Watching the Dark

Chapter 3

Banks arrived in his office early on Friday morning after a quiet evening at home listening to Kate Royal, watching the first in the Treme series and sipping the best part of a bottle of Rioja. So much for cutting back.

He had phoned Stefan Nowak, the Crime Scene Manager, as the team was packing up at St Peter’s around sunset the previous evening. They had finished their search of the woods and lake, and had found no sign of a weapon. They had, however, found a cigarette end close to the body, some synthetic fibres, and traces of what might have been blood from a scratch on the tree trunk where they thought the killer had leaned. There was also a fresh footprint that definitely wasn’t Bill Quinn’s. Their expert said that, at first glance, it was a common sort of trainer you could buy anywhere, but they might be able to get a bit more detail from it. There was often a correlation between shoe size and height, for example, and measurements could give them at least a working estimate of how tall the person who wore them was, and how much he or she weighed. Any distinguishing marks on one or both of the soles could be as individual as a fingerprint.

DS Keith Palmer and his team had finished searching Bill Quinn’s house and allotment in Rawdon, including his garden shed. They had even dug up a good deal of the allotment, but had found nothing.

Banks linked his hands behind his neck, leaned back in his chair and listened to Ravel’s ‘Gaspard de la Nuit’ on Radio Three’s Breakfast. As he glanced around his office, he realised that he had been in the same room for over twenty years, and that it had only been redecorated once, as far as he could remember. He didn’t much care about the institutional green walls, as they were covered in framed prints and posters for concerts and exhibitions — Hockney’s Yorkshire scenes, Miles Davis at Newport, Jimi Hendrix at Winterland, a Chagall poster for the Paris Opera — but he certainly needed a newer and bigger desk, one that didn’t require a piece of wadded-up paper under one of its legs. He could do with another filing cabinet, too, he thought, as his gaze settled on the teetering pile of paper on top of the one he had already. A couple of shelves and an extra bookcase wouldn’t go amiss, either, and perhaps a chair that was kinder to his back than the antique he was sitting in now. No wonder his neck was starting to play up after long days at the office, especially with all the extra paperwork he seemed to have these days. He’d be in St Peter’s soon, himself, if he wasn’t careful. At least the heater worked, and the tatty old Venetian blinds had been replaced.

But now was not the time to ask for such things, he knew. He should have made his demands a few years ago, when the police were getting almost everything they asked for. Those days were long gone. Like everywhere else, Eastvale had been recently plagued by twenty per cent cuts across the board and a drastic county reorganisation designed to implement some of those cuts. The three ‘Areas’ had been replaced by six ‘Safer Neighbourhood Commands’. Changes at County HQ in Newby Wiske also meant that the Major Crimes Unit, or Homicide and Major Enquiry Team as it was now known, still operated out of Eastvale, but covered more ground.

The team came under Assistant Chief Constable (Crime) Ron McLaughlin, known as ‘Red Ron’ because of his leftist leanings, but it was run on a day-to-day basis by Area Commander Catherine Gervaise, and it was now responsible not just for the defunct Western Area, but for the whole county — with the same team strength, and no increase in civilian support staff.

It was time for the nine-thirty briefing, and the team gathered in the boardroom, which despite its modern glass writing board, along with the whiteboard and corkboard, still managed to retain some of its old-fashioned appearance, with the large oval table at its centre, high hard-backed chairs and the portraits of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century wool barons on its walls: red-faced, pop-eyed men with whiskers and tight collars.

Banks took his place nearest the writing boards as the others drifted in, most of them clutching mugs or styrofoam cups of coffee as well as files and notebooks. AC Gervaise had managed to borrow a couple of DCs, Haig and Lombard, from County HQ, but it wasn’t a big team, Banks reflected, nowhere near big enough for a major investigation into the murder of a fellow police officer. It would have to be augmented if the scope of the investigation ballooned, as Banks expected it would, unless they caught an early break. He would be especially glad to see Annie Cabbot back, but DS Jim Hatchley, one of the officers Banks had known the longest in Eastvale, had retired as soon as he had done his thirty years, as Banks had always known he would. He missed the lumbering, obstinate sod.

First, he shared what he knew with the team, then asked if they had anything to add. The short answer was that they didn’t. Scientific Support were still working on the footprints, Photographic Services had the photographs, and the DNA results from the cigarette end and blood didn’t come back anywhere near as quickly as they did on CSI. All the specialist was able to tell him so far was that the brand of cigarette was Dunhill, which a few quick inquiries on Winsome’s part ascertained was Bill Quinn’s brand. There were no other cigarettes found in or near the woods. Obviously the groundsman did a good job.

There was nothing new on the murder weapon, or on the state of Bill Quinn’s body, as Dr Glendenning, the Home Office pathologist, was not due to perform the post-mortem until later that afternoon. A list of possible enemies would be on its way up from West Yorkshire sometime later in the day, if they were lucky, and Quinn’s bank statements, credit card details and home and mobile calls log should also be arriving before the day was out, again with luck. It was a Friday, so there was always a possibility of delays. Inquiries were being made in the village nearest to St Peter’s, as well as at the nearest petrol stations and any other places where strangers were likely to have been spotted. Uniformed officers were canvassing the neighbourhood of Quinn’s Rawdon home to find out if anyone had noticed an interloper recently. The interviews at St Peter’s had been concluded and had revealed nothing of interest except that Quinn was in the habit of going outside for a smoke before bed each night.

‘So it would seem,’ Banks summed up after the team had digested all this information, or lack of it, ‘that we need to get our fingers out. We’re no closer than we were when DI Jenson found the body yesterday morning.’

‘We do have the photos, sir,’ Winsome pointed out. ‘Photographic Services say they’re digital, printed on a common or garden inkjet printer, so nothing new there. They’re analysing the ink content and pixels for comparison with Quinn’s own printer, but it’s not an entirely accurate process.’

‘Their thinking being?’

‘That Quinn may have received the photos as JPEG images and printed them out himself. Which also means there might be more.’

‘And we might be able to trace them to a sender?’

‘If we had them,’ said Winsome, ‘then it’s possible they could be traced to a specific computer.’

‘But we don’t.’

‘No.’

‘Well, that’s one dead end,’ Banks said. ‘I don’t think it really matters whether he printed them himself or someone sent them by post, unless we have the envelope, and it has a postmark and prints on it, which we don’t.’

Winsome stood up and started handing out 8 x 10 prints. ‘They also came up with this enhanced blow-up image of the girl from the restaurant photo,’ she said. ‘It was the best they could do. They’re still working on the background to see if they can get any points of reference.’

‘Any prints on the photos?’

‘Only the victim’s.’

Banks examined the blow-up. It was a little grainy, but Photographic Services had done a great job, and he believed that someone could recognise the girl from it. ‘Excellent,’ he said, then addressed the two young DCs on loan. ‘Haig and Lombard, I want you to make it your priority to check the photo of this girl against escort agency files, Internet dating services, and whatever else you think is relevant. You can use the spare desks in the squad room. We’ve no idea when or where the pictures were taken, of course, but my thinking is sometime over the last two or three years.’

‘It sounds like a long job, sir,’ mumbled Haig, the bulky one.

‘Better get on with it, then. You never know, you might even find you enjoy it. But be careful. If either one of you comes back with a smile on his face and a cigarette in his mouth, he’ll be in deep trouble.’

Everyone laughed. Haig and Lombard exchanged dark glances, took two copies of the photo and left the room.

‘Anything else?’ Banks asked Winsome.

‘We’ve just about finished interviewing the patients and staff at St Peter’s,’ she said. ‘Nothing so far. Barry Sadler and Mandy Pemberton were the last up, but neither of them saw or heard anything.’

‘Are they telling the truth?’

‘I think so, sir. I interviewed Barry Sadler, and he’s very cut up. He’s an ex-copper. The nurse has a clean record and a spotless reputation. Of course, we can always have another go at them if something else turns up pointing in that direction, but I think it’s doubtful.’

Banks took the photograph of Rachel Hewitt from his briefcase and stuck it on the glass alongside the blow-up of the unknown girl with Quinn. He still didn’t understand why the Deputy Chief Commissioner had seen the necessity of spending close to £500 on a glass writing board when the whiteboard worked perfectly well. Basically, you could write and rub out and stick pictures on it, which was all you needed to do. He’d probably seen one on Law & Order UK or some such television programme and thought it was a necessity for the modern police force.

‘This may mean nothing at all,’ Banks said, ‘but Bill Quinn worked on the Rachel Hewitt case for a short while in the summer of 2006, not long after she was reported missing, and he had this photograph in a file in his study. Quinn spent a week in Tallinn helping with the investigation there and carried out background checks into Rachel and her friends. Both DI Blackstone in Leeds and Quinn’s daughter said the case haunted him.’

‘Was it ever closed?’ asked Winsome.

‘No,’ Banks said. ‘Just inactive. Officially, Rachel Hewitt is still a missing person, but there haven’t been any fresh leads for six years — there weren’t any leads at all — so until new information comes in, there’s nothing more can be done, and the investigation has been mothballed. She’d be twenty-five now.’

‘Surely she’s dead?’ said Doug Wilson.

‘In all likelihood. But families don’t give up that easily, Doug. Think of the McCanns. Little Madeleine’s been gone for years now, but they won’t let themselves believe that she’s dead, even though, compared to the alternatives, some might say death would be a blessing. They can’t. Rachel Hewitt’s family is the same. They won’t give up. They won’t accept that their daughter is dead. Anyway, as I said, it’s probably nothing, but at some point we’ll have to talk to the parents and friends. In the meantime, I’d like one of you to put together a dossier on Rachel Hewitt. Clippings, photos, names, whatever you can find on the investigation. There should be plenty. Gerry, maybe you can get started on that?’

DC Geraldine Masterson scribbled something down on her pad. ‘Yes, sir.’

Banks turned to Winsome. ‘I think in the meantime you and I should get back to St Peter’s and see if we can wrap up there,’ he said. ‘The rest of you all have your actions and TIEs to be getting on with. Doug, I want you here when the list of Bill Quinn’s possible old enemies and his phone records arrive, and I want you to head the examination. Coordinate with DI Ken Blackstone at Millgarth. Ken mentioned a bloke called Corrigan. Warren Corrigan. He’s got his finger in a few pies, all of them nasty, but basically he’s a loan shark. Ask around. See if he has any sort of presence in these parts. We want to know who Quinn has been talking to lately, and who’s been talking to him. Keep an open mind about the old cases. Something might leap out at you, but you can’t rely on that. You can probably forget the junkies and alcoholic wife-beaters — they probably wouldn’t even remember making threats, let alone have what it takes to stalk and kill someone with a crossbow — but give them all at least a passing glance. Anything that strikes you as odd, interesting, possible, make a note of it. Gerry here will give you a hand in her spare time. If she has any.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Doug glanced over at DC Masterson, who tapped the end of her pencil on her notepad.

‘And we also need to find out if Bill Quinn had ever worked with or had any close connection with anyone staying at St Peter’s. Or if anyone there had a connection with someone he put away, someone who threatened him, had a grudge. You might as well include the staff, too. I realise this all adds up to casting a very wide net indeed, but we’ve either got to rule all these things out, or find a link to Quinn’s murder somewhere, if we’re to narrow it down to a viable line of inquiry. I shouldn’t have to remind you that Bill Quinn was one of our own and that we’ll be under extreme scrutiny on this. Clear?’

Everyone nodded, glum expressions on their faces. They knew what it meant: say goodbye to the weekend, and all leave is cancelled.

‘Sir?’ said Winsome.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I’ve just been thinking. The choice of weapon, the murder in the woods... Could we be looking for someone with hunting experience? Hunting and tracking? We know that Quinn himself was into outdoors stuff — angling and gardening, specifically — so he might have known people who were hunters, who belonged to the same clubs or societies he did.’

‘That’s a good point, Winsome,’ said Banks. ‘Doug and Gerry, you should keep an eye open for anything like that, too. Any hunters, flag them. Check on Quinn’s friends outside the force, too, if he had any, and any organisations he belonged to. Also,’ Banks went on, ‘one of you will need to check sources for crossbows and bolts, including online. And I want someone to search for any similar crimes, anything involving a crossbow, in fact, over, say, the past five years. OK?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said DC Wilson.

Before the meeting broke up, the door opened and Area Commander Gervaise walked in with another woman behind her. Late thirties or early forties, Banks guessed, a tall attractive blonde, elegant suit, the skirt ending just above her knees, black tights — no Primark for her — a trim, lithe figure with gentle curves, a smattering of freckles across her small nose, intelligent green eyes, regal bearing. Her blonde tresses were piled and coiled on top, giving the impression of casual simplicity, though Banks guessed the haircut was expensive and the arrangement took a lot of time. She seemed a little nervous, he thought.

‘If you’d all just hang on for a minute,’ Gervaise said, avoiding Banks’s gaze, ‘I’d like to introduce Inspector Joanna Passero. Joanna is from Professional Standards, and she’ll be working with you all very closely on this case.’

‘The rat squad,’ Banks muttered.

Gervaise raised an eyebrow. ‘What was that?’

‘Nothing,’ said Banks. ‘Welcome to the squad. Pleased to meet you, Inspector Passero.’

‘Likewise,’ said Inspector Passero. ‘Call me Joanna.’ Even in those few words, Banks thought he noticed a hint of a Scottish accent, which went quite against her Italian surname, as did her blonde good looks. Still, he thought, remembering Bill Forsyth’s Comfort and Joy, with its Glasgow ice-cream wars, a lot of Italians had settled in Scotland over the years.

‘In my office, Alan,’ said Gervaise. ‘The rest of you can get back to work.’

Banks gestured for Winsome to wait for him and followed Gervaise and Joanna Passero down the corridor.

The three of them made themselves comfortable around Gervaise’s circular glass table and drank coffee made from Gervaise’s machine. Banks felt lucky; it was his second cup in two days. On the other hand, when he realised why Inspector Joanna Passero was present, he didn’t feel so lucky after all. She crossed her long, black-stockinged legs and leaned back with the mug in her hand as if she were at her book club, or a Women’s Institute coffee morning. A half smile played around her full pink lips. Perhaps she was enjoying Banks’s obvious discomfort, he thought, or perhaps she had noticed his stolen glances at the swell of her breasts under the finely tailored jacket, or the shapely ankle of her crossed leg.

There was a Nordic aspect to her beauty, despite her Italian surname and Scottish accent. All that lovely blonde coolness, Banks thought. Alfred Hitchcock would have loved her. And tied twenty birds to her clothes with long nylon threads.

‘You could have given me some warning,’ Banks said to Gervaise. ‘You made me look a right twat back there at the briefing.’

‘That wasn’t my intention,’ said Gervaise. ‘The decision’s just been made. I’ve been at a breakfast meeting with ACC McLaughlin and the Chief Constable over at County HQ, and we are all agreed that, given the circumstances of DI Bill Quinn’s murder, and what was discovered in his room, we need a representative from Professional Standards on board. ACC McLaughlin suggested Joanna, who is relatively new to the county, but comes along with an excellent pedigree from Thames Valley. I brought her back here with me. I’m sure she’ll be a valuable addition to the team.’

‘Valuable in what way, ma’am?’ Banks asked.

‘I’ve told you, less of the ma’am. We can be informal in here.’

‘Valuable in what way?’

Gervaise deferred to Inspector Passero. ‘Joanna?’

Joanna Passero held Banks’s gaze as she leaned forward and set her coffee mug down on the table. There was a pink lipstick stain on the rim. Banks realised that he was being outflanked by two strong women, one above him in rank, and the other with a cool demeanour and any number of little feminine wiles up her sleeve. He also realised that there was probably nothing he could do about any of it. Once Gervaise’s mind was made up, that was it, and she had the backing of ACC McLaughlin and the Chief Constable. This meeting was a mere formality, a courtesy, perhaps. Banks wasn’t going to get Joanna Passero sent back to Newby Wiske or Thames Valley, no matter how much he might try. About the only thing he could hope to get out of this meeting was to escape with his dignity intact and maybe gain a few minor concessions. But he wasn’t going to give up without a struggle. He listened as Joanna Passero spoke in her lilting Edinburgh accent.

‘I’m sure you’ll agree with me,’ she began, ‘that in the light of the compromising photographs you found in DI Quinn’s possession, implicating him in the possible corruption of a minor, not to say grave dereliction of duty, this investigation goes somewhat beyond the norm.’

‘There’s no evidence that the girl was a minor.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’ She gave an impatient twitch of her head. ‘Look at her. Just look at her.’

‘It’s possible that DI Quinn was being blackmailed because of those pictures,’ Banks said. ‘It’s also possible that he was set up.’

‘In what way?’

‘If you look at the way he’s lying in that bedroom photo, you can see he seems quite out of it. Maybe he was drugged?’

‘Or drunk.’

‘Possibly. But—’

‘He didn’t appear drugged in the bar, or in the restaurant. In fact, he seemed to be very much enjoying himself.’

‘And where’s the law against having a drink or a meal with an attractive young woman? If he was drugged, have you considered that the restaurant or the bar may well have been where the drug was administered? In his drink or his food? She may even have been as much a victim as he was. We just don’t know. This is all a bit premature, in my opinion.’

‘There’s no point you two arguing back and forth about this,’ Gervaise said, glancing first at Banks. ‘Alan, you have to admit that the whole business is extremely fishy. The photos, the murder method, everything. You said yourself that you think DI Quinn might have been blackmailed because of the girl.’

‘But we’re just starting out on our investigation,’ Banks argued. ‘We don’t really know anything yet. These are just theories.’

‘That’s why I want Joanna in right at the beginning.’

‘To do what?’

‘My job,’ said Joanna. ‘What do you think? I’m happy to tag along and observe and ask what questions I think necessary. Believe me, DCI Banks, I have no intention of getting in the way of this investigation, or of slowing it down in any way. I want the same as you. A result. I also want to know if there is any hint of wrongdoing on the part of the police. Is that so unreasonable?’

‘Not when you put it like that. But this is already a complex investigation, and I don’t want to be in the position of having to describe or explain my every move and decision to someone else. I also don’t want someone looking over my shoulder and judging my methods all the time.’

Banks didn’t think he had anything to fear from Professional Standards. Whatever his methods, whatever corners he cut and instincts he followed, he stayed within the boundaries of the law. Usually. He noticed once again the intelligent pale green eyes, the expensive blonde hair, the freckles, straight nose, full lips lightly brushed with pink lipstick. She held his gaze without flinching. She would probably be formidable in an interview room, or at a poker table.

‘I understand that,’ said Joanna, picking up her coffee again, flicking him a Princess Di upwards glance, ‘and I can only repeat that I have no intention of slowing things down, or of looking over your shoulder. I know all about your methods, DCI Banks. They’re legendary at County HQ. But you’re not my brief. DI William Quinn is.’

‘But you will slow things down, whether you intend to or not. Your presence will affect my whole team.’

‘I can only repeat: neither you nor your team is my brief.’ She paused and shot him a cool glance. ‘Why? What have you all got to hide?’

‘Oh, come off it. You know perfectly well what I mean. When the taxman calls, you don’t expect it’s about a rebate, do you? We’re working at cross purposes here. I’m after the person who murdered Bill Quinn. Period. You want the dirt on Quinn. You’ll be trying to prove him corrupt or perverted, or both. I’m not saying you shouldn’t be, or that his reputation doesn’t deserve to be trashed if you find evidence he was bent. I have no more tolerance for bent coppers than you have. But as yet, there’s no evidence that Bill Quinn was crooked, and plenty that he was murdered. We’re not searching for the same thing at all.’

‘I had hoped you would be more understanding, Alan,’ Gervaise chipped in. ‘Quite frankly, I’m disappointed in you. I realise that some of your arguments are not without merit, but no matter what you say, you will do this. There’s no point in getting off on the wrong foot. This thing is going to happen. I say it’s going to happen. ACC McLaughlin says it’s going to happen. The Chief Constable says it’s going to happen. The purpose of calling this little tête-a-tête right here and now was to see that it happens in the spirit of cooperation and amicability. Is that too much to ask? If Bill Quinn were alive, and you found what you found hidden in that book in his room, with all its implications, what do you think would happen then?’

‘I presume there would be an investigation by Professional Standards, probably in the form of Inspector Passero here. But that’s not the case. Bill Quinn was murdered. That changes things. Please excuse me if I sound dismissive, but that makes it a fully fledged murder investigation, not a hunt for a bent copper.’

‘But it’s both,’ argued Joanna. ‘And they may be connected. Can’t you see that?’

‘Right at the moment, all I can see is that the murder investigation takes precedence, and I want everyone on my team to have some expertise in that particular area. Have you ever been involved in a murder investigation before, Inspector Passero?’

‘I don’t see how that’s relevant.’ Joanna paused, licked her lips and inclined her head slowly. Her voice softened. ‘Of course, I understand what you’re saying,’ she went on. ‘Don’t think for a moment that I don’t know what you all think of Professional Standards. I’ve heard all the insults you could possibly imagine, and more. Aren’t we the “rat squad”, which you called me just a few minutes ago? It’s not very nice or polite, but I can live with it. Like you, we have a job to do, and it’s an important job, even if it is an unpopular one. In this case, we have a murdered detective who may or may not have been having sex with an underage girl, but who most certainly had in his possession proof that he was sexually involved with someone other than his wife. And that proof, as you have already pointed out yourself, suggests that he was subject to blackmail. Whether he paid this blackmailer in cash or in inside information, it makes no difference. We’re talking about possible police corruption here, and what one man does taints us all.’ She glanced at AC Gervaise, and Banks noticed Gervaise give an almost imperceptible nod. ‘There’s been rumours, as you probably know,’ Joanna went on. ‘Rumours of corruption, of a “bent copper”, as you call it. Now this. No smoke without fire, I say.’

‘So that’s why you’re here,’ said Banks.

‘It’s one reason. All I’m saying is that his murder and the discovery of the photos makes that possibility more...’

‘More possible?’

‘I was going to say more realistic.’

Banks held his hands up. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Fine. I agree. As I said, I’d no more turn a blind eye to police corruption than you would. But can’t we give the poor sod the benefit of the doubt? He’s not even in his grave yet, and we’re already acting as if he were a criminal. What about his children?’ He glanced towards Gervaise, who remained expressionless. ‘If I find out anything that points towards Quinn being the one involved in corrupt or criminal activities, the first whiff of a scandal, you’ll be the first to know. And Inspector Passero here. I promise. All right? Now can’t you just leave us alone to get on with our murder investigation? It’s complicated enough already.’

‘There’s no negotiating on this,’ said Gervaise. ‘I told you. Respect my honesty and directness in calling this meeting, and respond with a little generosity of your own. You know it’s the right move.’

‘What about Annie? DI Cabbot. Where does she fit in with all this?’

Gervaise sighed. ‘DI Cabbot will be back at work on Monday, as I told you yesterday. According to all the reports I’ve read, she’s fit for duty, so that’s exactly what she’ll be doing. Her normal duties.’

‘Not deskbound?’

‘ACC McLaughlin has met with her doctors, and they have assured him that she’s ready for a full return to duty. Personally, I still think she should take it easy for a while and get some counselling, but that’s only me.’

‘She’s been taking it easy for six months.’

Annie would be livid about Joanna Passero, Banks thought. She would be convinced that the Professional Standards officer was being set up as her replacement on the team, perhaps even that they were going to get rid of her after she’d almost sacrificed her life for the job. Not just for the job, but for Banks’s daughter Tracy, who had also risked a great deal herself to save Annie’s life.

For the moment, though, Annie wasn’t the main issue; Joanna Passero was. Banks knew that he couldn’t trust her, that he would have to be constantly on guard, but he also knew, as he had known going into the meeting, that he had no choice in the matter. It would never do to be too nice to Professional Standards, certainly not in public, and there may be one or two times ahead when he might want to hold his cards close to his chest, and he would do so. He wasn’t going to make things easy for her. At least she was a great improvement on that old fat bastard Superintendent Chambers, who had retired due to ill health after Christmas, thank God. It was politic, he thought, to offer a tentative olive branch.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s assume that we work together.’

Joanna Passero’s expression indicated that there was no ‘let’s assume’ about it, but that she was willing to listen to what he had to say for the sake of politeness.

‘How’s it going to work?’ Banks asked. ‘I mean, I’m still Senior Investigating Officer on this case, right?’ He glanced at Gervaise. ‘What does that make Inspector Passero? Deputy?’

‘No,’ said Gervaise. ‘DI Cabbot will be your DIO, as usual. As I said, Inspector Passero in on board to investigate Bill Quinn. She’s attached to your team as an advisor and as an observer.’

‘That certainly complicates things,’ said Banks.

‘No, it doesn’t,’ said Joanna. ‘It means I won’t get under your feet. Why don’t we just see how it works out first before coming to any conclusions? If my participation causes problems that jeopardise your investigation, or interferes in any way with the swift progress or smooth running of the operation, then we’ll re-evaluate and find some other way of uncovering the bad apple.’

Gervaise looked at Banks. ‘Can’t say fairer than that, can you, Alan?’

Banks sat for a moment, feeling neither defeated nor victorious, then he leaned forward, fully aware he was inviting the wolf into the fold, and offered Joanna his hand. ‘Welcome to the team,’ he said. ‘You’d better come and meet the others, get up to speed.’

‘You know,’ Banks said, turning down the volume on Anna Calvi’s ‘Baby It’s You’ as they approached the roundabout before St Peter’s, ‘I’ve been thinking. Our killer obviously didn’t walk here, and I very much doubt that he parked his car out front.’

‘Which means,’ Winsome said, ‘that he must have found a nice, quiet out of the way spot to leave it not too far away.’

‘Exactly. Preferably somewhere that couldn’t be seen from the road. The centre’s less than a hundred yards past this roundabout, which is an easy enough walk. There are no major roads feeding into it, they’re all B roads, so let’s go and see what we can find.’

‘But what about Inspector Passero?’ Banks was driving Winsome in his Porsche, and Joanna Passero was following in a red Peugeot.

‘I’m sure she’ll be able to keep up with us.’

Instead of taking the exit to St Peter’s, which was the first one off the roundabout, Banks took the third, which headed in the opposite direction from the centre entirely. He saw Joanna’s Peugeot in his rear-view mirror. She started to turn off at the St Peter’s exit, then swerved when she saw what he’d done, skidded, and did a 180-degree turn back to the roundabout to follow him, barely missing a white delivery van, which was going too fast. Its horn blared.

The Peugeot seemed to stall in the roundabout for a few moments, then it started up again and followed them.

There were no hiding places along the stretch of road Banks had chosen, and after about a quarter of a mile, he used a lay-by to do a U turn and headed back towards the roundabout. Joanna Passero whizzed by on the other side, and he saw her slow down behind him, then pull into the lay-by and turn around to follow. Winsome didn’t seem very amused. ‘What’s wrong?’ Banks asked. ‘Aren’t you having fun?’

‘If you want my opinion,’ Winsome said, ‘this is very silly, dangerous, and childish. Sir.’

‘Ouch. That puts me in my place.’ Banks turned into the roundabout and took the only other exit he hadn’t explored, again the third, which took him away at a right angle from the road on which the centre was located, a continuation of the road he had first come in on.

Winsome folded her arms. This time, less than twenty yards along the road, on the opposite side, Banks saw a rough track leading off at a sharp angle. There were high trees on both sides, and the lane was so narrow that it would have been impossible for two cars to pass without one backing up. There was nothing coming on the road, so Banks turned into the lane, blocking the entrance with the Porsche. He hadn’t seen Joanna behind him, and assumed that she either hadn’t reached the roundabout yet or had given up and gone on to St Peter’s by herself.

Banks didn’t want to drive any further in, just in case this was the right place and there were tyre tracks or other evidence. He and Winsome got out of the car and walked carefully along the edge of the rutted track, beside the hedgerow. There was no drystone wall on either side. When they stopped a few yards in, they couldn’t see, or be seen from, the road at all, but they could see some tyre tracks. The uneven surface was just stones and dirt, no doubt intended for farm vehicles, though there was no farmhouse in sight. It would have made the perfect hiding place for the killer’s car after dark. Farmers don’t usually drive tractors around country lanes at that time of night. Banks wasn’t even sure whether tractors had headlights.

‘A hundred yards walk from the centre,’ he said, ‘hidden from the road by trees, very little traffic. I think we’ve found the spot, Winsome. It would have been very bad luck indeed if he’d been spotted here, and we can assume that he probably had a contingency plan. Professionals usually do. No prints. Car rented under an assumed name.’

Banks heard a car screech to a halt on the road behind his Porsche, then the sound of a car door slamming. Joanna Passero appeared in the entrance to the lane and started walking towards them. About the same time that Banks held up his hand and called to her to stay back, she went over on her ankle and cursed, then grabbed on to a roadside tree branch to keep her balance and cried out again. Thorns. Banks started to walk back towards the main road, still keeping close to the hedgerow. It wasn’t long before he came up to a fuming Joanna Passero standing, or rather hopping, at the entrance to the track, one leg bent up behind her, like a stork’s, grasping a shiny black shoe in one hand and wobbling dangerously. ‘Banks, you bastard! You just made me break a bloody heel! Do you know how much these shoes cost? What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’

‘Just doing my job,’ said Banks. He approached her gingerly and explained about the need for the killer to hide his car, and this being a likely spot.

As he talked, she visibly relaxed and leaned against his car, keeping her stockinged foot just above the rough surface. ‘You could have bloody warned me,’ she said. ‘That road surface is lethal.’

‘I’m sorry. I only thought of it when we got to the roundabout. It’s like that in a real investigation sometimes. Anyway, I think we should get the CSIs down here. We found some tyre tracks, and there may be footprints. We’ll stay here and protect the scene. Would you mind driving on to St Peter’s and asking the lads to send someone over asap?’ He glanced down at her foot. ‘Sorry about the heel. I’ve got some old wellies in the boot, if that’s any help, though they might be a bit big for you. How’s your ankle? Not sprained or anything, I hope? Can I help you back to your car?’

Joanna glared, as if she wanted to throttle Banks. She turned and hopped back to her Peugeot with as much dignity as she could manage and drove off in a spray of roadside dirt and gravel.

‘See what I mean?’ said Winsome, standing behind him, arms folded. ‘Childish.’

‘Who?’ said Banks, with a straight face. ‘Me or her?’

The mortuary, along with Dr Glendenning’s recently modernised post-mortem suite, was in the basement of the old Eastvale Infirmary. Banks thought it would be a good idea to take Inspector Passero along. She probably wouldn’t learn anything of relevance to her case, but if she was working with Banks, it was time she got used to the late hours. And the blood and guts. It was after five on a Friday afternoon, and a Professional Standards officer would likely be well on her way home by now, if not sitting back with her feet up in front of the telly with a large gin and tonic. Or was Joanna more the cocktail party and theatre type? Probably.

She turned up in a new pair of flat-heeled pumps that she had clearly bought that afternoon at Stead and Simpson’s in the market square. No fancy Italian shoe shops in Eastvale. The new shoes didn’t make as much noise as Banks’s black slip-ons as the two of them walked down the high, gloomy corridor to their appointment. The walls were covered in old green tiles. DC Gerry Masterson had told Banks earlier that Robbie Quinn had been brought in to identify his father’s body that morning, so the formalities were done with for the moment. Dr Glendenning had the coroner’s permission to proceed with his post-mortem.

Banks gave a slight shudder, the way he always did in the Victorian infirmary, and it wasn’t caused by the permanent chill that seemed to infuse the air as much as by the smell of formaldehyde and God only knew what else.

‘Something wrong?’ asked Joanna, her voice echoing from the tiles.

‘No. This place always gives me the creeps, that’s all. It’s probably haunted. There never seems to be anyone else here. And I can just imagine all the patients back in Victorian times, the primitive instruments and lack of anaesthetic. It must have been butchery. A nightmare. Corridors of blood.’

‘You’ve got imagination, I’ll give you that,’ Joanna said. ‘But you must have been misinformed. They had anaesthetics in Victorian times. At least they used chloroform or ether from the 1850s on, and I think it said over the door this place wasn’t built until 1869. I also think you’ll find the instruments were perfectly adequate for their purposes back then.’

‘University education?’ Banks said.

‘Something like that.’

‘Well, it still gives me the creeps. Here we are.’

They donned the gowns and masks provided by one of Dr Glendenning’s young assistants and joined the doctor, who was just about to begin.

‘Tut tut, tardy again, Banks,’ said Dr Glendenning. ‘You know how I hate tardiness. And me working late on a Friday especially to accommodate you.’

‘Sorry, doc. You know I’m eternally grateful.’

‘Who’s your date?’

Banks glanced towards Joanna. ‘This is Inspector Joanna Passero. Professional Standards.’

‘In trouble again, Banks?’

‘She’s here to observe.’

‘Of course.’ Dr Glendenning scrutinised Joanna, who blushed a little. ‘Ever been to a post-mortem before, lassie?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I can’t honestly say that I have.’

‘Aye... well, at least you’re a fellow Scot, by the sound of you.’

‘Edinburgh.’

‘Good. Excellent. Just try not to be sick on the floor.’

‘Now you’ve got the Scottish mutual admiration society well and truly off the ground,’ said Banks, ‘do you think you could get started, doc? We’ve still got a murder to investigate.’

Dr Glendenning scowled at Banks. ‘Sassenach.’ Then he winked at Joanna, who smiled. He adjusted his microphone, called over his first assistant and took the scalpel she handed him. Quinn’s clothes were already lying on a table by the wall. They would be searched and put into labelled paper bags — not plastic, which didn’t breathe and caused mould to grow on moist fabrics — and sent over to Evidence, signed for at every stage of the way to ensure chain of custody.

Before beginning his incision to get at Quinn’s insides, Glendenning studied the external details of the body, had his assistant take a number of photographs, then he leaned over and slowly pulled out the crossbow bolt, which had already been tested for prints, to no avail. There was no blood, of course, as Quinn’s heart had stopped pumping some time ago, but the sucking sound it made when it finally came out made Banks feel queasy, nonetheless. He glanced at Joanna from the corner of his eye. She wasn’t showing any reaction. She must be pretty good at hiding her feelings, Banks thought, though maybe you didn’t need feelings to work for Professional Standards.

Dr Glendenning laid the bolt down next to a ruler fixed to one of the lab tables. ‘A twenty-inch Beman ICS LightningBolt,’ he said. ‘Carbon, not aluminium, in my opinion. That’s fairly common, I should say.’

‘How do you know the make?’ Banks asked.

‘It says so right there, down the shaft. Now, a lot depends on the power of the crossbow your man was using, but you’re generally talking a hundred-and-fifty-pound draw, maybe even as much as two hundred pounds these days, so I think if I take the measurement of how deep it went into him and an average of the bow’s pressure, then we might get an approximation of the distance it was fired from.’

‘We think it was about fifty or sixty feet,’ said Banks.

Dr Glendenning stared at him. ‘Is that scientifically accurate or just pure guesswork, laddie?’

‘Well,’ said Banks, ‘it’s about the distance between where the evidence shows the shooter was standing and where the victim fell. He might also have nudged the bolt on the ground when he fell forward and pushed it in a bit further. That’s why it always pays to attend the scene.’

Dr Glendenning narrowed his eyes. ‘You can’t miss at that range if you know what you’re doing and have a decent weapon. Even in the dark. I’ll let you know when the calculations are done.’ He went back to the body, measured and took swabs from the wound, probed it and muttered his findings into his microphone.

A lot of what happened at post-mortems, Banks often found, was simply a matter of restating the obvious, but once in a while something knocked you for six, which was why it was a good idea for the SIO to attend. This time, however, everything was pretty much as he had expected it to be. Dr Glendenning sorted through the stomach contents — chicken casserole, chips and peas, followed by apple pie and ice cream — and agreed with Dr Burns about time of death, placing it at between 11 p.m. Wednesday evening and 1 a.m. Thursday morning, on the basis of digestion. The internal organs were weighed and sectioned for tox screening. Apart from Quinn’s tarry lungs, on which Glendenning could hardly comment, being a smoker himself, and his liver being a bit enlarged, on which Banks certainly wouldn’t be so hypocritical as to pass judgement, everything was in tip top shape. Quinn was no athlete, but he was fit enough, and his heart had been in good working order until the crossbow bolt had pierced it. Both kidneys, and all the other various important bits and pieces Dr Glendenning had removed, had also been up to par. If he hadn’t been murdered, Dr Glendenning ventured, he would probably have lived another thirty years or more if he’d stopped smoking. Every once in a while, Banks would sneak another glance at Joanna, but she seemed quite impassive, fascinated by the whole thing, if anything, and as icily cool as ever.

‘So the cause of death is?’ Banks asked as Dr Glendenning’s assistant closed up.

‘Oh, didn’t I say? How remiss of me. Well, barring any surprises from toxicology, he died of a crossbow bolt through the heart. It pierced the aorta, to be exact, just above the pulmonic valve. Death would have been as instantaneous as it gets, the chest cavity filled with blood, breathing impossible, no blood flow. A matter of seconds. You’ll have my report in a day or two. Tox should take about a week.’

‘Thank you, doc,’ said Banks.

‘My pleasure. And charmed to meet you, ma’am,’ the doctor said, giving a little bow to Joanna, who put her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle, or perhaps a gagging reaction, Banks thought. She seemed anxious to get out of the post-mortem suite, at any rate.

‘Fancy a drink?’ Banks asked when they were back in the corridor. ‘I must admit, I always do after a PM. Or is that an arrestable offence in Professional Standards?’

‘Why not?’ said Joanna, glancing at her watch. ‘The sun’s well over the yardarm. You obviously don’t know me very well.’

The Unicorn was just across the road. It wasn’t one of Banks’s favourite pubs, but it would do, and luckily it was still too early for the noisy crowd that filled the place on a Friday and Saturday night. At least the landlord served a passable pint of Black Sheep, if Banks remembered correctly.

‘What would you like?’ he asked Joanna at the bar.

‘I’ll have a brandy please. No ice.’

Banks’s eyes widened. He’d pegged her as a white wine spritzer kind of woman, and definitely not on duty, even if she turned a blind eye to him. Then he realised they weren’t on duty. ‘Soda?’

‘Just as it comes, please.’ She seemed amused by his surprise, but said nothing except, ‘You bring the drinks and I’ll take that table over there by the window, shall I?’

Banks paid for the drinks and carried them over.

‘I see you got some new shoes,’ he said, sitting down.

Joanna stretched out her legs. Banks admired them, as he thought he was intended to do. ‘Had to, didn’t I? It’s such a hard job to dress for. You never know what sort of garden path you’re going to be led up from one day to the next. Or country lane.’

‘What do you mean?’

Joanna took a sip of brandy and leaned forward, her elbows on the table. ‘Oh, come off it, DCI Banks. Don’t play the innocent with me. You spin me around the roundabout, you make me break my heel, then you drag me off to a post-mortem thinking it’ll make me sick all over the nice tiled floor. Isn’t that true? Wasn’t that the idea?’

‘But you weren’t sick, were you? You didn’t even flinch.’

‘Don’t sound so disappointed.’ She sipped some brandy and grinned. ‘My mother’s a cardiovascular surgeon — was, she’s retired now — one of the best in the country. She often invited me to watch her operate when she thought I was old enough. I’ve seen more operations than you’ve put villains away.’

‘But you said...’

‘I said this was my first post-mortem. That’s true. But I’ve seen plenty of by-passes, valve replacements, and even a couple of heart transplants. Beats telly. There was a time when I seriously thought of becoming a surgeon myself, but I don’t have the hands for it.’ She held them up, but Banks had no way of telling what was wrong with them. They didn’t seem to be shaking or anything. He tried to stop his jaw dropping, then he started to laugh. He couldn’t help it.

She let him laugh for a few moments, tolerant and slightly bemused, then, when he had finished, she said, ‘Can we please just stop it now? Bury the hatchet. Whatever. It’s been a crap day so far. Do you think you could just lighten up a bit and stop treating me as your enemy? We both want the truth behind DI Quinn’s murder, right? If he was the rotten apple, I’m sure you want to know as much as I do. So why can’t we work together? I honestly can’t afford a new pair of shoes every day, for a start. And I’m not trying to replace Annie Cabbot. I’m sorry she got shot, but it wasn’t my fault. At least she’s still alive. I had a partner I grew to trust and like very much once, before I came to Professional Standards. Can you just give me the benefit of the doubt? If Quinn was bent, I’ll need to report it. I won’t lie about that. If he’s innocent, then his memory remains unsullied, he has a hero’s funeral, twenty-one gun salute, whatever, and his reputation has nothing to fear from me. How about it?’

‘Your partner? What happened?’

Joanna paused and sipped some more brandy. ‘He died,’ she said finally. ‘Was killed, actually. Shot by a bent cop trying to avoid being exposed. Ironic, really. It was someone Johnny trusted, someone he was trying to help.’

Banks remained silent and drank his beer. There wasn’t much to say after that.

Joanna’s mobile hiccupped. A text. She took it out of her bag and glanced at it, frowned briefly, then stuck it back in her handbag without replying.

‘Anything important?’ Banks asked. ‘Bad news? Your husband?’

Joanna shook her head and finished her drink. ‘What now?’ she asked.

Banks looked at his watch. ‘I don’t know about you,’ he said, ‘but I’m going to call in at the station and see if there are any developments, then I’m heading home.’

She got to her feet. ‘I’ll come with you,’ she said. Then paused. ‘At least, as far as the station.’

Banks was sitting on a wicker chair in the conservatory, feet up on the low table, sipping a Malbec and listening to June Tabor sing ‘Finisterre’. Only one shaded lamp was lit, and its dim orange-tinged light seemed to emphasise the vast darkness outside. A strong breeze had whipped up, and now it was lashing rain against the windows. April showers. Fortunately, the CSIs had finished their investigation of the St Peter’s grounds and covered over the lane where Banks and Winsome had found the tyre tracks.

Banks thought about Joanna for a moment, how she had become more human to him when they had a drink together in The Unicorn and she told him about her mother the surgeon and her partner who got shot. Was it all just a ploy to gain his sympathy, to lull him into being careless and weak? He didn’t know. There was something likeable about her. Annie Cabbot, he remembered, had worked Professional Standards for a while a few years ago, and it hadn’t turned her into a monster.

Banks tried to put Joanna Passero and the case out of his mind for the time being. June Tabor was singing ‘The Grey Funnel Line’, the dark warmth of her voice filling the room. He sipped his wine and abandoned himself to the music. It was easy enough to imagine that he was out at sea, here in the semi-dark surrounded by glass, the wild night outside, the wind howling and rain lashing.

He had just reached for the bottle to refill his glass when the doorbell rang. It made him jump. He glanced at his watch. Close to ten. Who on earth could be calling at this time? Worried that it was probably not good news, Banks put his bottle down and walked through the kitchen, hall and study to the front door. When he opened it, he was surprised but relieved to see Annie Cabbot standing there without an umbrella.

‘I was just thinking about you,’ said Banks. ‘When did you get back?’

‘Yesterday. Can I come in? It’s pissing down out here.’

Banks stood aside as she stepped past him, and closed the door on the chilly rain. Annie hung up her coat and shook her hair like a wet dog. ‘That’s better. Any chance of a cuppa?’

‘I’ve got wine.’

‘Why doesn’t that surprise me? But a simple cuppa would work wonders right now.’

Banks walked through to the kitchen, Annie following. He turned his head. ‘Regular, green, chamomile, Earl Grey, decaf?’

‘Chamomile, please,’ said Annie. ‘My God, where did you come up with all those choices?’

‘California,’ said Banks. ‘They like their fancy tea in California. I learned to appreciate green tea there, especially. They have lots of different kinds, you know. Sencha, gyokuro, dragonwell.’

‘I’d forgotten you’d been there. I’ve forgotten most things around that time. Ordinary chamomile will do fine for me.’

‘How was St Ives?’

‘Wonderful. Beautiful. I got back into sketching and painting. Did a lot of walking on the cliffs.’

‘And Ray?’

‘He’s fine. Sends his regards. He’s got another floozy. She can’t be a day older than me.’

‘Lucky Ray.’ Banks had spent a lot of time with Annie’s father during her illness and recovery, and they had got along remarkably well. Ray had even stopped over at the cottage a few times after they had opened that second bottle of wine, or hit the Laphroaig.

Banks put the kettle on. He decided to have some tea himself. He was trying to cut back on the wine intake, after all, and chamomile was particularly relaxing late at night. It might help him sleep. Annie leaned her hip against the counter. He was about to tell her she could go through to the conservatory and he’d bring the tea when it was ready, but he realised it would be tactless. He could even see it in her face under the toughness, a vulnerability, an uncertainty about whether she really should be facing the conservatory right now.

Several months ago, while Banks had been enjoying himself in sunny California, Annie had been shot in his conservatory. When he had first found out, he had wondered whether he would be able to go back in there again himself and enjoy it the way he had done before. But he hadn’t been there when the shooting happened. The clean-up team had done a great job before he returned home, and Winsome had even had the sensitivity and good taste to refurnish the whole place for him. New carpet, new paint job, new chairs and table, new everything. And all sufficiently different in colour and style from the originals. It was like having a new room, and he had felt no ghosts, no residual sense of pain, fear or suffering. He had lost a table, chairs and a carpet but not, thank God, a dear friend.

He was apprehensive after what had happened to Annie there, though, worried that it might bring on a panic attack or something. It was her first visit since the shooting.

They chatted in the kitchen until the kettle boiled, then Banks put the teapot and cups on a tray. ‘Want to go through?’ he asked, gesturing towards the conservatory.

Annie followed him tentatively, as if unsure what effect the room would have on her.

‘It looks different,’ she said, sitting in one of the wicker chairs.

Banks set down the tea tray on the low table and took the chair beside her. He looked at her, trying to gauge her reaction. Annie was in her early forties now, and Banks thought she had never looked so good. During her convalescence, she had let the blonde highlights grow out and her hair had returned to its previous shoulder-length chestnut cascade. Banks decided he preferred it that way. ‘If you want, we can sit in the entertainment room,’ he said.

Annie shook her head. Toughing it out, then. ‘No, it’s fine. I was expecting... you know... but it’s fine. It’s really nice, and it’s very cosy with that warm light and the wind and rain outside.’ She hugged herself. ‘Let’s just stay here, shall we? What’s that music?’

‘June Tabor,’ said Banks. ‘This one’s called “The Oggie Man”. Want something else on?’

‘No. I’m fine. Really.’ That made a change; she was always complaining about his tastes in music. ‘What’s an oggie man?’

‘A pasty seller,’ said Banks. ‘It’s a song lamenting the disappearance of street pasty sellers in Cornwall in favour of hot-dog stands. An oggie is a Cornish pasty. You ought to know that, being a good Cornish lass.’

‘Never heard of it. Sounds like a very sad song for such a silly little thing.’

‘Folk songs. You know. What can I say? I don’t suppose it was silly or little to them at the time. It’s about loss, the passing of a tradition.’

‘You know,’ Annie said suddenly, ‘I do remember that night. I remember when everything was fading to black, and I was feeling so cold and tired. I thought this was the last place I would ever see in my life, and for a moment, that was what I wanted.’ She glanced at Banks and smiled. ‘Disappearing like the silly oggie man. Isn’t that funny?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

‘But I’m seeing the room again. That’s the point. I know everything’s different and all, but now it feel like... like being reborn. I didn’t disappear. I didn’t die. It wasn’t the last thing I saw. It’s the same room, but it’s different. Not just the way it’s been refurnished or decorated. Oh, I can’t explain myself. I’m not good with words. I’m just saying it’s a special place, that’s all. For me. And the memories start now. I’m back, Alan. I want you to know that.’

Banks gave her hand a quick squeeze. ‘I know you are, and I’m glad. But that’s not why you came, is it?’

‘No, it’s not. I heard about DI Bill Quinn getting killed at St Peter’s. I want you to bring me up to date so I can jump right in on Monday morning. I’ve got to be more than a hundred per cent on this one, or I’ll be out.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ said Banks.

‘It’s true. I’ll bet you Madame Gervaise doesn’t think I’ll be fit enough, mentally or physically. I’ll bet you she thinks I’ve lost my mojo. She’ll be trying to drive me to resign.’

‘I think that’s going a bit too far, Annie.’

‘Is it? Then what about that other woman in there with you? Your new partner. Miss Professional Standards. She’s very attractive, isn’t she? What’s her name again? I’ve had a word with Winsome. She told me most of what’s been going on, but I’ve forgotten the damn woman’s name.’

‘Inspector Passero. Joanna Passero. She’s just tagging along to nail Quinn. Or his memory.’

‘Are you being thick, or naive?’

‘Aren’t you being a little bit paranoid?’

‘Just because you’re paranoid, it doesn’t mean they’re not after you.’

‘Fair enough. You worked Professional Standards for a while. You know what it’s like. You didn’t let the job swallow you up, or change your basic attitude.’

‘It fucks you up, whether you fight it or not.’

‘I’m sure it does. But you’re all right now, aren’t you? What do you know about Inspector Passero?’

‘Not much, but I do have my sources at County HQ. She lived in Woodstock, worked for Thames Valley, got an Italian husband called Carlo. And she’s an icy blonde. I don’t trust icy blondes. You never know what they’re thinking.’

‘As opposed to feisty brunettes? All what you see is what you get? Jealous, Annie?’

Annie snorted. ‘Something’s going on. Mark my words. I’d watch my back if I were you. I hear the sound of knives being sharpened.’

‘Don’t worry about me. What are you going to do?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You think Gervaise wants you out. What are you going to do about it?’

‘I don’t know. My options are a bit limited at the moment.’

‘Going off half-cocked and trying to prove you’re better than everyone else won’t work.’

‘Look who’s talking.’

‘I’m being serious, Annie.’

‘So am I. I like my job. I’m good at it. And I want to keep it. Is that so strange?’

‘Not at all,’ said Banks. ‘I want you to keep it, too.’

‘So you’ll help me?’

‘How?’

‘Any way you can. Trust me. Give me decent tasks. Don’t sideline me.’

Banks paused. ‘Of course. I’ll help you all I can. You should know that.’

Annie leaned forward and rested her hands on her knees. ‘Use me, Alan. Don’t keep me in the dark. I know I might seem like a bit of a liability at first, that I might seem a bit wobbly, and it’ll take me a while to get back to normal, but it doesn’t mean I have to be left out in the cold. Keep me informed. Listen to what I have to say. If I have a good idea, make sure people know it’s mine. I’m resilient, and I’m a quick learner. You already know that.’

‘Across the Wide Ocean’ ended, and with it the CD. Rain beat against the windows, and the wind howled through the trees. Annie sat back, shuddered and sipped some tea. ‘I enjoyed that,’ she said.

‘I’m glad.’

‘“The Oggie Man”. I’ll remember that. Poor oggie man. I wonder what happened to him. Did they kill him? Was he murdered? The rain softly falling and the oggie man’s no more.’ She shifted position and crossed her legs. ‘Tell me about Bill Quinn.’

‘Not much to say, really,’ said Banks. ‘According to everyone I’ve talked to, he was a devoted family man. Devastated by his wife’s death. No trace of a reputation for womanising or anything like that.’

‘But there are some pictures of him with a girl. I’ve seen them. I dropped by the squad room after a visit to Human Resources this morning, while you were out. The copies arrived while I was there. She looks like a very young girl.’

‘She wasn’t that young.’

‘She was young enough. But that’s not what I was thinking. Men are pigs. Fact. We all know that. They’ll shag anything in a skirt. Quinn did it, and he got caught.’

‘Or set up.’

‘All right. Or set up. But why?’

‘We don’t know yet. Obviously blackmail of some kind.’

‘He didn’t have a lot of money, did he?’

‘Not that we know of. We haven’t got his banking information yet, but there’s nothing extravagant about his lifestyle. Nice house, but his wife worked as an estate agent, and they bought it a long time ago. Mortgage paid off. Kids at university before the fee increases.’

‘So he wasn’t being blackmailed for his money.’

‘Unlikely.’

‘Then why?’

‘To turn a blind eye to something, or to pass on information helpful to criminals,’ said Banks. ‘That’s what Inspector Passero believes. She said there were rumours. But when Quinn’s wife died, their hold over him was broken, all bets were off, and that caused a shift in the balance of power. Quinn became a loose cannon. All that has happened since resulted from that. At least, that’s my theory.’

‘I should imagine right now you’re casting your net pretty wide?’ said Annie.

‘We have to. There are a lot of questions to answer. Quinn worked on a lot of cases. I must say, though, that unless we’re missing something, or the girl herself killed him for some reason we don’t know about yet, it seems professional, organised.’

‘Cut to the chase. He wouldn’t have kept those photos with him if there wasn’t something important about them. Far too risky, even hidden as they were.’

‘His house was broken into,’ Banks said.

Annie shot him a glance. ‘When?’

‘Probably around the time he was killed, maybe even long enough after for it to be the same person. We’re not sure. They took his laptop and some papers. And we’ve got some tyre tracks from a farm lane near St Peter’s that might help identify the killer’s car.’

‘Why don’t you bring me up to speed with the rest of it?’

Banks shared the last few drops of tea and told her what little he knew.

‘One of the first things that came into my mind when I saw those photos,’ said Annie, ‘and what seems to be even more relevant now, after finding out that Quinn was supposedly a devoted family man, was what would make him do what he did with the girl?’

‘Like you said, men are pigs.’

‘They let the little head do the thinking, right? Given the right circumstances, they’ll shag anyone. But they’ve still got oodles of the old self-preservation instinct. They don’t only lie to their families; they lie to themselves, too.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that a man like Bill Quinn — devoted family man, as you say — was very unlikely to shit on his own doorstep, if you’ll pardon my French. It’s harder to lie to yourself about that if you smell it every day, to pursue the metaphor. Meaning you need to check out any conventions he went to, any holidays he took without his wife and kids — a trip to Vegas with the lads, for example, or a golfing holiday in St Andrews. The further away from home, the better. Something so far away that it made it easy for him to pretend that he was on another planet, and everything that happened there had nothing to do with his earthly life, nothing to do with everyday reality, nothing to do with the family he was devoted to.’

‘Fishing. With Quinn it was more likely to be a fishing trip.’

‘Right, then. Whatever. Any period when he was away from home, either alone or with other like-minded blokes, staying in a hotel. You can’t tell much about the place from the photos, but you might get one of the digital experts in Photographic Services to see if he can blow up a few beer mats and bring a sign or two into focus.’

‘We’re working on it.’

‘Good. Because that might tell you whether we’re dealing with a trip abroad. In my limited experience of such things, the further away from his own nest a man gets, the freer and friskier he feels, and the more likely he is to stray. It’s like the wedding ring becomes invisible. Some men take it off altogether for the duration. And the shackles, the inhibitions, they conveniently fall off with it.’

‘You sound as if you’re speaking from experience.’

‘I did say it was limited experience. And don’t ask.’

‘But Quinn got set up.’

‘Indeed. What is it? What are you thinking?’

Banks hadn’t realised that his expression had so clearly indicated a sudden thought. ‘Two things,’ he said. ‘A conference in France — Lyon — with Ken Blackstone, among others, and the Rachel Hewitt case.’

‘The girl who disappeared from the hen weekend in Tallinn?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘I’ve been to Tallinn once,’ said Annie. ‘Lovely city.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘You don’t know everything about me.’

‘Obviously not. When was this?’

‘A few years ago. After Rachel Hewitt disappeared.’

‘Hen party?’

‘Do I look like a hen?’

‘What, then?’

‘Dirty weekend.’

‘The married man?’

‘Mind your own business.’

‘Anyway, there might be other trips Quinn made abroad, in addition to Lyon and Tallinn. We’ll ask around. Thanks for the tip. That’s a good line of enquiry, and I’ll see it gets priority, and that your name is mentioned in dispatches.’

Annie put her mug down and stretched. ‘All I wanted to hear. And now I’d better go.’

‘You sure? No more tea? One for the road?’

‘I’m tired. I really think I’d better get going. I’ve got a massage appointment at St Peter’s tomorrow afternoon.’ Annie stood up, took a long look around the conservatory, then headed for the front door. Banks helped her on with her coat. It was still raining outside, but not so fast now, and the wind had dropped. ‘See you on Monday,’ she said. ‘Maybe I can help run down Bill Quinn’s trips abroad?’ Then she gave him a quick peck on the cheek. ‘Remember, watch out for the blonde,’ she said and dashed outside. He watched until her car disappeared down the drive, waved, and went back inside. She’d given him a lot to think about, he had to admit. In the initial flurry of questions, information and possibilities, he had neglected to zoom in on the important psychological details the way Annie had.

It was just after eleven o’clock on Friday night, and he didn’t feel like going out. Helmthorpe would be closing down for the night, anyway, unless they had a lock-in at the Duck and Drake. But Banks didn’t feel like company. Instead, he made a detour through the entertainment room and pressed PLAY again with Ashore still in the CD player. ‘Finisterre’ piped through the good quality speakers in the conservatory, where the rain was now no more than a pattering of mice’s feet. The tea had been nice, but he poured himself another glass of Malbec and settled down to listen to the music and think about what Annie had said. He did his best thinking when he was listening to music and drinking wine.