Blackstone smiled. “Something like that. I wasn’t involved personally. I don’t know what you lot do, but here in the big city we don’t send Detective Inspectors out on routine traffic incidents.”

Banks ignored the sarcasm. It was just Blackstone’s manner. “So your lads didn’t exactly put a rush on it?”

“That’s right.” Blackstone glanced toward the horizon and sighed. “Any idea, Alan, how many car crimes we’ve got in the city now? You yokels wouldn’t believe it. So when some scurvy knave comes on with a story about a beat-up old Escort, you think he’d have to pay somebody to steal that piece of shit. So let the fucking insurance company pay. They can afford it. In the meantime we’ve got joy-riding kids, real villains and organized gangs of car thieves to deal with. I’m not making excuses, Alan.”

“Yeah, I know.” Banks leaned against a red Orion. The metal burned through his shirt, so he stood up straight again.

“Didn’t you once tell me you came up from the Met for a peaceful time in rural Yorkshire?” Blackstone asked.

Banks smiled. “I did.”

“Getting it?”

“I can only suppose it’s got proportionately worse down there.”

Blackstone laughed. “Indeed. Business is booming.”

“Have you talked to Hamilton?”

“Yes. This morning. He knows nothing. Believe me, he’s so scared of the police he’d sell his own mother down the tubes if he thought we were after her.” Blackstone made an expression of distaste. “You know the type, Alan, belligerent one minute, yelling that you’re picking on him because he’s black, then arse-licking the next. Makes you want to puke.”

“Where’s he from?”

“ Jamaica. He’s legit; we checked. Been here ten years.”

“What’s his story?”

“Saw nothing, heard nothing, knows nothing. To tell you the truth, I got the impression he’d driven back from the pub after a skinful then settled in front of the telly with a few cans of lager while his wife fed the kiddies and put them to bed. After that he probably passed out. Whole bloody place smelled of shitty nappies and roll-ups and worse. We could probably do him for possession if it was worth our while. At ten the next morning he staggers out to go and sign on, finds his car missing and, bob’s your uncle, does the outraged citizen routine on the local bobby, who’s got more sense, thank the lord.”

Blackstone stood, slightly hunched, with his hands in his pockets, and kicked at small stones on the tarmac. You could see your face in his shoes.

“Do me a favor, Ken, and have another go at him. You said he was done for dealing?”

“Uh-huh. Small stuff. Mostly cannabis, a little coke.”

“It’s probably just a coincidence that the car used belongs to a drug dealer, but pull his record and have another go at him all the same. Find out who his suppliers are. And see if he has any connections with St. Corona. Friends, family, whatever. There might be a drug connection or a Caribbean connection in Rothwell’s murder, and it’s a remote possibility that Mr. Hamilton might have done some work for the organization behind it, whoever they are.”

“You mean he might have loaned his car?”

“It’s possible. I doubt it. I think we’re dealing with cleverer crooks than that, but we’d look like the rear end of a pantomime horse if we didn’t check it out.”

“Will do.”

“Have you questioned the neighbors?”

“We’re doing a house-to-house. Nothing so far. Nobody sees anything on these estates.”

“So that’s that?”

“Looks like it. For the moment, anyway.”

“No car-park attendant?”

“No.” Blackstone pointed to the rubble. “As you can see, it’s just an old schoolyard with weeds growing through the tarmac. The school was knocked down months ago.”

Banks looked around. To the southwest he could see the large dome of the Town Hall and the built-up city center; to the west stood the high white obelisk of the university’s Brotherton Library, and the rest of the horizon seemed circled with blocks of flats and crooked terraces of back-to-backs poking through the surrounding rubble like charred vertebrae. “I could use a break on this, Ken,” Banks said.

“Aye. We’ll give it our best. Hey up, the lads have come to pick up the car.”

Banks watched the police tow-team tie a line to the Escort. “I’d better be off,” he said. “You’ll let me know?”

“Just a minute,” said Blackstone. “What are your plans?”

“I’m checking into the Holiday Inn. For tonight, at least. There’s a couple of people I want to talk to again in connection with Clegg and Rothwell – Clegg’s secretary and his ex-wife, for a start. I’d like to get a clearer idea of their relationship now we’ve got a bit more to go on.”

“Holiday Inn? Well, la-di-dah. Isn’t that a bit posh for a humble copper?”

Banks laughed. “I could do with a bit of luxury. Maybe they’ll give me the sack when they see my expenses. These days we can’t even afford to do half the forensic tests we need.”

“Tell me about it. Anyway, if you’re going to be sticking around, I’d appreciate it if we could have a chat. There seems to be a lot going on here I don’t know about.”

“There’s a lot I don’t know about, too.”

“Still… I’d appreciate it if you would fill me in.”

“No problem.”

Blackstone hesitated and shifted from foot to foot. “Look,” he said, “I’d like to invite you over for a bit of home-cooking but Connie left a couple of months ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Banks. “I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, well, it happens, right? Comes with the territory. Still taking care of that lovely wife of yours?”

“You wouldn’t think so by the amount of time we’ve spent together lately.”

“I know what you mean. That was one of the problems. She said we were living such separate lives we might as well make it official. Anyway, I’m not much of a cook myself. Besides, Connie got the house and I’m in a rather small bachelor flat for the moment. But there’s a decent Indian restaurant on Eastgate, near the station, if you fancy it? It’s called the Shabab. About half past six, seven o’clock? We might have something on Hamilton and the car by then, too.”

“All right,” said Banks. “You’re on. Make it seven o’clock.”

“And, Alan,” said Blackstone as Banks walked away, “you watch yourself. Hotels give married men strange ideas sometimes. I suppose it’s the anonymity and the distance from home, if you know what I mean. Anyway, there’s some seem to act as if the normal vows of marriage don’t apply in hotels.”

Banks knew what Blackstone meant, and he felt guilty as an image of Pamela Jeffreys flashed unbidden through his mind.

2

Susan Gay heard Sergeant Hatchley burp before she had even opened the office door after more fruitless interviews with Rothwell’s legitimate clients. She felt apprehension churn in her stomach like a badly digested meal. She could not work with Hatchley; she just couldn’t.

Hatchley sat at his desk smoking. The small, stifling room stank of stale beer and pickled onions. The warped window was open about as far as it would go, but that didn’t help much. If this oppressive weather didn’t end soon, Susan felt she would scream.

And, by God, he’s repulsive, she thought. There was his sheer bulk, for a start – a rugby prop forward gone to fat. Then there was his face: brick-red complexion, white eyelashes and piggy eyes; straw hair, thinning a bit at the top; a smattering of freckles over a broad-bridged nose; fleshy lips; tobacco-stained teeth. To cap it all, he wore a shiny, wrinkled blue suit, and his red neck bulged over his tight shirt collar.

From the corner of her eye, Susan noticed the colored picture on the cork-board: long blonde hair, exposed skin. Without even stopping to think, she walked over and pulled it down so hard the drawing-pin shot right across the room.

“Oy!” said Hatchley. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?”