He sat on the edge of the desk. “Right, Betty, let’s go back a bit. When I came in, you were frightened. Why?”

She paused for a moment, then said, “I thought you might be one of them again.”

“One of whom?”

“On Saturday morning I was here doing some filing and two men came in and started asking questions about Mr. Clegg. They weren’t very nice.”

“Is that what you were thinking of when I asked you earlier if anything odd had been going on?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me then?”

“It… I… I didn’t connect it. You’ve got me all confused.”

“All right, Betty, take it easy. Did they hurt you?”

“Of course not. Or I certainly would have called the police. You see, sometimes in this business you get people who are… well, less than polite. They get upset about money and sometimes they don’t care who they take it out on.”

“And these men were just rude?”

“Yes. Well, just a bit brusque, really. Nothing unusual. I mean, I’m only a secretary, right? I’m not important. They can afford to be short with me.”

“So what bothered you? Why does it stick in your mind? Why were you frightened? Did they threaten you?”

“Not in so many words. But I got the impression that they were testing me to see what I knew. I think they realized early on that I didn’t know anything. If they’d thought differently, I’m sure they would have hurt me. Don’t ask me how I know. I could just feel it. There was something about them, some sort of coldness in their eyes, as if they’d done terrible things, or witnessed terrible things.” She shivered. “I don’t know. I can’t explain. They were the kind of people you look away from when they make eye contact.”

“What did they want to know about?”

“Where Mr. Clegg was.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes. I asked them why they wanted to know, but they just said they had important business with him. I’d never seen them before, and I’m sure I’d know if they were new clients.”

“Did they leave their names?”

“No.”

“What did they look like?”

“Just ordinary businessmen, really. One was black and the other white. They both wore dark suits, white shirts, ties. I can’t remember what colors.”

“What about their height?”

“Both about the same. Around six foot, I’d say. But the white one was burly. You know, he had thick shoulders and a round chest, like a wrestler or something. He had very fair hair, but he was going bald on top. He tried to disguise it by growing the hair at the side longer and combing it right over, but I just think that looks silly, don’t you? The black man was thin and fit looking. More like a runner than a wrestler. He did most of the talking.”

Banks got her to describe them in as much detail as she could and took notes. They certainly didn’t match Alison Rothwell’s description of the two men in black who had tied her up and killed her father. “What about their accents?” he asked.

“Not local. The black one sounded a bit cultured, well educated, and the other didn’t speak much. I think he had a slight foreign accent, though I couldn’t swear to it and I can’t tell you where from.”

“You’ve done fine, Betty.”

“I have?”

Banks nodded.

“There’s something else,” she said. “When I came in this morning, I got the impression that someone had been in the place since then. Again, I can’t say why, and I certainly couldn’t prove it, but in this job you develop a feel for the way things should be – you know, files, documents, that sort of thing – and you can just tell if something’s out of place without knowing what it really is, if you follow my drift.”

“Were there any signs of forced entry?”

“No. Nothing obvious, nothing like that. Not that it would be difficult to get in here. It’s hardly the Tower of London. I locked myself out once when Mr. Clegg was away on business and I just slipped my Visa card in the door and opened it.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Oops. I don’t suppose I should be telling you that, should I?”

Banks smiled. “It’s all right, Betty. I’ve had to get into my car with a coat-hanger more than once. Was anything missing?”

“Not so far as I can tell. It’s pretty secure inside. There’s a good, strong safe and it doesn’t look as if anyone tried to tamper with it.”

“Could it have been Mr. Clegg?”

“I suppose so. He sometimes comes in on a Sunday if there’s something important in progress.” Then she shook her head. “But no. If it had been Mr. Clegg I’d have known. Things would have looked different. They looked the same, but not quite the same, if you know what I mean.”

“As if someone had messed things up and tried to restore them to the way they were originally?”

“Yes.”

“Do you employ a cleaning lady?”

“Yes, but she comes Thursday evenings. It can’t have been her.”

“Did she arrive as usual last Thursday?”

“Yes.”

“May I have a look in the office?”

Betty got up, took a key from her drawer and opened Clegg’s door for him. He stood on the threshold and saw a small office with shelves of law books, box files and filing cabinets. Clegg also had a computer and stacks of disks on a desk at right angles to the one on which he did his other paperwork. The window, closed and locked, Banks noticed, looked out over the central square with its neatly cut grass, shady trees and people sitting on benches. The office was hot and stuffy.

Certainly nothing looked out of the ordinary. Banks was careful not to disturb anything. Soon, the Fraud Squad would be here to pore over the books and look for whatever the link was between Rothwell and Clegg.

“Better keep it locked,” he told Betty on his way out. “There’ll be more police here this afternoon, most likely. May I use the phone?”

Betty nodded.

Banks phoned Ken Blackstone at Millgarth and told him briefly what the situation was. Ken said he’d send a car over right away. Next he phoned Superintendent Gristhorpe in Eastvale and reported his findings. Gristhorpe said he’d get in touch with the Fraud Squad and see if they could coordinate with West Yorkshire.

He turned back to Betty. “You’ll be all right here,” he said. “I’ll wait until the locals arrive. They’ll need you to answer more questions. Just tell them everything you told me. What’s your address, in case I need to get in touch?”

She gave him the address of her flat in Burmantofts. “What do you think has happened?” she asked, reaching for her tissue again.

Banks shook his head.

“You don’t think anything’s happened to him, do you?”

“It’s probably nothing,” Banks said, without conviction. “Don’t worry, we’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“It’s just that Melissa will be so upset.”

“Who’s Melissa?”

“Oh, didn’t you know? It’s Mrs. Clegg. His wife.”

2

After a hurried bowl of vegetable soup in the Golden Grill, Susan Gay walked out into the street, with its familiar smells and noises: petrol fumes, of course; car horns; fresh coffee; bread from the bakery; a busker playing a flute by the church doors.

In the cobbled market square, she noticed an impromptu evangelist set up his soapbox and start rabbiting on about judgment and sin. It made her feel vaguely guilty just hearing him, and as she went into the station, she contemplated asking one of the uniforms to go out and move him on. There must be a law against it somewhere on the books. Disturbing the peace of an overworked DC?

Charity prevailed, and she went up to her office. It faced the car park out back, so she wouldn’t have to listen to him there.

First, she took out the blue file cards she liked to make notes on and pinned them to the cork-board over her desk. It was the same board, she remembered, that Sergeant Hatchley had used for his pin-ups of page-three girls with vacuous smiles and enormous breasts. Now Hatchley was due back any moment. What a thought.