit odd about Natasha Goldwell.”

“Odd?”

“Well, I mean, she was convincing enough. They went to the Old Oak, where Natasha had a gin and tonic and Denise had a Campari and soda, chatted about their husbands briefly — Natasha’s is a civil engineer — talked a bit about some online poker game they play regularly.”

“These women are really keen, then?”

“I got the impression that Natasha was. She’s the main online player. Gabriella strikes me as someone who more likes the idea of it, you know, cracking a male bastion.”

“Better than cracking other male parts.”

“But Natasha was more into the technical talk. It was way over my head. And the impression I got was that one of them is really involved in tournaments and all that stuff. She’s even been to Las Vegas to play.”

“Which one would that be?”

“Evangeline White.”

“Do they play for money?”

“Of course. It’s no fun if you don’t have a little something riding on it, Gabriella told me. I didn’t get the impression that huge fortunes changed hands, but enough to make it interesting.”

“But it was nothing to do with their husbands?”

“No. The men were very much excluded.”

“And what about Denise Vancalm herself?”

“I definitely got the impression that she was keen, a pretty good player, but perhaps in it more for the social aspects. You know, a chance to get together without the menfolk, have a few drinks and talk girl talk, and perhaps even do a bit of business. I mean, they’re all top echelon. Almost all. Natasha runs a computer software solutions company, online security and whatnot, Evangeline White owns an upmarket travel agency — Sahara Desert holidays and roughing it in Woolawoola — and Heather Murchison... well, you know her.”

Banks did. Heather Murchison was a familiar face and personality on the local television news, and her blond looks, buxom figure, and husky Morningside accent caused many a red-blooded male to be much more informed about local matters than previously.

“And Denise Vancalm herself is a fund-raiser and organizer of charity events,” Annie went on. “She does a lot of work for hospitals and children’s charities in particular.”

“Five successful, attractive women,” said Banks, “all in their late thirties or early forties. All, or most of them, married to or hooked up with successful, attractive men. Sounds like a recipe for disaster. Any hints of clandestine goings-on? You know, musical beds, wife swapping, that sort of thing.”

“Wife swapping?” said Annie, laughing. “You really must leave the sixties behind.”

“I’m sure people still do it. There was that film by Kubrick. Must have been the nineties at least.”

“Eyes Wide Shut,” said Annie. “Even Tom Cruise couldn’t save that one. Yes, it was the nineties, orgies and such like. But wife swapping... swinging...” She shook her head and laughed again.

“Okay, I get your point,” said Banks. “No need to hammer it home. I have about as much knowledge about what goes on in suburban bedrooms as I do about the thoroughly modern woman. But what I’m saying is that there might have been rivalries among these women or their husbands, liaisons — if that’s not too outdated a word — affairs. Jealousy can be a powerful motive.”

“Why look beyond the facts here?” said Annie. “Victor Vancalm came home and surprised a burglar, one who was somehow familiar with the layout of his house, the safe. Perhaps he decided to take the burglar on, and for his efforts he got bashed on the head with a poker. I mean, the side window had been broken from the outside.”

“Yes, but what about the security system?”

“Turned off.”

“So our would-be burglar would have to know how to do that, too?”

“I’m not saying it was kids, or an amateur. Any burglar worth his salt can find his way around a domestic security system.”

“True enough, but when you add it all up, a little inside knowledge goes a long way. Anyway, you said there was something odd about Natasha Goldwell?”

“Yes. It was nothing, really, but there was just something a bit... offhand... about her responses. I mean, I know it was very recent, so she’d hardly have to rack her brains to remember, but it all seemed just a bit too handy, a bit too pat.”

“As if she’d learned it by rote?”

“Maybe. It’s something to bear in mind, at any rate.” Annie reached for her glass. “You know,” she said, “it’s not a bad idea, this ladies’ poker circle. I wouldn’t mind being involved in something like that myself.”

“Start one, then.”

“Maybe I will. Winsome might be interested. Maybe even Superintendent Gervaise. We could get a police ladies’ poker circle together.”

“I can’t see the chief constable approving. You know what he feels about gambling and the road to corruption.”

“Still,” said Annie, “I think it’s sort of cool. Anyway, what next?”

“We’ll have another word with Natasha Goldwell, see what she was doing at Denise Vancalm’s the day before the murder, but first, I think we’ll go and have a little chat with Colin Whitman, Mr. Vancalm’s business partner.”

The offices of the Vancalm-Whitman public relations company were above a wine shop on a side street off the main hill. Banks parked up by The Stray, and he and Annie walked down past Betty’s toward the spa, the wind blowing rain against them. “If the timing’s right,” Banks said, “I’ll take you to Betty’s after the interview.”

“You’re on,” said Annie.

A receptionist greeted them in the first office. The entire floor looked as if it had been renovated recently, the bare brick look with a few contemporary paintings stuck up here and there to liven the monotony. There was also a smell of freshly cut wood. The phone kept ringing, and between calls, the receptionist, who bore the name tag “Megan,” pointed along a corridor and told them Mr. Whitman would see them. They knocked on the door and entered the spacious office, which looked over the street. It wasn’t much of a view. The street was so narrow you could practically shake hands with the bloke sitting at the desk in the window of the building opposite. But if you glanced a bit to the left, you could see beyond the slate roofs to the hint of green countryside beyond.

“I wasn’t sure what to do when I heard the news,” said Whitman after they had all made themselves comfortable. “Open the office, close for the day. In the end I decided this is what Victor would have wanted, so we’re soldiering on.” He managed a grim smile. Gray-haired, perhaps in his late forties, Colin Whitman looked fit and slender, as if he put in plenty of time on the golf course, and perhaps even at the gym. He seemed relaxed at first, his movements precise, not an ounce of effort wasted. He had a red complexion, the kind that gray hair sets so much in relief.

“I understand Mr. Vancalm was away in Berlin on business until yesterday?” Banks began.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Where were you yesterday evening between the hours of seven and ten?”

“Me?”

“Yes,” said Annie, leaning forward. “We’re just trying to eliminate all the people closest to Mr. Vancalm from our inquiry. I’m sure you understand.”

“Yes, of course.” Whitman scratched the side of his nose. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t be much help there. I mean I was at home.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. I’m not married.”

“What were you doing?” Banks asked.

“Watching television, mostly. I watched Emmerdale, Coronation Street, and A Touch of Frost and warmed up some takeaway Chinese food for dinner. Not very exciting.”

“Drink much?” Banks asked.

Whitman shifted his gaze from Annie to Banks and frowned. “Just a couple of beers, that’s all.”

“Good, was it, A Touch of Frost? I didn’t see it.”

Whitman laughed. “I wouldn’t have thought a real policeman would have been very interested in something like that, but I enjoyed it.”

“What was it about?”

“A hostage taking.”

Anyone could have looked it up in the paper and come up with that vague description, Banks thought, but that was so often what constituted an alibi, and unless someone else had seen Whitman elsewhere, it would be a damned hard one to break, too. Whitman was clearly becoming unnerved by the interview. He had developed a nervous tic above his left eye and he kept tapping on the desk with a chewed yellow pencil. He clearly wanted to get this over with, wanted the box ticked, wanted Banks and Annie to get to the point and leave.

“Did you go out at all?” Annie asked.

“No. I’d no need to. It was miserable out there.”

“So nobody saw you all evening?”

“I’m afraid not. But that’s often the case, isn’t it? How many people see you after you go home?”

“Where do you live?”

“Harewood. Look, are you almost finished? As I’m sure you can imagine, Victor’s death has thrown everything into upheaval. There are a lot of clients I have to inform, and I’m not looking forward to it.”

“I can understand that, sir,” said Annie, “and we won’t keep you much longer. Perhaps you could tell us a little bit about Mr. Vancalm?”

“Victor? Not much to tell, really. He was a good man, good at his job, loved his wife.”

“Was he the kind of man who played around with other women?” Banks asked.

Whitman looked shocked. “Not that I knew of. I shouldn’t think so. I mean, he seemed...”

“Would he have told you if he did?”

“Probably not. Our relationship was purely business. We hardly socialized unless it was with a client.”

“What about Mrs. Vancalm?” Annie asked.

“Denise? What about her?”

“Did she have other men?”

“Now look here, I don’t know what you’re getting at, but the Vancalms’ marriage was perfectly normal.”

“What does that mean?” Banks asked.

“Normal?”

“Yes. You already told us you’re not married yourself and that your relationship with the Vancalms was purely a business one, so how would you know?”

“I’m just going b-by what I saw, what I heard, that’s all. Look, dammit, they were a happily married couple. Can’t you just leave it at that?”

Banks glanced at Annie and gave her the signal to leave. “I suppose we’ll have to,” he said. “For now. Thanks very much for your time, Mr. Whitman.”

Outside in the wet gray air, Banks looked at his watch. “Betty’s? Something sinfully sweet and sticky.”

“Ooh,” said Annie, “you do know how to charm a woman. I can hardly wait.”

It was after eight and pitch-black when Banks got back to his recently renovated Gratly cottage. After the fire had destroyed most of the place a couple of years ago, he had had the interior reconstructed, an extension added down one side and a conservatory built on at the back. He had turned the extension into an entertainment room, with a large plasma TV, comfortable cinema-style armchairs, surround sound and a drinks cabinet. Mostly he sat and watched DVDs or listened to CDs there by himself, but sometimes Annie dropped by, or one of his children, and it was good to have company.

Tonight he was alone, and that didn’t make him much different from Colin Whitman, he realized. He was eating yesterday’s warmed-up chicken vindaloo and drinking Tetley’s bitter from a can, cruising the TV channels with the aptly-named remote, aptly named because he was finding nothing of the remotest interest.

Then Banks remembered that he had set his DVD recorder for A Touch of Frost last night. He always enjoyed spotting the mistakes, but perhaps even more he enjoyed David Jason’s performance. Realistic or not, there was no denying the entertainment value to be got from Frost’s relationship with Mullet and with his various hapless sidekicks.

He put the vindaloo containers in the rubbish bin and settled down for Frost. But it was not to be. What played instead was an old episode of Inspector Morse he had seen before, with Patricia Hodge guest-starring as a very upper-class Oxford wife.

At first Banks wondered if he had set up the recorder wrongly. It wouldn’t have surprised him if he had; technology had never been his strong point. But his son Brian had given him a lesson, and he had been pleased that he had been able to use it a few times without messing up. He didn’t have to worry about setting times or anything, just key in a number.

He played around with the remote, checked the recording date and time, and made sure that this was indeed the program he had set for last night. There was no mistake. Not that he had anything against Morse, but he had been expecting Frost. He couldn’t be bothered getting up to search for something else, so he decided he might as well watch it anyway. When he started to play the DVD again, he found that it began with the end of an explanation and apology from the TV station.

From what Banks could make out, A Touch of Frost had been postponed and replaced by an episode of Inspector Morse because of its controversial subject matter: a kidnapped and murdered police officer. Over the past couple of days, the news had been full of stories of a police officer who had been abducted while trying to prevent a robbery. Only yesterday his body had been found dumped in a bin bag near South-wark. He had been shot. The TV executives clearly thought the Frost story mirrored the real one too much to be disturbing to people, so at the last minute they had pulled it.

Colin Whitman had swore blind that he had watched A Touch of Frost, and it hadn’t been on. Banks phoned the station and asked the duty officer to see that Whitman was brought up from Harewood to Eastvale, then he rang Annie, turned off the DVD and TV and headed for the door.

“Look, it’s late,” said Whitman. “You drag me from my home and make me sit in this disgusting room for ages. What on earth’s going on? What do you think you’re doing? This isn’t a police state yet, you know.”

“Sorry about melodrama,” said Banks. “I can see why you might be a bit upset. I suppose we could have waited till morning. I don’t imagine you were going to make a run for it or anything, were you? Why should you? You probably thought you’d got us all fooled.”

Whitman frowned. “I’m sorry? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Suspicion of murder, Mr. Whitman,” said Banks, then gave him the caution and advised him of his rights. The tape recorders made a faint whirring sound in the background, but other than that it was quiet in interview room three of Western Area Headquarters. Banks and Annie sat at the scarred wooden table opposite Whitman, and a uniformed guard stood by the door. Whitman hadn’t asked for a solicitor yet, so no one else was present.

“I hope you realize this is absurd,” said Whitman. “I haven’t murdered anyone.”

“Mr. Whitman,” Annie said. “When DCI Banks and I talked to you this afternoon, you told us you spent yesterday evening at home watching A Touch of Frost.”

“It’s true. I did. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing at all,” said Annie, “except that A Touch of Frost was pulled from the air because of a real live hostage taking. ITV showed an old Inspector Morse instead.”

Whitman’s mouth flapped open and shut like a dying fish’s. “I... they... I...”

“It’s an easy mistake,” Annie went on. “Happens sometimes, but not often. Just unlucky, this time.”

“But I...”

“Yes, Mr. Whitman?” said Banks, leaning toward him. “You want to confess? The murder of Victor Vancalm. What were you looking for? Money? Or did he have something on you? Something incriminating? Or perhaps it was something else entirely? Mrs. Vancalm, for example. Had you been having an affair? Did the two of you plan this together?”

“No!”

“No to which question, Colin?” Annie asked.

“All of them. I told you. I was at home all evening.”

“But you were lying,” said Banks. “At least you were lying about A Touch of Frost, and if you were lying about that...well, there goes your alibi.”

“Look, I didn’t know I’d need an alibi, did I?”

“Not unless you murdered Mr. Vancalm you didn’t.”

“I didn’t murder anybody!”

“You say you didn’t, but yet when we asked you where you were around the time he died, you gave us a pack of lies. Why?”

“I... it just sounded so weak.”

“What did?”

“That I just stopped in by myself.”

“Hang on a minute,” said Banks. “You’re telling us that you thought it sounded weak saying you stopped in by yourself and ate some leftover Chinese takeaway, but it somehow sounded more believable that you did this while watching A Touch of Frost?”

“Well, I must admit, put like that it sounds rather silly, but yes.”

Banks looked at Annie, who rolled her eyes.

“What?” said Whitman.

“I really think we’d better start at the beginning,” said Annie. “And the truth this time.”

“But it was the truth.”

“Apart from A Touch of Frost?”

“Yes. I didn’t watch television.”

“What did you do?” Banks asked.

“I just sat there thinking, did a little work. I often have work to take home with me.”

Banks shook his head. “I still don’t get it. Why lie to us about watching television if all you were doing was work?”

“Like I said, it sounds silly now, I realize. I don’t want people to think I’m a workaholic. I do have a life.”

“Watching A Touch of Frost and eating warmed-up takeaway is a life?” Even as he spoke, Banks was aware that that was exactly what he had done, or would have done if he hadn’t caught Whitman in a lie about his alibi. Sad, he told himself. Note to self: must get out more.

“Well, when you put it like that, as I said, it does sound rather silly.”

“Not really,” said Banks. “I don’t think it’s silly at all. Do you, Annie?”

“Not at all,” Annie agreed.

“I think it was very clever of you,” Banks went on. “You came home, got changed, went out and waited for Mr. Vancalm to return from Berlin, then you killed him. You knew he was away and when he’d be coming back. You also knew the layout of his study, and, I would imagine, the ins and outs of the security system and the wall safe. You didn’t want too elaborate an alibi because you knew we’d be suspicious. Let’s face it, most people, when questioned by the police, don’t have alibis any better than yours was. It makes perfect sense to me. You were just unlucky, that’s all. It only took a simple twist of fate.”

Annie gave Banks a questioning look.

“Dylan,” he said.

Whitman banged both fists on the table. “But I didn’t do it!”

Banks folded his arms and leaned back. “Sure you weren’t having an affair with Mrs. Vancalm? She’s a very attractive woman.”

“She’s my partner’s wife, for crying out loud.”

“That wouldn’t stop most people.”

“I’m not most people.”

Banks paused. “No, you’re not, are you, Colin? In fact, I’m not sure what sort of person you are.” He glanced at Annie and smiled back at Whitman. “I can’t see that we’re getting anywhere here, though, and DI Cabbot and I are both tired, so I think we’ll call it a night, if that’s OK with you?”

Whitman sat up straight and beamed. “OK?” he echoed. “That’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard all evening.”

Banks and Annie stood up. “Right,” said Banks to the officer at the door. “Take Mr. Whitman here down to custody, make sure it’s all done by the book, and find a nice cell for him for the night. A nice cell, mind you, Smithers. Not one of those vomit-filled cages you usually put people in.”

PC Smithers could hardly keep back the laughter. “Yes, sir,” he said, and took Whitman by the arm.

“What’s this?” Whitman said. “What’s going on?”

“We’re detaining you until we’re happy with your story,” said Banks.

“But... but you can’t do that. I’ve answered your questions. You have to let me go.”

“Oh, dear,” said Banks, looking at Annie. “You can tell this fellow doesn’t watch his Frost and Morse closely enough, can’t you, DI Cabbot?”

Annie smiled. “Indeed you can,” she said.

Banks turned to Whitman. “As a matter of fact, Colin, you’ve been arrested on suspicion of murder, cautioned and advised of your rights. We can keep you for twenty-four hours without a charge — longer if we wanted to go the terrorist route, but I don’t think we’ll be bothering with that tonight — so that should give you plenty of time to think.” And Smithers dragged Whitman, now demanding to see his solicitor, complaining and protesting all the way, along the corridor and down the stairs to the custody suite.

“Thanks for agreeing to meet me, Mrs. Goldwell,” said Banks. The food court of the Swainsdale Center wasn’t the ideal place for an interview, but it was Wednesday morning, so things were relatively quiet. Whitman was still sulking in his cell waiting for his solicitor, who was proving very difficult to contact, saying nothing, and DCs Jackman and Wilson were trawling through his life.

“Please,” she said, “call me Natasha. Is that wise?”

She was looking at Banks’s Egg McMuffin with sausage. “Tastes all right,” said Banks. “I reckon they’re quite manageable if you only eat about five or six a year.”

Natasha Goldwell smiled. It was a nice smile, pearly teeth behind the red lips. In fact, Natasha was a nice package all the way from her shaggy blond hair and winter tan to her shiny, pointed black shoes. She wrinkled her nose. “If you say so. I suppose it’s hard to eat regularly when you work the hours you do.”

Banks raised his eyebrows. Some hadn’t seen enough cops on telly; others had seen too many. “Not really,” he said. “Mostly in Major Crimes we work regular hours.” He smiled. “Unless there’s actually a major crime, that is. Which murder definitely is.”

Natasha put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, God, yes. I’m sorry. So thoughtless of me.”

“Not to worry.” Banks sipped some coffee. It was hot and bitter.

“What was it you wanted to see me about?”

“It’s nothing, really,” said Banks. “I mean, you vouched for Mrs. Vancalm and that seems to check out OK. It’s just... did you know Mr. Vancalm?”

“Victor? I’d met him, of course, but I wouldn’t say I knew him. I got together with Denise and the others for the poker circle, of course, but outside of that we didn’t live in one another’s pockets.”

“It’s an odd hobby, poker, isn’t it?”

“For a woman, you mean?”

“Well, that wasn’t what I meant, but I suppose now you come to mention it, yes.”

“Because you usually associate it with men in cowboy boots and six-guns on their hips?”

“Well, not these days so much, but certainly not with a group of professional women.”

“And why not? If we were playing bridge or gin rummy, would it make a difference?”

“OK, I take your point.”

Natasha smiled. “Anyway, we enjoy it, and it does no harm. It’s not as if the stakes are beyond anyone’s means.”

“What about the online playing? The tournaments?”

“You’ve heard about those? They’re not for everyone. Only Evangeline from our group goes in for them. But the online stuff...” She shrugged. “It’s fun. Better than computer dating or chat rooms. Safer, too.”

“I suppose so,” said Banks, whose online experience was limited to Amazon and the occasional rock concert clip on YouTube. “What kind of person would you say Victor Vancalm was?”

“As I told you, I scarcely knew him.” She chewed on her lower lip, then said, “But from what I did know, I’d say he was used to getting his own way, a bit bossy perhaps.”

“Abusive?”

“Good God, no! No. Certainly not. As far as I ever knew, Denise was perfectly happy with him.”

She didn’t look Banks in the eye as she said this, which immediately raised his suspicions. “So she wore the trousers, then?”

Natasha Goldwell smiled. “Oh, Mr. Banks! What a quaint expression. I’m afraid you really are behind the times. It was an equal partnership.”

“What were you doing at Denise Vancalm’s house the day before the murder?” he asked.

A couple of women sat down at the table beside them, paper bags crinkling and crackling, chatting about some rude shopgirl they’d just had to deal with. “And did you see her hair?” one of them asked, aghast. “What sort of color would you call that? And there was enough metal in her face to start a foundry.”

The interruption gave Natasha the breathing space she seemed to need after Banks’s abrupt change of direction. When she answered his question, she was all poise again. “No reason in particular,” she said. “We often get together for a coffee. Denise happened to be working from home that day and I had a spare hour between clients. One of the perks of running your own business is that you can play truant occasionally.” She wrinkled her nose.

“What did you talk about?”

“Oh, this and that,” said Natasha. “You know, girly talk.”

“She didn’t have any problems, any worries that she shared with you?”

“Mr. Banks, it was her husband who was murdered, not Denise.”

“Just trying to find a reason for what happened.”

“I would have thought that was obvious. He interrupted a burglar.”

Banks scratched the scar next to his right eye. “Yes, it does rather look that way, doesn’t it? Do you know if either of them had any enemies, any problems that were getting them down. Debts, for example?”

“Debts?”

“Well, there was the poker... and Mr. Vancalm’s trips.”

“Victor made business trips, it’s true, and Denise plays a little online poker, but debts...? I don’t think so. Are you suggesting it was some sort of debt collector come to break his legs or something and it got out of hand? This is Eastvale, Mr. Banks, not Las Vegas.”

Banks shrugged. “Stranger things have happened at sea. Anything else you can tell me?”

“About what?”

“About what happened that night?”

“I finished work at six thirty. Denise met me at the office. We went to the Old Oak for a drink. Just the one. We are always careful. She drove me to Gabriella’s. We played poker all evening, then she dropped me off on her way home sometime after eleven. That’s all there is to it.”

She did sound a bit as if she were speaking by rote, Banks thought, remembering what Annie had said, but then she had already been asked to describe the evening several times. “Who won?” he asked.

“Pardon?”

“The poker circle. Who won?”

“As a matter of fact,” Natasha said, “Denise did.”

“It’s just a minor blip on the radar, really, sir,” said Winsome. She was sitting at her computer, leaning back in the chair, long legs crossed at the ankles, hands linked behind her head.

“Tell me about it, anyway,” said Banks, grabbing a chair and sitting so that he could rest his arms on the back.

“Well,” Winsome went on in her Jamaican-tinged Yorkshire, “you know that big operation a few years back, the one that netted Pete Townsend?”

Banks nodded. Cynical copper though he may be, he had never believed for a moment that Pete Townsend was connected with child pornography in any way other than for research, and he was certainly glad when he heard that the Who’s guitarist was completely vindicated.

“That’s when Colin Whitman’s name came up,” Winsome said. “The usual. Credit card online.”

“You’d think people would know better.”

“They do now, sir,” said Winsome. “The online dealers have got more savvy, and some of the pros have pretty much gone back to hard copy. It’s safer and less likely to be detected, especially the way the borders are throughout Europe these days.”

“Everyone’s too busy looking for terrorists.”

“Right, sir. But there’s still a lot of activity over the Internet. Anyway, as I said, it almost went under the radar, just a blip, but there it is.”

“Did you check Victor Vancalm’s name, too?”

“Yes. Nothing.”

“Was Whitman interviewed?”

“No, sir. They just put his name in a pending file. There were hundreds of them. It was a big operation.”

“I remember.”

“It might not mean anything.”

“But then again,” said Banks, “it might. Think we can use it to get a search warrant?”

“I don’t see why not, sir. Want me to get on to it?”

“Immediately.” Banks looked at his watch. “We’ve got the pleasure of Mr. Whitman’s custody until this evening.”

“About bloody time,” said Colin Whitman when Banks had him brought up to his office at six o’clock that evening. Banks stood with his back to the door, looking out of his window. Outside in the market square all was dark and still except for a few people heading to or from home across the cobbles. “I’ve spoken with my solicitor,” Whitman went on, “and he advised me to cooperate, but I’d like him to be present during any further discussions we may have.”

“That’s your prerogative,” said Banks, turning. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to go home as soon as possible?”

“Naturally.”

“Let’s see if we can get this over with quickly then, shall we? Please, sit.”

Whitman stared and stood his ground as Banks sat behind his desk. Then he slowly pulled out the hard-back chair and sat opposite. “Is this an apology?”

“Not exactly,” Banks said. The radio was playing one of Beethoven’s “Razumovsky” quartets softly in the background, so softly you had to know it was there.

“What, then?”

“Our men are still at your house, but their preliminary findings have given us enough to hold you for a while longer. Superintendent Gervaise has already authorized the further detention. She takes as dim a view of what you’ve been up to as I do. I don’t think you’re going to find a lot of sympathizers here.”

Whitman had turned pale, which told Banks he knew exactly what was going on. “I want my solicitor,” he said.

“Thought you might. You can put another call in, of course, that’s your right. And we’d be quite happy to get a duty solicitor for you if there’s a problem.”

Whitman reached for the phone and Banks let him call. By the sound of it, he got an answering machine. He left a message and hung up.

“Probably out at some function or other,” said Banks. “As I said—”

“I’ll wait for my own man, thank you very much. And I’m not saying a word until he gets here.”

“Your privilege, sir,” said Banks, “but remember what I said earlier: what you don’t say can mean just as much in court these days as what you do say.”

Whitman folded his arms. “I’m still not saying anything.”

“Better let me do the talking, then,” said Banks. “I’ll start by saying that I’m not sure why you did it. Perhaps Victor Vancalm got on to your little game and you had to get rid of him. Or maybe there was some other reason, some business reason. But you did it. Your alibi’s crap and you’ve lied to us through your teeth. You’re also a pervert. It may be the one group that doesn’t have a charter of rights yet, child molesters.”

“I am not a child molester.”

“Fine distinction. I know things like that are important to your lot, how you define yourselves. But let’s be honest about it. Maybe you don’t hang about schoolyards and playgrounds waiting for opportunities to come along, but you do diddle little kids and you do like to look at pictures of other people diddling them. In fact you had quite a collection on those DVDs we found under those loose floorboards in the spare room.” “They’re not mine. I was keeping them for someone. I didn’t know what was on them.”

“Bollocks,” said Banks. There was a tap at the door and a young uniformed officer stuck his head around. “You sent for me, sir?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “Could you rustle up some tea? One as it comes and one... How do you take your tea, Colin? It’s not a trick question.”

“Milk, two sugars.”

“Got that, Constable?” said Banks.

“Yes, sir.”

When the constable had gone, Banks turned back to Whitman. “Are you going to tell me what happened, Colin?” he said. “Or are we just going to sit here and drink tea and listen to Beethoven until your brief gets your message and hotfoots it over? Then we can take it down to the interview room again and spend the night at it. I don’t mind. I’ve got no plans. The result will probably be the same in the long run.”

“I told you. I’m not saying anything until my solicitor gets here.”

“Right. So we already know you did it. You knew when Victor Vancalm was due to arrive home from Berlin. You probably had a key to the house, but you wanted to make it look like a burglary, so you broke that side window and got in that way. Did you smash up the room before or after you killed Victor?”

Whitman said nothing. His jaw was set so tightly that Banks could see the muscles tense, the lips whitening. At this rate he’d have an aneurysm or something before his solicitor arrived.

“No matter,” Banks went on. “And you’ve no doubt got rid of whatever you stole by now, if you’ve got any sense. I don’t know how long you’d been planning this, but it smells of premeditation to me. At any rate, you won’t be out for a long, long time. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m assuming the most obvious scenario is that Victor Vancalm found out about your odd proclivities and he didn’t like them, threatened to turn you in?”

“That’s rubbish.”

“Is it, Colin? Then why don’t you tell us where you really were on the night Victor was murdered? That would go a long way toward convincing me you didn’t do it.”

Whitman chewed on a fingernail, brow furrowed in thought.

“Colin?”

“All right, all right! I was with a... a friend.”

“A person of your own tastes?”

“Yes.”

“Who was he? Where does he live?”

It took Whitman a few minutes, but Banks made the gravity of his situation clear again, and Whitman gave up a name and address.

“We’ll check, of course,” Banks said.

A curious and most unpleasant smile crept over Whitman’s features. “You think you’re so bloody clever, don’t you?” he said.

Banks said nothing.

Whitman leaned forward. “Well, what would you think, Mr. Clever Detective, if I told you those discs your men found were Victor’s?”

“I’d think you were lying to save your own neck,” said Banks, who wasn’t too sure. He could already hear the faint alarm bells ringing in the back of his mind, sense the disparate observations and inchoate imaginings suddenly taking shape and forming recognizable images.

Whitman laughed. “All right, you’ve got me. Or you think you’ve got me. We’ll see about that when my solicitor gets here. But don’t assume Victor Vancalm was the innocent in all this. How do you think we met in the first place?”

“Do you mean what I think you mean?”

“Even PC Plod could figure that one out,” Whitman went on. He was clearly enjoying his newfound sense of superiority, and Banks was not going to disabuse him of the notion.

“You’ll have to be a bit clearer than that,” he said.

“I don’t think I’d be incriminating myself if I told you that Victor Vancalm was an aficionado of the kind of thing you mentioned earlier.”

“You mean Vancalm was into child pornography?”

Whitman sighed. “It looks as if I do have to spell it out for you. Yes. That’s what I’m saying. That was how we met in the first place. A shared interest in a special kind of love.” He folded his arms again. “And you won’t get another word out of me until my solicitor arrives. This time I mean it.”

Banks nodded. He didn’t really need another word from Colin Whitman. Not just yet, at any rate

“Have you found anything out yet, Mr. Banks?” asked Denise Vancalm. They were sitting in the same room as they had sat in two days ago, at Banks’s request, though the police hadn’t quite finished with the house yet, and Mrs. Vancalm was still staying at the Jedburgh Hotel. When Banks suggested the house as a venue, she had readily agreed as she said she had some more clothes she wanted to pick up. DI Annie Cabbot was there too, notebook open, pen in hand.

“Quite a bit,” said Banks. “Mr. Whitman is under arrest.”

“Colin? My God. Did Colin...? I mean, I can’t believe it. Why?”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Vancalm. Colin Whitman didn’t kill your husband.”

“Then I don’t understand.” She clutched at the gold pendant around her neck. “Why? Who?”

“You killed your husband,” Banks said.

“Me...?” She pointed at her own chest. “But that’s absurd. I was at the poker circle. You know I was.”

“You told me that was where you were.”

“But Natasha, Gabriella, Evangeline, Heather... they all corroborated my story.”

“Indeed they did,” said Banks. “And that caused me no end of problems.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just couldn’t think at first what would make four law-abiding professional women alibi a friend for the murder of her husband. It didn’t make sense. In almost every scenario I could think of, someone would have spoken out against it, suggested another course of action, refused to be involved.”

“Of course,” said Denise Vancalm. “That’s why it’s true.”

Banks shook his head. “No, it’s not. I said I couldn’t think of anything, and at first I couldn’t. Perhaps spousal abuse came close, but even then there was certain to be a voice of reason, a dissenting voice. And there were no hints that your husband abused you. Maybe if he were a serial killer... but that clearly wasn’t the case either. Only when Mr. Whitman told me the truth did I understand it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you do. Your husband was a child pornographer. All these trips. Amsterdam. Berlin. Brussels. Oh, he did business, of course, but then there was the other business, wasn’t there? The secret meetings, the swaps, the children, often smuggled in from eastern Europe, bought and paid for.”

“This is absurd. I want my solicitor.”

“All in good time,” said Banks, who was getting sick and tired of hearing that request. “Somehow,” he went on, “you found out about it. Perhaps he let something slip on the computer, or maybe it was something else, but you found out. You were shocked, horrified, of course. You didn’t know what to do. Horror turned to disgust. It sickened you. You had to do something about it, but you didn’t know what. All you knew was that you couldn’t go on living with a man like that, and that he couldn’t be allowed to keep on doing what he was doing. Am I right so far?”

Denise Vancalm said nothing, but her expression spoke volumes. “Do go on, Chief Inspector,” she said softly. “It’s a fascinating story.”

“No doubt your first thought, as an honest citizen, was to report him to the authorities. But you couldn’t do that, could you?”

“Why not?” she asked.

“I think there were two reasons. First, you couldn’t live with it, with the shame of knowing who, or what, you had been married to for fifteen years. It would have been an admission of weakness, of defeat.”

“Very good,” said Denise. “And the other reason?”

“Professional. Your business is important to you. You couldn’t afford for your husband to go on trial for what he did. You’re a fund-raiser and event organizer for charities, predominantly children’s charities. Imagine how it would go down with your colleagues that you were married to a child pornographer and you didn’t even know it. Oh, there would be sympathy enough at first. Poor Denise, they’d say. But there’d always be those important little questions at the backs of their minds. Did she know? How could she not have known? Why did it take her so long to turn him in? It would have meant the end for you. You couldn’t have lived with both that and with your own personal shame. But the widow of a murder victim? A burglary gone wrong. There you get all the sympathy without the vexing questions. As long as you have a watertight alibi. And with Gabriella Mountjoy, Natasha Goldwell, Evangeline White and Heather Murchison all swearing you were with them all evening, the old surprising-a-burglar routine should have worked very well.”

“But how could I have done it?”

“Very easily. After you got to Gabriella’s, you left your car there. There’s nothing much more distinctive than a red sports car, and you didn’t want anyone to see that around your home that evening. You borrowed one of the others’ cars, probably Evangeline White’s. She wasn’t particularly a Top Gear type. All she wanted was a nice little runner that would get her from a to b. Nondescript. You drove back home shortly before your husband was due to arrive and parked out of the way. You broke in through the side window to make it look as if a burglar had gained entry, and then you waited for him. I don’t know if there was any discussion when he arrived, any questioning, any chance to offer an explanation, or whether you simply executed the sentence the moment he walked into his study.”

“All this is very clever,” Denise said, “but it assumes you have evidence that my husband was what you say he was, and that I knew about it.”

“Friends can only be relied on up to a point,” said Banks. “Natasha Goldwell values her freedom, and when she found it under threat she decided that it might be best to make a clean breast of things. It doesn’t get her off without punishment completely, of course, but I think we can be confident that a judge will view her with a certain amount of lenience. And, of course, once Natasha decided to tell the truth, it didn’t take the others long to follow.”

Pale and trembling, Denise Vancalm reached in her handbag for a tissue and blew her nose. “And what did Natasha have to say?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“That not only did she and the others provide you with an alibi because they were as horrified as you were about your husband’s activities, but that she went over to your house the day before and cleaned off your husband’s computer. She’s good at it. It’s her job. Computer software design, specializing in security. Our experts found traces when she told them where to look. Not a lot, but enough to show what was there and to give us a few more leads to chase down. And they’re still working on it. You also cleaned out the safe. No doubt there were discs and photographs there, too.”

“It was the computer,” Denise said, her voice no more than a whisper.

“What?” said Banks.

“The computer. Victor was away in Berlin and my Web service was on the blink. We have different services. Sounds silly, I know, but there it is. Different businesses, different providers. He wasn’t aware of it, but I’d known his password for ages. I saw him type it in once, the keys he used. I have a good visual memory. Anyway, I wasn’t prying. Not at first. I just wanted to look up a company online. When I started Internet Explorer, I accidentally caused a list of the last few sites he’d visited to drop down. Some of them sounded odd. I visited them out of curiosity. I’m sure you know what it’s like. Well, let’s say I tried. I couldn’t get beyond the security, the passwords and what have you. Then I checked his e-mail browser and found a few dodgy messages. Oh, there were no photographs of naked children or anything like that, and they were clearly using some sort of code, but it was pretty obvious what the sender was referring to. At first I thought it might have been some sick sort of spam, but I checked his other folders. There were more. Some were from people we’d socialized with. Business colleagues. It sickened me. There were... pictures, too. I didn’t find those until Natasha came. They were well hidden, secured.”

“Is that why you smashed the computer screen?”

“Yes. I wasn’t thinking. I just lashed out.”

“He took a tremendous risk in keeping them.”

“Don’t they all? But he needed them. Obviously the compulsion overcomes all the risks. Maybe it’s even a part of the excitement, the possibility of being caught. I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

“So you decided to kill him?”

She nodded and sighed. “You’re right. What’s the point in lying anymore? I don’t blame Natasha. She was never really comfortable with the plan from the start. She was appalled by what she saw on the screen, of course, and she went along with it, but of all of them she had the most reservations. As I say, I don’t blame her. If I could only have come up with some other way...”

“You could have reported him.”

“No. You were right about that. And there would have been a trial. Victor wouldn’t have given up without a fight. I couldn’t have stood that. Everyone knowing.”

The irony, Banks thought, was that even now it had come out and Denise Vancalm would certainly go to trial, she would probably get more public sympathy as the murderess of a child pornographer than she would have got as the wife of a live one. As for her alibi, the Eastvale ladies’ poker circle, Banks didn’t know what would happen. Their fate lay in the hands of the Crown Prosecution Service and the courts, not in his, thank God. As he and Annie walked Denise Vancalm out to the waiting police car, Banks found himself thinking that she would probably not have to look very far to find a poker game in prison.