Watching the Dark

Chapter 2

Since the reorganisation, which meant more meetings, recently promoted Area Commander Catherine Gervaise had added a low round table and four tubular chairs to her office. There was plenty of room for them, and they allowed for a more informal meeting space than the boardroom, where the full team briefings were carried out.

Banks felt the tubes holding up his chair give gently as he sat and leaned back, carefully placing his coffee mug on a rose-patterned coaster on the glass table. The coffee was from Gervaise’s personal filter machine, and it was good and strong. There was no doubt that Gervaise had brought a feminine touch to what used to be Superintendent Gristhorpe’s very masculine office, though she would never thank anyone for telling her so.

Photographs of her husband and children adorned her desk and the top of the filing cabinet; the walls were painted in muted pastel shades of blue, complemented by a couple of well-framed water lily prints. The whole place seemed somehow more airy and light, with everything neat and in its place.

Most of the books were legal or forensic texts, rather than the rows of leather-bound literary classics Gristhorpe had kept on the shelves, though there was the tell-tale Stella Rimington autobiography that Gervaise had clearly forgotten to hide. The books were in neat groups, separated by the occasional cup or plaque for archery, dressage or fencing, which had been Gervaise’s passions when she had had more time to indulge in such pursuits.

The window was open about three inches, and Banks could hear sounds from Eastvale’s cobbled market square — delivery vans, children’s squeals, shouted greetings — and the smell of fresh-baked bread from Bob’s Bakery made his mouth water. It was going on for nine o’clock. He had been up since just after five, and he hadn’t eaten anything yet. Maybe he’d grab a pasty or a sausage roll from Greggs after the meeting.

AC Gervaise was as fresh and business-like as ever in her navy blue suit and crisp white linen blouse, a little red, blue and yellow needlework around the collar adding a touch of colour to its strict lines.

‘Is everything in hand?’ she asked, sitting opposite Banks and smoothing her skirt.

‘It is,’ said Banks.

The mechanics of a murder investigation could be quite overwhelming, and it was as well to get everything set up and running, make sure everyone knew what his or her job was, before information started arriving in the form of forensics reports, witness statements, alibis and the like. Computer systems such as HOLMES and SOCRATES needed to be set up, and that job would probably fall to DC Gerry Masterson these days, with her IT background, but there was still so much reliance on actual paper in police investigations that plenty of good strong cardboard boxes and large filing cabinets would also be needed. And even though officers used their mobiles most of the time, dedicated land lines had to be set up, and the public needed to be made aware of numbers to call if they had information.

‘Did you know DI Quinn personally?’ Gervaise asked.

‘I met him once,’ said Banks. ‘Seemed like a nice enough bloke. But I can’t say I knew him. You?’

‘Same thing. He was awarded a medal for bravery about three years ago. I was at the presentation.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Distinguished service record. I don’t get this at all, Alan. From everything I’ve heard so far, it certainly doesn’t seem like a random act of violence, or even an old enemy lashing out in anger.’

‘No,’ Banks agreed. ‘The choice of weapon. It all seems very deliberate, as if it were planned. And then there are the photos.’

Gervaise’s eyes widened. ‘The what?’

Banks explained about the photographs he’d found in Quinn’s forensic textbook. ‘They should be with Photographic Services by now, though I don’t imagine there’ll be a lot they can tell us.’

‘You’d be surprised. Quinn with a young woman, you say?’

‘Very young.’

‘What do you make of it? Blackmail?’

‘That seems most likely.’ Banks paused. ‘Winsome told me his wife died just a month ago,’ he went on, ‘which makes me think that if the photos had been used for blackmail before then, there’s a good chance they’d be quite useless after.’

‘What about his children?’

‘It’s not the same, is it? Besides, they’re grown up. At university.’

‘Doesn’t matter. I know that I wouldn’t want my kids to know... you know...’ Gervaise reddened. ‘If I’d done anything like that.’

‘I suppose you’re right.’ Banks imagined what Tracy or Brian would say if they knew about some of the things he’d done over the years. Not that infidelity had been a habit, but once was enough. There were other things he’d done, things he wasn’t proud of, down in London when he was undercover and living on the edge, or over it sometimes. ‘But the blackmail still loses a lot of its sting, doesn’t it? I mean, your kids can hardly haul you through the divorce courts and take everything you’ve got, can they?’

Gervaise gave him a look that would freeze a volcano. ‘You mean take what they’re entitled to, surely, Alan?’

‘Sorry, ma’am. Yes. Of course.’

Gervaise inclined her head regally. ‘I should think so. And less of the ma’am. It does nothing to excuse your sexist attitudes.’ She paused. ‘All I’m saying is that the threat of blackmail might have still been there, if not as strong. Kids. Parents. Even bosses, work colleagues. And it’s hardly a good thing for a police officer’s career to admit that he left himself open to blackmail. There’s been rumours lately, too. A rotten apple. Just rumours, mind, but even so...’

‘So I heard,’ said Banks. ‘You think it was Quinn?’

‘All I’m saying is that we need to keep an open mind. Back to the girl. You say she’s young?’

‘Yes.’

‘Underage?’

‘Just young.’

‘But if it even appeared that way, he could have lost his job,’ Gervaise pointed out.

‘I still think that for Quinn the biggest fear would have been his wife finding out. Anything else he could have brushed off, or dealt with. There’s no proof the girl’s underage. And she’s certainly a very attractive woman. Any man would be proud to be seen with her. Christ, some of his mates at work might even have envied him.’

Gervaise rolled her eyes.

‘What?’

‘Never mind. Why do you think he kept the photos with him?’

‘I don’t know. In my experience, people hang on to the strangest things for the strangest of reasons. Can’t complain. It makes our job easier in the long run. Maybe he was proud of himself for pulling her, and they were some sort of trophy? Maybe he was in love with her, and they were all he had left? Maybe he’d just got hold of them? Maybe he was going to pass them on to someone? Quinn obviously didn’t expect that he would never return to his room at St Peter’s last night, and that someone else would find them, unless...’

‘Yes?’

‘Unless that was why he left them there. As some form of insurance against something happening to him.’

‘You mean he was expecting to be killed?’

‘No, not that. Expecting trouble, maybe, if he’d agreed to meet someone he was wary of, to pay off the blackmailer, say. But I doubt very much that he expected to be hurt or killed. He may have left the pictures in his room as a form of insurance, in case something went wrong. They weren’t very well hidden. Quinn was one of us. He knew we’d find them on the first pass. Which means they may be important now that something has happened to him. Not just insurance, but evidence. She may be important. We need to find her.’

‘It’s not much to go on, though, is it? A handful of photographs?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘I suppose we can get someone to trawl through the escort agency file photos, check the online dating services, see if she turns up on one of them?’

‘So you think he was meeting someone he knew out there last night, maybe about something connected with the girl and the photos?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps he even thought he was meeting the girl herself? That would cause him to be less on guard.’

‘Maybe he did meet her,’ suggested Gervaise. ‘Maybe she killed him.’

‘It’s possible,’ Banks agreed. ‘But it’s far too early to speculate. One way or another, I think the pictures are connected with his murder, which is what makes me think of blackmail, that they must have been taken while his wife was still alive to be of any use to anyone.’ Banks paused. ‘Any chance of a few extra bodies?’

‘You know what it’s like these days, Alan. But I’ll ask ACC McLaughlin, see what I can do. And I’ll take care of the media. I should bring our Press Officer in on this. One of our own. A high-profile case. I’ll set up a conference.’

‘Appreciated. Winsome and the others are already working on the staff and patient interviews at St Peter’s, but we also need to go over Bill Quinn’s old cases, talk to his colleagues, see if anyone had a grudge against him big enough to kill him, any hard men recently released from jail, that sort of thing. I’ll start by paying DI Ken Blackstone a visit in Leeds before I head out to Rawdon to check out Quinn’s house. Ken knew Bill Quinn fairly well, so he should be able to tell me a bit more about what sort of copper he was. We also need his mobile phone records. Credit card and bank statements, too.’ Banks glanced over at the trophies on the bookcase. ‘Er... by the way, I noticed a few archery awards there. You don’t happen to know anything about crossbows, do you?’

‘Afraid not,’ said Gervaise. ‘I’m strictly a longbow person. And I think you’ll find that most serious archers disdain crossbows. They’re hunters’ weapons, mostly, not for sporting competitions.’

‘Well, they’re pretty easy to get hold of,’ Banks said. ‘No questions asked, as long as you’re over eighteen. They’re quiet, and just as deadly as a bullet from the right distance. We need to canvass the shops and Internet sites where people buy these things.’

Gervaise scribbled something on her pad. ‘What else does the choice of weapon tell you?’ she asked.

‘Well, I don’t know much about the mechanics of crossbows, but I assume they could be used just as easily by a man or a woman. They’re efficient, anonymous and cold. And quiet. I don’t know about the range, but it was a moonlit night, and the killer was obviously able to get close enough and stay hidden in the trees. The bolt had buried itself deep in the chest, pierced the heart, according to Tom Burns. He thinks it was shot from about fifty or sixty feet away. If the killer was hiding behind a tree and wearing dark clothing, the odds are that Quinn wouldn’t have known he was there. Or she. Dr Glendenning will be able to tell us more.’

‘It sounds to me suspiciously like a hit.’

‘That’s one possibility,’ said Banks. ‘Which is why we need to find out if anyone had a reason for making a hit on Bill Quinn. We all make enemies on this job, but it’s rare that any of them follow through with their threats, especially in such a cold-blooded way.’

‘Maybe there was another reason?’ Gervaise suggested. ‘Maybe DI Quinn had got himself into deep trouble. Maybe he’d been sleeping with the enemy. It happens. The grey area. Money. Corruption. Gambling debts. Drugs. Or a woman. The girl in the photograph, for example? She must be somebody’s daughter, if not someone’s wife or girlfriend. A jealous husband or lover, perhaps? Maybe Quinn thought he was in love with her, and that’s why he kept the photos? As you say, a trophy, or memento. All he had left of her. A mid-life crisis? Perhaps he was hoping to rekindle the romance after his wife had died and he was suddenly free. Maybe we’re dealing with a love triangle?’ She put her pad down and rubbed her eyes. ‘Too many questions, too many possibilities. How’s DI Cabbot doing, by the way?’

‘Fine,’ said Banks. ‘She’s in Cornwall staying with her father.’

‘She’s due back Monday, right. Clean bill of health?’

‘Far as I know,’ Banks said. Annie Cabbot had been recuperating from a serious operation to remove bullet fragments from an area close to her spine. The wait for surgery had been a long one — she had first had to regain strength from a previous injury to her right lung before the operation on her back could be carried out — but it had been a success in that the fragments had been removed and Annie still had the use of all her limbs. Her recovery had been very slow, however, and involved far more excruciating pain than the surgeons had expected, followed by a great deal of physical therapy, some of it at St Peter’s. The spinal cord was intact, but there had been some disc, muscle and vertebrae problems they hadn’t foreseen. Annie had coped well with the pain and uncertainty, Banks thought, getting stronger every day, but he knew that the shooting had also left her with internal demons she would have to deal with eventually. She would be unlikely to go to a psychologist or psychiatrist because of the stigma involved. Rightly or wrongly, seeking professional help for mental problems was viewed as a weakness in the force. Many coppers still maintained that it was bad for the career, and perhaps it was.

‘I was thinking of putting her on desk duties for a while, until she gets her sea legs back again. What do you think?’

‘For what it’s worth, I think Annie should be given a chance to dive right in. It will do her confidence no end of good to start working on a real case again. Even the doctor says her main hurdles now are psychological. She’s been through a lot. First she gets shot, then she thinks she’s never going to walk again, then she suffers from chronic post-op pain.’

‘I’m simply pointing out that there are a lot of reasons why DI Cabbot, when she comes back next Monday, should keep a low profile on light duties for a little while and catch her breath before attempting to dash off and solve murders.’

‘She can be useful. We need her. Annie’s bright, she’s—’

‘I know all about DI Cabbot’s qualities as a detective, thank you very much.’ Gervaise ran a hand across her brow. ‘Let me think on it,’ she said. ‘I know you need more officers on the case. I’ll have a word with ACC McLaughlin when I talk to him about the personnel issue. I’ll see what he says about DI Cabbot’s future here. It’s the best I can do.’

Banks held her steady gaze. ‘OK,’ he said finally. ‘Thanks.’

‘Anything else you’d like, while you’re at it?’

‘Well, a twenty per cent pay raise would be nice. And a bigger office.’

‘Out!’ Gervaise picked up a heavy paperweight and threatened to toss it at Banks. ‘Out, before I throw you out.’

Smiling to himself, Banks left the office.

Banks munched on his Greggs sausage roll as he guided the Porsche towards the A1, the fourth movement of Mahler’s ‘Resurrection’ symphony playing loudly on the powerful stereo system. It helped that this was a vocal movement. He had always liked Mahler’s lieder, and he had only recently been getting to like the symphonies a lot, having spurned them as boring and bombastic in the past. Was this something that happened when you got older? Failing eyesight, mysterious aches and pains, enjoying Mahler? Would Wagner be next?

The last time Banks had been to Leeds, he remembered, it was to help his daughter Tracy move a few months ago. She had shared a house in Headingley with two other girls, but it hadn’t worked out. Tracy had suffered a number of traumatic events around the time Annie had been shot, and after a brief period of depression and withdrawal, she had decided to change her life.

That first meant moving from Leeds to Newcastle, which was a little further from Eastvale, but not so much as to make a big difference. It also meant leaving a dead-end job and getting back on to a career track again. She had got a part-time administrative position at the university and enrolled in the master’s programme in History, with a view to moving into teaching once she felt a bit more secure in her qualifications.

It was also time to live alone, too, she had told Banks, so she had rented a tiny bedsit close to the converted riverside area, and both Banks and his ex-wife Sandra were helping her with the rent until she got on her feet. Her brother Brian, whose band The Blue Lamps seemed to be going from strength to strength, had also been most generous. In an odd way, Banks thought, they were starting to act like a family again, though he knew that the gap between him and Sandra was unbridgeable. He had visited Tracy once already in Newcastle and had taken her across the river to The Sage to see The Unthanks in concert, then for a drink after. They had had a good time, and he was looking forward to doing it again.

The A1 was a nightmare. Mile after mile of roadworks, down to one lane each way from Leeming to Wetherby, and a 50mph limit, which everyone obeyed because the cameras averaged out your speed over the whole distance. As a result, it took well over an hour and a half before Banks approached the eastern outskirts of Leeds. The Porsche didn’t like it at all; it had never been happy at 50mph. He had been thinking of selling the car ever since he had inherited it from his brother, but for one reason or another he had never got around to it. Now it was getting a bit shabby and starting to feel comfortable, like a favourite old jacket, jeans or a pair of gloves, and the sound system was a corker, so he reckoned he would probably keep it until it bit the dust.

Millgarth was an ugly, redbrick fortress-style building at the bottom of Eastgate in Leeds city centre. DI Ken Blackstone wanted to hang around his tiny, cluttered office no more than Banks did, so they headed out into the spring sunshine, walked up the Headrow as far as Primark, then turned left down Briggate, a pedestrian precinct crowded with shoppers. There used to be a Borders near the intersection, Banks remembered fondly, but it was gone now, and he lamented its passing. There was a Pizza Hut in its place.

Blackstone was a snappy dresser, and today he wore a light wool suit, button-down Oxford shirt and a rather flamboyant tie. With the tufts of hair over his ears, and his wire-rimmed glasses, Blackstone had always reminded Banks more of an academic than a copper. In fact, the older he got, the more he came to resemble some of the photos Banks had seen of the poet Philip Larkin.

Banks and Blackstone decided against the posh Harvey Nichols cafe in the Victoria Quarter and plumped for Whitelocks, an eighteenth-century pub in an alley off Briggate, near Marks & Spencer. The alley was narrow and high, with the pub stretching down one side, much longer than it was deep, and a row of benches down the other side, against the wall, with a few tables and stools where space permitted. Not much light got in at any time of the day, but it was always a popular spot with the city centre workers and the student crowd. It was lunchtime, so they were lucky to get space on the bench next to a group of office girls discussing a wedding one of them had just attended in Cyprus.

‘You hang on to the seats, Alan,’ said Blackstone. ‘I’ll get us a couple of pints in and something to eat.’

‘Make mine a shandy,’ said Banks. ‘I’ve got to drive. And steak and kidney pie and chips.’

He reached for his wallet, but Blackstone brushed the gesture aside and headed into the pub. He had to stoop to get through the old, low door. People were much shorter in the eighteenth century. Banks remembered that the food was served canteen-style behind an area of the counter beside the bar, so when Blackstone came back he carried the drinks first, then went back for the plates of steaming pie and chips.

‘And Josie got so drunk we had to take her to hospital,’ one of the office girls said. ‘She nearly died of alcohol poisoning.’ The others laughed.

‘It’s terrible news,’ said Blackstone, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. ‘First Sonia, then Bill. I can hardly bloody believe it. Not only one of us, but Bill.’

‘Sonia was his wife, right?’

‘Twenty-five years. I was at their silver wedding anniversary do last December.’

‘How old was Bill, exactly?’

‘Just turned forty-nine.’

‘How did he take her death?’

‘How do you think? He was devoted to her. He was devastated, naturally. This neck business that got him into St Peter’s was a bit of an excuse, if you ask me. Not that he hadn’t been having problems on and off for years. But I’d have said he was on the verge of a breakdown. Depressed, too. Couldn’t sleep.’

‘Winsome said it was a massive stroke.’

‘Sonia was always a bit frail. Heart problems. I think that was why Bill was especially protective of her. Some people said he was too much under her thumb, but it wasn’t really like that. He adored her. It was sudden, a stroke, yes.’

They both paused for a moment. Banks didn’t know about Ken, but he often felt a brief stab of worry about his own mortality these days. He contemplated his steak and kidney pie. He’d already eaten a sausage roll for breakfast. Not one vegetable all day, unless you counted the chips. Hardly the healthy diet he’d been promising himself since his last visit to the doctor. Still, he had stopped smoking years ago, had cut down on his drinking a bit recently, and he hardly ever put on any weight. Surely that had to be a good thing?

‘Poor sod,’ said Banks.

Blackstone raised his glass. ‘I’ll drink to that. And to life.’

They clinked glasses. One of the office girls smiled at Banks. ‘Birthday?’

‘Something like that,’ he said. The girls moved on to boasting about drunken exploits in Sharm-el-Sheikh, paying no further attention to Banks and Blackstone, who spoke quietly anyway. A gust of warm wind blew along the alley and carried just a hint of the summer to come.

‘There are a couple of things I’d like to know,’ said Banks, glancing around. ‘First off, it looked very much like a professional hit.’ Banks described what they had deduced so far about the crime scene.

Blackstone thought for a moment. ‘Well, if access was as easy as you say, anyone could have done it, though it would have had to have been someone who knew Bill was there, I suppose, someone who knew his habits and the lie of the land, or somehow managed to lure him down to the edge of the woods. And what professional hit man uses a crossbow? Have you considered an inside job, or helper, at any rate?’

‘Naturally,’ said Banks. ‘We’re open to just about anything at the moment, and we’ll be checking everyone out. But there are a few problems with that theory. How would someone on the inside get rid of the murder weapon, for example? As far as I’m concerned, the most likely scenario is that it was someone Quinn put away, a criminal with a grudge and a taste for revenge.’

One of the office girls lowered her voice, but not quite enough. ‘And the last night we were there Cathy pissed herself right in the main street. It was simply dripping down her legs. Like something out of Bridesmaids. Talk about embarrassed! Laugh? I nearly died. Jenny said we should find a Boots and buy her some adult nappies.’

‘Why do it at St Peter’s?’ Blackstone asked. ‘Have you thought about that? If someone wanted Bill out of the way, there must have been better opportunities, surely?’

‘Not necessarily, especially if timing was an issue. My guess is that it was easier. He was a sitting duck at St Peter’s. It might have been a bit harder to isolate him in the city. More chance of witnesses there, too. And I wouldn’t be surprised if there was an element of bravado. It probably appealed to the killer’s warped sense of humour to kill a cop in a place full of cops, even though they were disabled, or geriatric, for the most part.’ Banks paused. ‘But that begs a few questions.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like how did the killer find out Bill Quinn was at St Peter’s in the first place?’

‘It wasn’t a secret. I mean, anyone could have known, not only people on the inside with him, but others, friends, family, even his coll—’ Blackstone stopped, and his eyes hardened. ‘Wait a minute, Alan. Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’

‘We have to consider it, Ken. The possibility of a mole in Quinn’s team, someone in the department. There have been rumours, you know.’

‘You think it’s Bill? So what’s going to happen now? The works? Suspend operations, seize all the files? Send in Professional Standards or the Independent Police Complaints Commission?’

‘I hope it won’t come to that,’ said Banks. ‘We’re not sure about anything yet. All I’m saying is that it’s an angle we have to consider along with all the others until we can rule it out. Someone knew where to find him.’

‘Any trace evidence? Forensics?’

‘None yet. His pockets had been emptied, and his mobile is missing. We’re tracking down the provider, then at least we’ll have a list of calls to and from. The CSIs are working on the usual — footprints, fabrics, DNA, fingerprints. The area near the tree where they think the killer stood looks promising.’

‘So what do you want from me?’

‘Area Commander Gervaise will be asking for full details of Bill Quinn’s cases from the brass, and for a list of villains he’s put away, along with their release dates, but I thought I’d just pick your brains in the meantime, get a head start.’

Blackstone rubbed his cheeks. ‘Another drink first?’

‘Not for me, thanks, Ken.’

Blackstone studied the remains of his pint. ‘No. I suppose I can make do with what I’ve got left, too. Where to begin?’

‘Wherever you want.’

‘Well, Bill’s been around for a while. You’ll have quite a job on your hands going through the minutiae of his career.’

‘Let’s start at the top, then. Any counter-terrorism investigations?’

‘We try to leave that sort of thing to Special Branch. Of course, West Yorkshire can’t avoid getting in on the peripheries at times, especially in Bradford or Dewsbury and some parts of Leeds, but nothing comes immediately to mind. Surely you don’t believe this was some kind of a fatwa, do you?’

‘Just casting flies on the water.’

‘Aye. One thing I can tell you, though. It was Bill helped put away Harry Lake nearly twenty years ago. He was a young DS then, and it didn’t do his career any harm, I can tell you.’

Banks whistled between his teeth. Harry Lake was famous enough to have had books written about him. He had abducted, tortured and killed four women in the Bradford area in the early nineties, cut them up and boiled the parts. Like the even more infamous Dennis Nilsen, he was only caught when the body pieces he’d flushed down the toilet blocked the drains, and a human hand surfaced in one of his neighbour’s toilet bowls.

‘He can’t be out yet, surely?’ said Banks.

‘I don’t think he’ll ever get out. He’s in Broadmoor. But it’s worth checking. He always swore revenge, and maybe he persuaded some sick follower to do his dirty work for him? You know what it’s like. People like him get marriage proposals, offers of continuing his work for him. According to the prison governor, he gets plenty of those.’

Banks made a note. ‘There must be more?’

‘I suppose his other most famous case was his biggest failure. Well, not his really.’

‘Oh?’

‘The Rachel Hewitt business.’

‘Rachel Hewitt? Isn’t she that girl whose parents keep cropping up in the news, the girl who disappeared in Latvia, or wherever?’

‘Estonia, actually. Tallinn. Six years ago. Yes. And they were in the news again not too long ago. That phone-hacking inquiry. You might have heard. They’ve been complaining about being hounded by the media, phones tapped, private papers and diaries stolen and published. The sister went off the rails, apparently, and the press had a feeding frenzy.’

‘Bill Quinn worked that case?’

‘Bill worked this end, such as it was. Family and friends. Rachel’s background. The Tallinn police worked the actual disappearance. But Bill spent about a week out there liaising quite early in the investigation. Rachel was a West Yorkshire girl, from Drighlington, part of City & Holbeck Division, and he drew the short straw, depending on how you look at it. But with the local police running the investigation, and in a foreign country with different ways of doing things, he didn’t stand much of a chance. It was more of a show of strength and solidarity, really, and a bit of a PR exercise, if truth be told. Otherwise they’d have sent in a team.’

‘They didn’t?’

‘No. The British Embassy was involved, of course, but they don’t carry out criminal investigations in foreign countries. It was strictly Tallinn’s case. Nobody expected Bill to solve it where the locals had failed. That was back in the summer of 2006. As expected, he got precisely nowhere, but he did get his photo in the papers quite often, and he did a few press conferences with the parents of the missing girl.’

‘The Hewitts have had to use the media to keep their daughter’s name in the public eye, haven’t they?’

‘It’s a two-edged sword. You don’t get owt for nowt from those bastards.’

‘And what role did Bill play?’

‘As I said, he was just a glorified consultant, really.’

‘He’s not been implicated in the hacking business?’

‘Bill? Good lord, no. Though some days it seems we’ve all been tarred with same brush.’

‘So it’s unlikely to be connected with his murder?’

‘I can’t see how it could be. Nothing’s changed. Rachel still hasn’t been found. Her parents insist she’s being kept alive somewhere, but we’re all pretty certain she’s dead. Thing is, it haunted Bill. I don’t think he ever quite got over not solving it, not finding her. He was convinced she was already dead, of course, but I think he wanted to provide the parents with some sort of explanation, proof, some positive outcome. A body, for example.’

‘Anything else I should be looking at?’

‘Just the usual. Dozens of petty villains, domestic killings. What you’d expect from a long career in detective work. He’s put away burglars, murderers, muggers, embezzlers, gangsters and hard men. None of them stand out much except for Harry Lake, and maybe Steve Lambert, that big property developer, the one who paid someone to murder his wife about three years ago.’

‘I remember that one,’ said Banks. ‘Didn’t he claim someone broke in, and she was stabbed while interrupting a robbery?’

‘That’s right. Appeared to have a watertight alibi, too. The usual citizens above suspicion. But Bill stuck at it, followed the money trail, found the bloke he’d hired, along with a strong forensic connection to the scene. It was a solid case in the end, and Lambert went down swearing revenge.’

‘But he’s still inside, isn’t he?’

‘If he hired someone to kill his wife...’

‘Long tentacles?’

‘Possibly.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind. Mostly what we should look at first, though, is anyone he put away who’s actually come out recently, and anyone he’s pissed off who’s still wandering free.’

‘There’ll be a few. I’ll see if I can narrow things down a bit for you.’

‘Appreciate it, Ken.’

‘All this... Sorry. Bill was a mate, that’s all. It’s getting to me.’

‘I know, and I’m sorry, too. What about more recently? What was he working on when he died?’

Blackstone finished off his drink and stared at the empty glass. ‘Well, as you know, he was off duty for a couple of weeks with his neck problems before he went into St Peter’s, and before that he had a couple of weeks leave after Sonia... you know. Before that he was working with a specially formed city-wide team of detectives on a long-term surveillance and intelligence-gathering mission.’

‘What was it?’

‘Just the tip of the iceberg. It started with a gang of loan sharks. They operate around the poorest estates in the city, mostly targeting new immigrants, as often as not illegals, asylum seekers or unregistered migrants who still owe a bloody fortune for their staff agency fees, transport, lodgings and food. And, in some cases, for the risk of smuggling them in. Some of them live in dormitories in converted barns, or what have you, outside the city, but a lot of them have managed somehow or other to get hold of council houses, illegal sublets from fellow countrymen, mostly. Of course, the jobs they were promised and had to pay so much for didn’t materialise, or they ended up cleaning out pig sties or public conveniences for ten quid a week. Unless they’re attractive girls, of course, and then...’

‘I get the picture,’ said Banks. He thought once more of Quinn’s photographs, the young girl, and how she reminded him of a young girl some years ago, involved in the case during which his brother had been murdered. That girl had been trafficked from Eastern Europe, along with many others. It still went on.

It was going to be tricky, broaching the subject of Quinn’s infidelity and susceptibility to blackmail to Ken, but it had to be done, gently or otherwise. Sometimes, Banks felt, it was best to jump right in and dodge the retaliation, if it came. ‘We found some photos of Bill Quinn with a young girl — and I mean young, Ken — hidden in his room.’

‘Sexual?’

‘Well, they weren’t taken at a vicar’s tea party.’

‘And what do you make of this?’

‘I’m not sure, but blackmail comes to mind.’

Blackstone thrust his head forward. ‘Are you suggesting that Bill was in someone’s pocket?’

‘No. I’m asking you if you think it possible that he was being blackmailed. I assume that he wouldn’t have wanted his wife to know, and I doubt that he’d have said anything to his friends.’

‘Sonia? She’d have kill— No, he wouldn’t have wanted her to know. Sonia was a naive, trusting soul. Bill was always very protective towards her. He genuinely loved her. Something like that... well, it would have devastated her. And if you’re asking does it surprise me that he had a bit on the side, yes it does. Very much.’

‘Nobody’s judging him, Ken.’

‘But they will. You’re starting already.’

‘Ken, I’m investigating his murder. I need to know. Surely you, of all people, can understand that?’

Blackstone ran his hand over his sparse hair. ‘Shit. OK. I know. It just...’

‘Did he play away from home?’

‘No. I was only away from home with him once. A conference in Lyon, France. Interpol. Christ, he was only human. He’d look, like the rest of us. Married, but not dead. He’d watch them walk by, sitting at a cafe or somewhere, look a bit wistful. We both did. For crying out loud, there are lots of pretty girls in Lyon.’

‘But he didn’t get up to anything?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Would you have known?’

‘I wasn’t his keeper, if that’s what you mean. We didn’t share a room. We weren’t together twenty-four hours a day. But no, I don’t think he did. I think I would have known. When were they taken, these pictures?’

‘We don’t know. Has he been anywhere since his wife died? Any conferences, holidays?’

‘Are you bloody joking, Alan? It was only a month ago. The man was shattered. A wreck. There’s no way anything like what you’re talking about happened between Sonia’s death and now.’

‘OK. Appreciate it, Ken. Was he working undercover on this loan-sharking case?’

‘No, it was all quite open and above board. The chief villain’s a bloke called Warren Corrigan. Small-time crook, really, or at least he started that way. Has his office in the back room of a pub called the Black Bull in Seacroft. Fancies himself as a sort of latter-day Kray. You know, man of the people, pillar of the community, tray of tea from Mum. We’ve got him down for a few assaults, demanding money with threats and so on, but nobody will talk. Everyone’s too scared. We’ve got two bodies already that we’re not entirely sure he didn’t have something to do with, but we can’t prove anything.’

‘Bodies?’

‘Yes. Suicides. They finally cracked under the pressure of their debts, according to friends and family. But more than that, nobody will say. The most recent was a trafficked Romanian girl with needle marks up and down both arms. Fifteen years old. The girl. She couldn’t turn enough tricks to pay the interest. We’ve been trying to contact her parents.’

‘Shit,’ said Banks. He thought of the girl in the photographs again. At least from what he had been able to make out, she seemed healthy enough, and most likely older than fifteen, though sometimes it was hard to tell. No visible needle tracks, but then the quality of the photo wasn’t that sharp. ‘Does this Corrigan have any connection with the people-trafficking, the drugs?

‘Not that we can prove,’ said Blackstone. ‘But it seems more than likely. It’s one of the things Quinn and the team were checking out.’

‘Would he have had a good reason for wanting Quinn dead?’

‘I can’t see it. Killing a cop seems a bit extreme.’

‘Did Corrigan know the team was on to him?’

‘He knew. At this stage, it was all a bit of a cat and mouse game to him.’

‘Are you working this case, too?’

‘No. Bill and I chatted about it once in a while over a pint. Shop talk.’

‘Who’s on his team?’

‘Nick Gwillam’s probably the one you want to talk to,’ said Blackstone. ‘Trading Standards, Illegal Money Lending Unit. There’s a bloke from SOCA and a couple of DCs, too, but Gwillam’s your best bet. He worked closest with Bill on it.’

‘Can you fix up a chat? Just informal at this stage.’

‘He’s off until Monday, but I’m sure I’ll be able to arrange something. I’ll let you know.’

‘Thanks, Ken. I know this is tough for you. Has Corrigan uttered any threats against Quinn specifically, or against any members of the team?’

‘Not that I know of. He’s too smart for that. At least, Bill never mentioned it. We’ve had him in for questioning a couple of times, so he knows he’s on our radar, and I helped out on one of the interviews. Played the good cop. It didn’t work. Slippery bastard. Cocky as hell. I wouldn’t put anything past him. But he may be a bit... I don’t know... too overconfident to feel the need to eliminate Bill. I would imagine Corrigan always believes he’ll come out on top without having to do anything but intimidate his powerless victims on the estates. Or get someone else to do it. He’s not exactly a hard man, himself. And if he did do it, you can be sure he’s got a solid alibi. Probably having dinner with the mayor or someone.’

Banks had come across villains like Corrigan before. They were bottom-feeders, parasites who exploited the poorest, most vulnerable members of society. His victims were unskilled labourers or jobless workers far from home, often from very poor communities, with no means of returning and nowhere else to go; they were frightened people who didn’t even speak the language or understand the terms of interest being offered, living constantly under the threat of violence to themselves or their families. And people like Corrigan always seemed to get away with it.

‘Can you put together a preliminary file on this Corrigan for me?’ Banks asked. ‘Links to Quinn, to any informants, undercover officers, members of the trafficking chain, that sort of thing. If you think it’s just the tip of the iceberg, it could be a big operation, and there could be enough at stake to drive someone to murder a copper.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thanks, Ken. Is there any way this Corrigan could have known Quinn would be at St Peter’s for two weeks?’

‘Not unless somebody told him. For all I know, Bill might have told him, himself. Or one of the team members.’

‘Why would anyone do that?’

‘Like I said, it was all a bit of a game to Corrigan, and Bill played along sometimes in the hopes of getting some titbit out of him. You know, how’s the family, how’s that bad neck of yours coming along. All very pally, the veneer of civilised conversation.’ Blackstone snorted. ‘Sometimes I think we should have just gone in with the rubber hosepipes.’

‘Maybe,’ said Banks. ‘But one way or another we’ll get to the truth.’

‘And if anyone on Bill’s team was responsible for tipping off Corrigan as to his whereabouts,’ Blackstone went on, ‘I’ll have his balls, civilised conversation or not. Have you considered that it might have been the girl herself? The one in the photographs you told me about? As I remember, there was a girl with a crossbow in a James Bond movie once. Not that I use those things as my yardstick for real life, you understand, but it’s a weapon that could be as easily used by a woman as a man.’

‘We’re keeping an open mind. For Your Eyes Only. That was the movie.’

‘I can never remember titles. You’ll keep me posted on developments?’

‘Will do.’

Blackstone glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better get back.’ He touched Banks’s shoulder briefly. ‘Take care.’

Banks’s conversation with Blackstone had depressed and exhausted him. It was a sudden and unwelcome reminder of the filth and sewage he had so often had to wade through in his job. The depth of man’s inhumanity to his fellow man never ceased to amaze and appall him. It had been a quiet winter, and since the escapade with Tracy and Annie, life and work had generally been ticking along at a manageable, if rather dull, rate. Now this: a potentially compromised cop murdered, a thug running riot with the law. Still, this was what he had signed up for, not sitting at a desk making budget cuts or fudging crime statistics.

He finished his drink and realised that he had better call in at Bill Quinn’s home in Rawdon before heading back to Eastvale. Before he went, though, he felt he needed a treat, the way his mother always used to buy him a toy soldier or a Dinky car after a visit to the dentist’s. He had no one to buy it for him — his mother was in Peterborough, unless she and his father had taken off on another cruise — but he could do it himself. He bought a lot of stuff online these days, given that he lived in such a remote place, but it was always a treat to go into a real record shop or bookshop and browse around the piles of special offers and racks of new releases. This time, after half an hour in HMV, he came out with Kate Royal’s A Lesson in Love, Martin Carthy’s Essential two CD set, and a DVD box set of the first season of Treme on sale for fifteen quid.

Banks pulled up outside Bill Quinn’s home in Rawdon early that afternoon. There was quite a mix of houses in the area, he had noticed, trying to find his way after the satnav had given up. Bungalows rubbed shoulders with brick terraces, and they, in turn, stood alongside detached and semi-detached houses with lower halves of exposed stone and upper halves fake Tudor, dark beams and white stucco. Quinn’s semi must have cost a bob or two, Banks thought, but it probably wasn’t out of his price range if he had bought at the right time, and if his wife had also worked. Two kids at university wouldn’t help, though, especially these days. Still, it was too soon for theories about Quinn’s financial situation; they should have his bank account details as well as his mobile phone log before too long. For now, they were interested in anything that seemed out of place.

The search team was already at work, and Banks recognised DS Keith Palmer, the officer in charge, who was standing in the doorway. ‘Anything yet?’ Banks asked.

Palmer led Banks into the house, where officers were busy searching through the sideboard drawers in the front hall. ‘Not yet,’ Palmer said, leading him to the kitchen at the back. ‘But you might find this interesting.’

One of the small glass panels on the door had been broken, and the door itself was an inch or so ajar. It had to be connected with Quinn’s murder, Banks thought, otherwise it would be too much of a coincidence. Banks glanced at the floor and saw the glass fragments scattered over the fake wood finish. ‘There’s no mess, except in Quinn’s study,’ Palmer went on, ‘and even that is pretty orderly. Whoever did this probably knew what he was looking for. Want the guided tour?’

‘Sure.’ Banks glanced around the kitchen. Washed dishes were piled neatly in the metal rack on the draining board, small sandwich plates, cups and glasses. The rubbish bin was full of discarded takeaway containers, and the green box by the door held mostly empty Bell’s bottles. Banks followed Palmer.

The living room was neat and tidy, as Palmer had indicated, though there was a thin layer of dust on the mantelpiece, and Banks guessed that while Quinn had kept things more or less in order, he hadn’t taken much of an interest in housework since his wife’s death. There was a small bookcase in the hall which held a number of angling, football, gardening and cooking DVDs, a few movies that had been given away in the Sunday papers over the past year or so, and several books, mostly on Quinn’s hobbies, but mixed in with book club novels with titles like Twiddling my Fingers in Timbuktu, Dwarf Throwing in Darwin, or Blowing Eggs in Uzbekistan, nestling beside a couple of well-thumbed Mills and Boons.

Upstairs were four bedrooms, the smallest of them set up as a study. The cabinets and drawers stood open, covered with fingerprint powder. A cheap inkjet printer sat on the desk. Banks glanced down at the power socket bar and saw one charger plugged in that wasn’t connected to anything. ‘Laptop?’ he asked Palmer.

‘Looks that way. If so, it’s gone.’

‘Any signs of a desktop?’

‘No. That was it.’

‘Bugger. No files, no emails, nothing.’

‘We could access the server. There could be emails stored there. But someone’s been thorough. If there were any portable storage devices, flash drives and the like, they’ve also been taken.’

‘Any prints?’

‘Only Quinn’s.’

‘I’ll have a closer look here later. Let’s move on.’

Two of the bedrooms were obviously the children’s, and had been for a number of years. Now that they were both grown up, they probably just stayed there when they came back from university for the holidays. One was a light airy space containing a storage unit stuffed with old dolls and a bookcase full of classics. Banks pulled out a copy of Middlemarch and saw the inscription, ‘To Jessica with love from Auntie Jennifer on your 15th birthday.’ Banks whistled between his teeth. Reading Middlemarch at fifteen was pretty good going; reading Middlemarch at any age was pretty good going. Like most people, Banks had watched it on TV.

The second room, which bore a plaque marking it as ‘Robbie’s Room’, was much darker in colour scheme and had little sign of childhood memorabilia other than a collection of model boats, but there were a few festival and concert posters on the walls: Green Man Festival 2010, Glastonbury 2009, Elbow, Kaiser Chiefs, Paolo Nutini. Banks noticed the electric guitar resting against a small amp in one corner. It reminded him of his own son Brian. No doubt Quinn’s son owned at least one other guitar, probably acoustic; he wouldn’t go off to university for weeks on end without one. There was also a compact CD player, but very few CDs. He probably downloaded most of his music. As for books, there were a few science-fiction and fantasy titles, old copies of MOJO, and that was it.

The third bedroom, the largest, clearly belonged to Quinn and his wife. Like the living room, it was tidy, the bed made, no discarded clothing on the floor, but there was more dust on the windowsill. The wardrobe held a hamper full of dirty laundry. Banks wondered what would happen to it now that its owner was dead. Would it ever be washed? Maybe one of Quinn’s children would wash it and give it to Oxfam.

‘Better go through that lot, too,’ Banks said to DS Palmer. ‘You never know what people leave in their pockets and put in the wash.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Palmer. ‘We have. Not even so much as a used tissue or bus ticket. And there are no signs of disturbance in any of the bedrooms.’

Banks and Palmer returned to the study. Set aside at the edge of the desk was a small heap of file folders. ‘We picked those up off the floor,’ Palmer said. ‘It’s mostly just a lot of general correspondence, day-to-day stuff, bills and so on. We’ll take it all in and go through it in detail, but these may be of more immediate interest.’

Banks doubted it. Not if someone had already been through the place first. He picked up the first folder. Harry Lake. Like most good detectives, Quinn supplemented his official notes and reports with his own observations. These often consisted of intuitions, gut feelings and imaginative ramblings that wouldn’t make it past his SIO’s scrutiny. They might be worth taking back to the station and studying, but Banks wouldn’t give them a high priority. If there had been anything of interest to him in Quinn’s study, it would be gone now. He flipped through the stack. There was nothing on Warren Corrigan or Stephen Lambert, he noticed, but also very little on Rachel Hewitt, the failure that had apparently haunted him. If Quinn had been in the habit of keeping personal files on all his cases, or at least his major cases, then what was missing would probably reveal far more than what was present, even though a clever villain would know to take a few irrelevant files along with the important one, just to muddy the waters.

Banks picked up some more folders and flipped quickly through them. He found a mix of handwritten notes and printed pages, yellow stickies and file cards, along with the occasional photocopy — a parking ticket, train ticket, passport photo, the usual odds and ends of an investigation. As a matter of routine, he checked the undersides of the drawers and backs of the filing cabinets to see if anything had been taped to them, but found nothing.

One thing he did find, in a folder stuffed with old Visa bills, was a photograph. Either the burglar had seen it and decided it was of no interest to him, or he had missed it. Curious, Banks pulled it out. It was of a young girl, aged about eighteen or nineteen, cropped from a group shot. Her arms were stretched out sideways, as if wrapped around the people on either side of her, both of whom were represented only by their shoulders.

At first Banks felt a tremor of excitement because he thought it might have been the girl in Quinn’s photos, but it clearly wasn’t her, even allowing for the possibility of disguise. This girl had fine golden-blonde hair down to her shoulders. It looked as if it had been braided then left free to tumble. She had a small nose in the centre of an oval face, an appealing overbite and light blue eyes, set in the most delicate porcelain complexion. The girl in the photo with Quinn was darker-skinned, more exotic, with fuller lips and dark eyes. This one was an English rose. So who was it? She seemed familiar, a face he had seen, perhaps more than once, and he guessed that she was Rachel Hewitt. Keith Palmer couldn’t help him. Just in case Banks was completely out on a limb he took the photo downstairs and checked it against the framed family shots he had noticed on the sideboard. It certainly wasn’t Quinn’s daughter. She had coarser brown hair, was carrying far more weight, and could by no means be said to have a porcelain complexion.

And when he looked up from the family photo, he got the shock of his life to see the same face, this time in the living, breathing flesh, standing right in front of him, a red-faced PC behind her, saying, ‘I’m sorry, sir, I couldn’t stop her. She says she’s Jessica Quinn, DI Quinn’s daughter. She lives here.’

‘I came as soon as I could,’ said Jessica, brushing past Banks into the living room, ‘What’s going on? What are all those people doing here? Have they been searching the house? Have they been in my room?’

Her voice was rising to a hysterical pitch. Banks put his arm on her shoulder, but she shook him off. ‘Jessica—’

‘You can’t do this. You just can’t do this. It’s an invasion of privacy. My father will... my father...’

And suddenly she crumpled and fell in tears on the sofa. Banks sat down opposite her in an armchair. It was best to let her cry, he thought, as the great chest-racking sobs came from her, even though she buried her face in a cushion. He gestured for DS Palmer to leave the room and carry on with the search. Jessica was still a little overweight, as she was in the family photo, and the baggy jumper and shapeless peasant skirt she wore didn’t flatter her. Her face, when Banks saw it again, was pretty enough, but dotted with teenage acne as well as streaked with tears. Her tangled hair hadn’t been washed or brushed for a few days. She seemed to be what his old politically incorrect colleague DS Jim Hatchley would have described as ‘a hairy-legged eco-feminist,’ though Banks could vouch for neither the legs nor the eco-feminism.

‘Jessica,’ he said, when she had been quiet for a while, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to walk in on this. But it has to be done, and quickly.’

Jessica reached into her shoulder-bag for a tissue and rubbed her eyes and nose. ‘I know. I’m sorry, too,’ she said. ‘It was just driving up here all by myself, knowing about Dad... it got to me. I just got into a terrible state. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I was lucky I didn’t have an accident.’

‘One of our cars would have brought you.’

‘No, I wanted to drive myself. Really. I needed... just to be alone. The last place I wanted to be was in the back of a police car. I used to think it was exciting when I was young, when Dad...’ She started crying again, more softly this time, and took out another tissue. ‘You must think I’m a terrible softie.’

‘Not at all,’ said Banks. ‘Where’s your brother?’

‘Robbie’s on his way. We talked on the mobile. He was just leaving when I got to my turn-off. You know Keele. It’s in the middle of bloody nowhere, and he doesn’t have a car. I just had to drive along the M62.’ Her eyes filled with tears again. ‘I can’t believe this. How could it happen? First Mum, and now Dad. My God, we’re orphans now.’ She cried again.

‘I know it’s a terrible shock,’ said Banks, ‘but I do need to ask you some questions. How about a cup of tea before we start? It’s a bit of a cliché, but I could really do with one myself.’

Banks followed Jessica into the kitchen. He offered to make the tea, but she told him to sit down, she knew where everything was. Banks sat at the solid pine table while Jessica set about boiling the kettle and putting two tea bags into a white teapot with red hearts all over it. The kettle didn’t take long. As she poured the boiling water, Jessica looked at the sink and rubbed her sleeve across her eyes. ‘Typical Dad. He just lets things pile up like that. All neat and tidy and clean, of course, but honestly, I mean, who else would just leave a dish rack full of dishes if he knew he was going away for two weeks? And I’ll bet he didn’t think to empty out the fridge. I don’t even dare open it.’

‘It’s not too bad,’ said Banks. ‘There’s a bit of green stuff here and there, but at least it doesn’t smell. The milk’s off.’ His own fridge went like that occasionally, too, with things changing colour and starting to smell a bit, but he saw no point in admitting that to Jessica.

‘Men. Just sugar do, then?’

‘Please. Two teaspoons.’

The tea ready, Jessica poured, set the two mugs down on the table and slumped in a chair, resting her chin in her hands. ‘I just can’t get my head around this.’ She gave Banks a sudden sharp glance. ‘What happened? Will I have to identify the body?’

‘Somebody will,’ said Banks. ‘You or your brother. Don’t worry. The family liaison officer will deal with all that. She should be here soon. Didn’t they tell you what happened?’

‘Only that he was dead.’

‘He was murdered, Jessica. That’s why we’re here. That’s why there are men searching the house.’

‘Murdered? Dad? But he wasn’t even at work. He was...’

‘I know. He was killed in the grounds of St Peter’s. It was quick. He wouldn’t have suffered.’

Her eyes brimmed with tears again. ‘They always say that. How do you know? I’ll bet you suffer a lot if you know you’ll be dead in even a split second.’

There was no reply to that. Banks sipped the hot, sweet tea. Just what he needed.

‘There’s been a break in here,’ he said. ‘We think it’s connected. They’ve been through your dad’s study. Maybe you can help us determine what’s missing.’

‘I’m only here in the holidays. I wouldn’t know what’s supposed to be where, especially in Dad’s study. None of us were allowed in there.’

‘Do you know whether your father owned a laptop?’

‘Yes, he did.’

Well, that was one question answered, but it begged another. ‘Did he use it much? I’m wondering why he didn’t take it with him to St Peter’s. I mean, laptops are small and light enough to carry around. That’s what they’re for. As far as I know, they had Wi-Fi available up there.’

Jessica gave him a sad, indulgent smile. ‘Dad was such a Luddite when it came to things like that. Oh, he had one — he could just about do email and stuff like that — but it was always me or Robbie had to sort it out for him whenever we came up. He was always messing it up, getting viruses, ignoring error messages. If something didn’t work immediately, he just kept pressing the “enter” key or clicking the mouse. Honestly, he’d have about ten copies of Internet Explorer open at the same time, and he wondered why it was running so slowly. He was hopeless.’

‘Did he use it for writing or anything else? Facebook?’

‘Writing? Dad hated writing. Reports were the bane of his life. And Facebook... well, I’d blush if I had to tell you what he thought about social networks. No, if anything, he probably used it a bit for surfing the Internet, you know fishing and gardening sites, that sort of thing. And he did manage to work out Skype so we could talk for free during term time. Half the time he couldn’t get the video bit working, though, so it was voice only.’

‘Games?’

‘I doubt it. He wasn’t much of a one for computer games. Now trivia, that’s another thing. He probably used Wikipedia a lot.’

Banks smiled. He supposed, then, that there wasn’t much, if anything, of value on Quinn’s laptop, except, perhaps, for some emails. Whoever had taken it had probably done so as a safety measure, just in case there was something incriminating on it, or because he believed it contained information he wanted. In either case, he was probably out of luck. If Quinn wasn’t a big computer fan, they had a far better hope of finding something interesting in his phone call logs than in his emails, Banks reckoned. ‘Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm your father?’ he asked.

‘No. I mean, really. I suppose maybe some of those villains he caught. But he was well liked. He didn’t have a lot of close friends outside of work. He was a bit of a loner, bit of an anorak, if truth be told. He liked being off by himself fishing and bird-watching. And working on his allotment. I used to go with him and help him sometimes when I was younger, especially on the allotment, but you know... you change... lose interest... grow apart. Robbie used to go to the tarn sailing model boats with him. He used to build them himself. Lovely, some of them, the detail. Now we just tease him about being an old anorak.’ She put her hand to her face and stifled a sob. ‘Sorry.’

Banks could feel sympathy. His own children had been the same, interested in whatever seven-day wonder he had been passionate about at the time until they were about thirteen, and then they didn’t want to know; they just wanted to be off with their friends. He made a mental note to ask Keith Palmer’s lads to check out Quinn’s allotment. The odds were that he’d have at least a little gardening shed there. It might be just the sort of place to hide something, and the burglar would probably not have known about it.

Jessica’s expression had become wistful, and Banks got the impression that she wished she hadn’t lost interest in the things that bound her to her father, that she had continued to help him on the allotment and accompany him on fishing trips and bird-watching expeditions, that they hadn’t grown apart. But it happens to everyone. There was nothing he could say to her to make her feel better. It was too late now.

His own father had been a keen cyclist in his younger days, Banks remembered, and many was the day Banks had accompanied him on rides beside the Nene, or across the Cambridgeshire flatlands, when he was eleven or twelve. But like his own children, and like Jessica, the older he had got, the less interested he had become in going with his father on bicycle rides. All he wanted to do was hang around with his mates listening to the latest Beatles, Bob Dylan or Animals record. There had been no room for adults and their boring interests in his world. He was lucky his father was still alive — at least they had been able to rebuild a few bridges in the past few years — but they wouldn’t be going on any bicycle rides together again.

‘It was most likely to do with his work,’ Banks said. ‘Do you know if he received any threatening letters or phone calls recently?’

‘No. But I’ve been at university since Christmas, except I came home when Mum died, of course, and he didn’t mention anything then. He never talked about that stuff at home. His job. Well, hardly ever. Sometimes he’d tell us funny stories about things that happened at the station, but I think he liked to protect us from the bad stuff.’

Exactly as Banks had done with Brian and Tracy. ‘So you can’t think of anyone who wanted to harm him? He didn’t get any threats or anything?’

‘Not that I know of.’ Jessica cradled her mug in both hands and took a sip.

‘I did find one thing you might be able to help me with,’ Banks said, going back into the living room for the photo he had left there. He brought it through to the kitchen and turned it around on the table so that Jessica could get a good look. ‘Is this Rachel Hewitt?’

‘That’s Rachel. She’s so beautiful, isn’t she?’ Jessica bit her lower lip, the tears flowing over. ‘He could never let it go, you know. Never let her go. It’s like she was his only failure, and he had to beat himself up with it every time he got a bit down. It used to drive Mum crazy.’

‘It wasn’t his fault,’ said Banks. ‘They still haven’t found her.’

‘That’s because she’s dead,’ said Jessica. ‘She was dead right from the start. And if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re being terribly naive if you think saying it wasn’t his fault ever did any good. As far as he was concerned, it was his fault. He wasn’t entirely logical about it. We tried to tell him, time after time, but it didn’t work. Why couldn’t they all just believe that she was dead? Why couldn’t he just believe it? Besides, can you imagine what her life would be like if she’d been abducted by some pervert and kept in a cellar as some sort of sex slave? Or forced into prostitution?’

‘Even if he had believed that she was dead,’ said Banks, ‘it wouldn’t have stopped him from doing his job, or from blaming himself. If he was a good copper, he would still have needed to know what happened to her, and why.’

She gave Banks a sharp glance. ‘A good copper. What’s that supposed to mean? Anyway, why do you want to know about this? What does any of it have to do with Dad’s death?’

‘I’ve got no idea. Probably nothing. The photo was just sitting there in a folder full of Visa bills, with no identification or anything. The name came up before. She seemed familiar...’

‘She should be. Her face has been plastered over the papers often enough these past six years or so. Still is every now and then, when her parents step up the campaign again.’

Banks could hardly imagine how he would feel if his own daughter disappeared completely without trace in a foreign country, but he had always felt a deep sympathy for the Hewitts and their ongoing grief. They had suffered at the hands of the media, too, and were now caught up as victims in the never-ending phone-hacking scandal, which must make it hurt all over again. Banks was suspicious of ‘closure’ and all it implied, thought it was some sort of modern psycho-babble, but he knew that in their case there could be no rest, no peace, until their daughter’s body was recovered and returned home.

‘Did your father have much contact with Rachel’s family?’

‘None. Except when she first disappeared, I suppose.’

‘He didn’t stay in touch?’

‘No. Why would he?’

‘No reason. They didn’t... you know... blame him, or anything?’

‘He didn’t need them to blame him. He managed that all by himself.’

Banks realised that Jessica was probably right. The Rachel Hewitt connection was interesting, but that was all it was, just another item to drop in the bulging file, along with Harry Lake, Stephen Lambert and Warren Corrigan. Soon they would have even more material from West Yorkshire, and a whole host of other names from Quinn’s past to sift through. There was nothing more Banks could think of, so he stood up to leave. ‘Where are you staying?’ he asked Jessica at the door.

‘Here. Why? It’s not a crime scene, is it?’

‘Well, it is, really... technically... the break-in... It’s obviously connected with what happened to your father. But the CSIs have already gathered all the evidence they can, and they’ll be taking the rest of his papers away. They should be finished here soon.’

‘Well...?’

‘I just thought... I mean, are you sure you want to stay here? Is there someone I can call for you? A relative? Boyfriend?’

‘Thank you for your concern, but I’ll be fine. Really. Robbie will be here soon. We’ll probably just get pissed.’

A very good idea, Banks thought, but he didn’t say so.