“Mrs. Clegg, we think your husband might have been mixed up in some shady dealings and that might have had something to do with his disappearance.”

She laughed. “Shady dealings? That hardly surprises me.”

“Do you know anything about his business activities?”

“No. But dishonest in love… ” She let the thought trail, then shrugged. “Danny never was one of the most ethical, or faithful, of people. Careful, usually, yes, but hardly ethical.”

“Would you say he was the type to get mixed up in something illegal?”

She thought for a moment, frowning, then answered. “Yes. Yes, I think so. If he thought the returns were high enough.”

“Is he a greedy man?”

“No-o. Not in so many words, no. I wouldn’t call him greedy. He just likes to get what he wants. Women. Money. Whatever. It’s more a matter of power, manipulation. He just likes to win.”

“What about the risk?”

She tipped her head to one side. “There’s always some risk, isn’t there, Chief Inspector? If something’s worth having. Danny’s not a coward, if that’s what you mean.”

“Did you know Keith Rothwell?”

“Yes. Not well, but I had met him. Poor man. I read about him in the paper. Terrible. You’re not suggesting there’s any link between his murder and Danny’s disappearance, are you?”

She’s quicker on the ball than Betty Moorhead, Banks thought. “We don’t know. I don’t suppose you’d be in a position to enlighten us about their business dealings?”

“Sorry. No. I haven’t seen Keith since Danny and I split up. Even then I’d just bump into him at the office now and then, or when he helped with my taxes.”

“So you’ve no idea what kinds of dealings they were involved in?”

“No. As I said, Keith Rothwell did my accounts a couple of times – you know, the wine business – when Dan and I were together, before things became awkward and our personal life got in the way. He was a damn good accountant. He saved me a lot of money from the Inland Revenue – all above board. Now, it doesn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to figure out that if the two of them were in business together it probably involved tax havens of one kind or another, and that they both probably did quite well from it.”

“Have you ever heard of a man called Robert Calvert?”

“Calvert? No. I can’t say I have. Should I have? Look, I’m really sorry I can’t help you, Chief Inspector. And I certainly didn’t mean to sound callous at all. But knowing Danny, I’m sure he’s popped off to Paris for the weekend with some floozie or other and just got too over-excited to remember to let anyone know. He’ll turn up.”

Banks stood up. “I hope you’re right, Mrs. Clegg. And if he gets in touch, please let us know.” He gave her his card. She stood up as he left the office. He turned in the doorway and smiled. “One more thing.”

“Yes.”

“Could you recommend a decent claret for dinner, not too pricey?”

“Of course. If you’re not absolutely stuck on Bordeaux, try a bottle of the Chateau de la Liquiere. It ’s from Faugères, in Languedoc. Very popular region these days. Lots of character.” She smiled. “And you can even afford it on a policeman’s salary.”

After Banks thanked her, he made his way back down the corridor, dodging the wine cases, and bought the bottle she had suggested. Not an entirely wasted visit, he thought. At least he’d got a decent bottle of wine out of it. And then there was the Classical Record Shop just around the corner. He couldn’t pass so closely without going in. Besides, he needed balm for his wounds. He was still feeling annoyed with himself after the way he had messed things up with Pamela Jeffreys. The new CD of the Khachaturian Piano Concerto, if they had it, might just help make him feel better.

As he walked outside with his bottle of wine, he felt a large hand clap down on his shoulder.

“Well, if it isn’t my old mate, Banksy,” a voice said in his ear.

Banks spun round and saw the source of the voice: Detective Superintendent Richard “Dirty Dick” Burgess, from Scotland Yard. What the hell was he doing here?

“I hope you haven’t been accepting bribes,” Burgess said, pointing to the wine. Then he put his arm around Banks’s shoulders. “Come on,” he said. “We need to go somewhere and have a little chat.”

2

Laurence Pratt was waiting in his office, again with his shirtsleeves rolled up, black-framed glasses about halfway down his nose, fingers forming a steeple on the neat desk in front of him. His white shirt was more dazzling than any Susan had seen in a detergent advert. Susan felt stifled. The temperature outside was in the twenties, and the window was closed.

Pratt seemed less easy in his manner this time, Susan observed, and she guessed it was because he had given too much away on her last visit. This was going to be a tough one, she thought, taking her notebook and pen out of her handbag. They had discovered a lot more about Keith Rothwell since Friday, and this time, she didn’t want to give too much away.

Susan opened her notebook, resisting the impulse to fan her face with it, and unclipped her pen. “The last time I talked to you, Mr. Pratt,” she began, “you told me you saw the Rothwells for the last time in March.”

“That’s right. Carla and I were out to Arkbeck for dinner. Duck à l’orange, if I remember correctly.”

“And the new kitchen.”

“Ah, yes. We all admired the new kitchen.”

“Can you be a bit more precise about the date?”

Pratt frowned and pulled at his lower lip. “Not exactly. It was just after St. Patrick’s Day, I think. Hang on a sec.” He fished in his briefcase by the side of the desk and pulled out a Filofax. “Be lost without it,” he grinned. “Even in the computer age. I mean, you don’t want to turn the computer on every time you need an address, do you?” As he talked, he flipped through the pages. “Ah, there it is.” He held up the open page for Susan to see. “March 19. Dinner with Keith and Mary.”

“And you said Tom dropped in to talk about his trip?”

“Yes.”

“From where?”

“What? Oh, I see. From his room, I suppose. At least I think he’d been up there. He just came in to say hello while we were having cocktails. Is he back from America, by the way?”

No harm in telling a family friend that, Susan thought. “He’s on his way,” she said. “What was the atmosphere like between Tom and his father that night?”

“They didn’t talk, as I remember.”

“Did you notice any antagonism or tension between them?”

“I wouldn’t say that, no. I told you before that their relationship was strained because Tom drifted off the course his father had set for him.”

“Was anything said about that on the night you were there?”

“No, I’m certain of it. They didn’t talk to one another at all. Tom was excited about going to America. I think he’d been upstairs poring over a map, planning his route.”

“And Keith Rothwell said nothing during your little chat?”

“No. He just sat there rather po-faced. Now you mention it, that was a bit odd. I mean, you’d hardly call old Keith a live wire these days, but he’d usually take a bit more interest than he did that night. Especially as his son was off on a big adventure.”

“So his behavior was strange?”

“A little unusual, on reflection, yes.”

“What about Tom? Did he say anything to or about his father?”

Pratt shook his head slowly. Susan noticed a few beads of sweat around his temples where his hairline was receding. She could feel her own sweat tickling her ribs as it slid down her side. So much for the expensive extra-dry, long-lasting antiperspirant she had put on after her morning shower. This didn’t happen to the high-powered women executives and airline pilots in the television adverts. On the other hand, they didn’t have to deal with the return of Sergeant Hatchley. It had taken her a good five minutes to stop shaking after he had left the office.