Hatchley shrugged. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. What do you say?”

Susan thought for a moment. “All right,” she said. “But you’ve got to convince Superintendent Gristhorpe.”

“Right, lass,” Hatchley beamed, rubbing his hands together. “You’re on.”

Oh my God, thought Susan, with that sinking feeling. A porn hunt. What have I let myself in for?

3

By the looks of it, the heat had drawn one or two refugees from the Magistrates Court over to the Park Square. Two skinheads, stripped to the waist, dozed on the grass under a tree. One, lying on his back, had tattoos up and down his arms and scars criss-crossing his abdomen, old knife wounds by the look of them; the other, on his stomach, boasted a giant butterfly tattoo between his shoulder-blades.

In Clegg’s offices, Betty Moorhead was still holding the fort and fighting off her cold.

“Oh, Mr. Banks,” she said when he entered the anteroom. “It’s nice to see a friendly face. There’s been nothing but police coming and going since you were last here, and nobody will tell me anything.”

Had she forgotten he was a policeman, too? he wondered. Or was it just that he had been the first to arrive and she had somehow latched onto him as a lifeline?

“Some men in suits took most of his papers,” she went on, “and there’s been others asking questions all day. They’ve got someone keeping an eye on the building as well, in case those two men come back. Then there was that man from Scotland Yard. I don’t know what’s what. They all had identification cards, of course, but I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.”

Banks smiled. “Don’t worry, Betty,” he said. “I know it sounds complicated, but we’re all working together.”

She nodded and pulled a tissue from the box in front of her and blew her nose; it looked red raw from rubbing. “Is there any news of Mr. Clegg?” she asked.

“Nothing yet. We’re still looking.”

“Did you talk to Melissa?”

“Yes.”

“How is she?”

Banks didn’t really know what to say. He wasn’t used to giving out information, just digging it up, but Betty Moorhead was obviously concerned. “She didn’t seem unduly worried,” he said. “She’s sure he’ll turn up.”

Betty’s expression brightened. “Well, then,” she said. “There you are.”

“Do you mind if I ask a few more questions?”

“Oh, no. I’d be happy to be of help.”

“Good.” Banks perched at the edge of her desk and looked around the room. “Sitting here,” he said, “you’d see everyone who called on Mr. Clegg, wouldn’t you? Everyone who came in and out of his office.”

“Yes.”

“And if people phoned, you’d speak to them first?”

“Well, yes. But I did tell you Mr. Clegg has a private line.”

“Did he receive many calls on it?”

“I can’t say, really. I heard it ring once in a while, but I was usually too busy to pay attention. I’m certain he didn’t give the number out to just anyone.”

“So you didn’t unintentionally overhear any of the conversations?”

“I know what you’re getting at,” she said, “and you can stop right there. I’m not that sort of a secretary.”

“What sort?”

“The sort that listens in on her boss’s conversations. Besides,” she added with a smile, “the walls are too thick. These are old houses, solidly built. You can’t hear what’s being said in Mr. Clegg’s office with the door shut.”

“Even if two people are having a conversation in there?”

“Even then.”

“Or arguing?”

“Not that it happened often, but you can only hear the raised voices, not what they’re saying.”

“Did you ever hear Mr. Clegg arguing with Mr. Rothwell?”

“I don’t remember. I don’t think so. I mean if they ever did, it would certainly have been a rarity. Normally they were all cordial and businesslike.”

“Mr. Clegg specializes in tax law, doesn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“How many clients does he have?”

“That’s very hard to say. I mean, there are regular clients, and then people you just do a bit of work for now and then.”

“Roughly? Fifty? A hundred?”

“Closer to a hundred, I’d say.”

“Any new ones?”

“He’s been too busy to take on much new work this year.”

“So there’s been no new clients in, say, the past three months?”

“Not really, no. He’s done a bit of extra work for friends of friends here and there, but nothing major.”

“What I’m getting at,” Banks said, leaning forward, “is whether there’s been anyone new visiting him often or phoning in the past two or three months.”

“Not visiting, no. There’s been a few funny phone calls, though.”

“What do you mean, funny?”

“Well, abrupt. I mean, I know I told you people are sometimes rude and brusque, but usually they at least tell you what they want. Since you were here last, I’ve been thinking, trying to remember, you know, if there was anything odd. My head’s so stuffed up I can hardly think straight, but I remembered the phone calls. I told the other policeman, too.”

“That’s okay. Tell me. What did this brusque caller say?”

“I don’t know if it was the same person each time, and it only happened two or three times. It was about a month ago.”

“Over what time period?”

“What? Oh, just a couple of days.”

“What did he say? I assume it was a he?”

“Yes. He’d just say, ‘Clegg?’. And if I said Mr. Clegg was out or busy, he’d hang up.”

“I see what you mean. What kind of voice did he have?”

“I couldn’t say. That’s all I ever heard him say. It just sounded ordinary, but clipped, impatient, in a hurry.”

“And this happened two or three times over a couple of days?”

“Yes.”

“You never heard the voice again?”

“I never had that sort of call again, if that’s what you mean.”

“Nobody visited the office who sounded like the man?”

She sneezed, then blew her nose. “No. But I told you I don’t think I would recognize it.”

“It wasn’t anything like one of the men who came around asking questions?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right.”

“What’s going on?”

“We don’t know,” Banks lied. He was testing Gristhorpe’s theory about Clegg’s involvement in Rothwell’s murder, but he didn’t want Betty Moorhead to realize he suspected her boss of such a crime. Certainly the odd phone calls could have been from someone giving him orders, or from the people he hired to do the job. The timing was about right. “Do you think Mr. Clegg might have given this caller his private number?”

She nodded. “That’s what must have happened. The first two times, Mr. Clegg was out or with a client. The third time, I put the caller through, and he never called me again.”

“And you’re sure you never put a face to the voice?”

“No.”

Banks stood up and walked around the small room. Well-tended potted plants stood on the shelf by the small window at the back that looked out onto narrow Park Cross Street. Clegg had obviously been careful where Betty Moorhead was concerned. If he had been mixed up with hired killers and Caribbean dictators, he had been careful to keep them at arm’s length. He turned back to Betty. “Is there anything else you can tell me about Mr. Clegg?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“How would you describe him as a person?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know.”

“You never socialized?”

She blushed. “Certainly not.”

“Had he been depressed lately?”

“No.”

“Did Mr. Clegg have many women calling on him?”

“Not as far as I know. What are you suggesting?”

“Did you ever see or hear mention of a woman called Pamela Jeffreys? An Asian woman.”

She looked puzzled. “No. She wasn’t a client.”

“Did he have a girlfriend?”

“I wouldn’t know. He kept his private life private.”

Banks decided to give up. Melissa Clegg might know a bit more about her husband’s conquests, or Ken Blackstone’s men would question his colleagues and perhaps come up with something. It was after five and he was tired of running around in circles. Betty Moorhead clearly didn’t know anything else, or if she did she didn’t realize its importance. Getting at information like that was like target practice in the dark.