Banks said nothing. DS Waltham leaned against the bannister. The scruffy DC squeezed by them and went upstairs. In the front room, someone laughed out loud again.

Waltham coughed behind his hand. “Er, look, sir, is there something we should know? There’ll have to be questions, of course, but we can be as discreet as anyone if we have to be. What with you showing up here and… ”

“And what, Sergeant?”

“Well, I recognize your voice from her answering machine. It was you, wasn’t it?”

Banks sighed. “Yes, yes it was. But no, there’s nothing you need to be discreet about. There is probably a lot you should know. Shit.” He looked at his watch. Almost seven. “Look, Sergeant, I’d clean forgot I’m supposed to be meeting DI Blackstone for dinner.”

“Our DI Blackstone, sir?”

“Yes. Know him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you think you can get one of the PCs to page him or track him down? It’s the Shabab on Eastgate.”

Waltham smiled. “I know it. Very popular with the lads at Millgarth. I’ll see to it, sir.”

He went to the door and spoke to one of the uniformed constables then came back. “He’s on his way. Look, sir, PC O’Brien there just told me there’s an old geezer across the street thinks he might have seen something. Want to come over?”

“Yes. Very much.” Banks followed him down the path and through the small crowd. One or two reporters shouted for comments, but Waltham just waved them aside. PC O’Brien stood by the low, dark stone wall that ran by the allotments, talking to a painfully thin old man wearing a grubby, collarless shirt. Behind them, other allotment workers stood in a semi-circle, watching, some of them leaning on shovels or rakes. Very Yorkshire Gothic, Banks thought.

“Mr. Judd, sir,” O’Brien said, introducing Waltham, who, in turn, introduced Banks. “He was working his allotment last night just before dark.” Waltham nodded and O’Brien walked off. “Keep those bloody reporters at bay, will you, please, O’Brien?” Waltham called after him.

Banks sat on the wall and took out his cigarettes. He offered them around. Waltham declined, but Mr. Judd accepted one. “Might as well, lad,” he croaked, tapping his chest. “Too late to worry about my health now.”

He did look ill, Banks thought. Sallow flesh hung off the bones of his face above his scrawny neck with its turkey-flaps and puckered skin, like a surgery scar, around his Adam’s apple. The whites of his eyes had a yellow cast, but the dark blue pupils glinted with intelligence. Mr. Judd, Banks decided, was a man whose observations he could trust. He sat by and let Waltham do the questioning.

“What time were you out here?” Waltham asked.

“From seven o’clock till about half past nine,” said Judd. “This time of year I always come out of an evening after tea for a bit of peace, weather permitting. The wife likes to watch telly, but I’ve no patience with it, myself. Nowt but daft buggers acting like daft buggers.” He took a deep draw on the cigarette. Banks noticed him flinch with pain.

“Were you the only one working here?” Waltham asked.

“Aye. T’others had all gone home by then.”

“Can you tell us what you saw?”

“Aye, well it must have been close to knocking-off time. It were getting dark, I remember that. And this car pulled up outside Miss Jeffreys’s house. Dark and shiny, it were. Black.”

“Do you know what make?”

“No, sorry, lad. I wouldn’t know a Mini from an Aston Martin these days, to tell you the truth, especially since we’ve been getting all these foreign cars. It weren’t a big one, though.”

Waltham smiled. “Okay. Go on.”

“Well, two men gets out and walks up the path.”

“What did they look like?”

“Hard to say, really. They were both wearing suits. And one of them was a darkie, but that’s nowt to write home about these days, is it?”

“One of the men was black?”

“Aye.”

“What happened next?”

Judd went through a minor coughing fit and spat a ball of red-green phlegm on the earth beside him. “I packed up and went home. The wife needs a bit of help getting up the apples and pears to bed these days. She can’t walk as well as she used to.”

“Did you see Miss Jeffreys open the door and let the men in?”

“I can’t say I was watching that closely. One minute they were on the doorstep, next they were gone. But the car was still there.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“No. Too far away.” He shrugged. “I thought nothing of it. Insurance men, most like. That’s what they looked like. Or maybe those religious folks, Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

“So you didn’t see them leave?”

“No. I’d gone home by then.”

“Where do you live?”

Judd pointed across the street. “Over there. Number fourteen.” It was five houses down from Pamela Jeffreys’s. “Been there forty years or more, now. A right dump it was when we first moved in. Damp walls, no indoor toilets, no bathroom. Had it done up over the years, though, bit by bit.”

Waltham paused and looked at Banks, who indicated he would like to ask one or two questions. Waltham, Banks noted, had been a patient interviewer, not pushy, rude and condescending toward the old, like some. Maybe it was because he had a DCI watching over his shoulder. And maybe that was being uncharitable.

“Did you know Miss Jeffreys at all?” Banks asked.

Judd shook his head. “Can’t say as I did.”

“But you knew her to say hello to?”

“Oh, aye. She was a right nice lass, if you ask me. And a bonny one, too.” He winked. “Always said hello if she passed me in the street. Always carrying that violin case. I used to ask her if she were in t’mafia and had a machine-gun in it, just joking, like.”

“But you never stopped and chatted?”

“Not apart from that and the odd comment about the weather. What would an old codger like me have to say to a young lass like her? Besides, people round here tend to keep themselves to themselves these days.” He coughed and spat again. “It didn’t used to be that way, tha knows. When Eunice and I first came here there used to be a community. We’d have bloody great big bonfires out in the street on Guy Fawkes night – it were still just cobbles, then, none of this tarmac – and everyone came out. Eunice would make parkin and treacle-toffee. We’d wrap taties in foil and put ’em in t’fire to bake. But it’s all changed. People died, moved away. See that there Sikh Temple?” He pointed down the street. “It used to be a Congregationalist Chapel. Everyone went there on a Sunday morning. They had Monday whist drives, too, and a youth club, Boys’ Brigade and Girl Guides for the young uns. Pantos at Christmas.

“Oh, aye, it’s all changed. People coming and going. We’ve got indoor toilets now, but nobody talks to anyone. Not that I’ve owt against Pakis, like. As I said, she was a nice lass. I saw them taking her out on that stretcher an hour or so back.” He shook his head slowly. “Nowadays you keep your door locked tight. Will she be all right?”

“We don’t know,” Banks said. “We’re keeping our fingers crossed. Did she have many visitors?”

“I didn’t keep a look out. I suppose you mean boyfriends?”

“Anyone. Male or female.”

“I never saw any women call, not by themselves. Her mum and dad came now and then. At least, I assumed it was her mum and dad. And there was one bloke used to visit quite regularly a few months back. Used to park outside our house sometimes. And don’t ask me what kind of car he drove. I can’t even remember the color. But he stopped coming. Hasn’t been anyone since, not that I’ve noticed.”

“What did this man look like?”

“Ordinary really. Fair hair, glasses, a bit taller than thee.”

Keith Rothwell – or Robert Calvert, Banks thought. “Anyone else?”

Judd shook his head then smiled. “Only you and that young woman, t’other day.”

Banks felt Waltham turn and stare at him. If Judd had seen Banks and Susan visit Pamela Jeffreys on Saturday, then he obviously didn’t miss much – morning, afternoon or evening. Banks thanked him.