“Last plate.”

The man looked at his watch. “But it’s only twelve-thirty.”

Grafton shrugged.

“Besides, you said you don’t do food. You’re contradicting yourself. You heard him, didn’t you, darling?”

His wife said nothing; she just stood there looking embarrassed. He had the kind of upper-class accent that expects immediate subservience, but he obviously didn’t know there could be nothing more calculated to get right up a Yorkshireman’s nose.

“Look,” said Grafton, “does the want a drink or doesn’t tha?”

“We want food,” the man said.

His wife tugged at his sleeve. “Come on, darling,” she whispered just in Banks’s range of hearing. “Don’t cause a fuss. Let’s go. There are plenty of other pubs.”

“But I-” The man glared petulantly at Grafton, who stared back stone-faced, then followed his wife’s advice.

“Really,” Banks heard him say on his way out, “you’d think these people didn’t want to make an honest living. They’re supposed to be in the service industry.”

Larry Grafton winked at Banks and ambled off to serve one of the locals. Banks reflected that maybe the tourist was right. What the hell was wrong with Larry Grafton? Nowt so queer as folk, he decided, and went back to his roast beef. A couple of minutes later, when he had just finished, Cathy Grafton came from the back and joined him. He folded up his newspaper, pushed his empty plate aside and lit a cigarette.

Cathy was a plump girl of about sixteen with a fringe and a blotchy complexion, as if she had been sitting too close to the fire too long. She also had the longest, curliest and most beautiful eyelashes Banks had ever seen.

“Dad says you want to talk to me,” she said, wedging herself into a chair. Her accent was thick, and Banks had to listen closely to understand everything she said, even though he had been in Swainsdale for four years.

“You helped Mary Rothwell do the housework at Arkbeck Farm, didn’t you?”

“Aye. I do for a few folk around here. I know I should be paying more mind to school, like, but Mum says we need t’money.”

Banks smiled. Not surprising, given the way Grafton scared business away. “What was it like, working at Arkbeck?” he asked.

Cathy frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Did you like working there?”

“It were all reet.”

“How about Mary Rothwell? Did you get along well with her?”

Cathy wouldn’t meet his eyes. She shifted in her chair and looked down at the scored table.

“Cathy?”

“I heard. It’s just I was always told not to speak ill.”

“Of the dead? Mary Rothwell isn’t dead.”

“No. Of me employer.”

“Am I to take it that you didn’t get along, then?”

“Take it as you will, Mr. Banks.”

“Cathy, this could be very important. Mr. Rothwell was killed, you know.”

“Aye, I know. It’s got nowt to do with her, though, does it?”

“We still need to know all we can about the family.”

Cathy contemplated the table for a while longer. More locals came in. One or two looked in Banks’s direction, nudged their friends and raised their eyebrows. “She were just bossy, that’s all,” Cathy said at last.

“Mary Rothwell was?”

“Aye. She’d stand over you while you were working, with her arms folded, like this, and tell you you’d missed a bit or you weren’t polishing hard enough. I used to hate doing for her. Will I still have to, do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Banks said. “What about Alison?”

“What about her?”

“You’re about the same age, surely you must have had things in common, things to talk about. Pop stars and the like.”

Cathy emitted a loud snort. “Little Miss La-di-da,” she sneered, then shook her head. “No, I can’t say as we did. She always had her nose stuck in a book.”

“You never chatted with her?”

“No. Every time she saw me she turned up her nose. Stuck-up little madam.”

“How did the family members get along with one another?”

“I weren’t there often enough to notice. Not when they was all together, like.”

“But you must have some idea, from your observations?”

“They didn’t say much. It were a quiet house. He were in his office, when he were at home, like, and I were never allowed up there.”

“Who cleaned it?”

“Dunno. Maybe he did it himself. I know he didn’t like people to go in. Look, Mr. Banks, I’ve got to get back and help me mum. Is there anything else?”

“Did you notice any changes in the family recently? Did they behave any differently?”

“Not so far as I could tell.”

“What about Tom, the son? Did you know him?”

“He were t’best of the lot,” Cathy said without hesitation. “Always had a smile and a good-morning for you.” She blushed.

“He’s been away for a while now. Did you notice any changes before he left?”

“They used to argue.”

“Who did?”

“Him and his father.”

“What about?”

“How would I know? I didn’t listen. Sometimes you couldn’t help but hear.”

“Hear what?”

“Just their voices, when they were shouting, like.”

“Did you ever hear what they were arguing about?”

“Once t’door were open a bit, and I heard his dad mention a name then say something like, ‘I’m disappointed in you.’ He said ‘shame,’ too.”

“What was a shame?”

“No. Just the word. I just heard the word ‘shame,’ that’s all. I could tell Mr. Rothwell were very angry, but he sounded cold, you know.”

“Did he say why he was disappointed?”

She shook her head.

“What was the name he mentioned?”

“Sounded like Aston or Afton or summat like that.”

“Did you hear what Tom said back?”

“He said, ‘You’re a right one to talk about being disappointed in me.’”

“Did you hear anything more?”

“No.” The chair scraped along the stone flags as she stood up. “I’ve got to go, really. Me mum’ll kill me.” And she hurried back behind the bar with surprising agility.

3

“Vic Manson matched prints from the Calvert flat with the ones from the body,” Gristhorpe explained back at the station later that afternoon. “There were a couple of other sets, too, mostly smudged, not on file.”

It was hot, and Banks was standing by the open window of his office. Gristhorpe sat with his feet up on the desk.

“So Rothwell was Calvert and Calvert was Rothwell,” Banks said.

“It certainly looks that way, aye.”

Banks leaned against the window frame and shook his head. “I still can’t believe it. All right, so we know Rothwell had a secretive side to his nature, and he was greedy, or desperate for cash, to the point of dishonesty once. But this Calvert sounds to me like some sort of playboy. If you could have heard Pamela Jeffreys. Casinos, races, dancing… bloody hell. And you should have seen her, the one he chucked over.”

“So you’ve told me already, two or three times at least,” Gristhorpe said with a smile. “A proper bobby-dazzler by the sound of her. I’ll take your word for it.”

“Well, she dazzled this bobby, anyway,” said Banks, sitting opposite Gristhorpe. He sighed. “I suppose we just have to accept it: Rothwell led a double life. Like Alec Guinness in that film about the ship’s captain.”

“The Captain’s Paradise?”

“That’s the one. The question we have to ask ourselves now is what, if anything, does that fact have to do with his murder?”

“Has the girlfriend dazzled you so much you haven’t considered she might have a part to play?”

“The thought’s crossed my mind once or twice, yes. I just can’t see how. Apparently Roth… Calvert found another woman five or six months ago. Pamela Jeffreys seemed to think he’d fallen in love. It’s her we need to find, but she hasn’t come forward yet.”

“There’s always jealousy as a motive, then.”

“I don’t think so. It’s possible, though. Maybe Mary Rothwell found out about him and arranged a hit.”