“We’ll get someone to take a statement soon, Mr. Judd,” said Waltham.

“All right, son,” said the old man, turning back to his allotment. “I won’t be going anywhere except my final resting place, and that’ll be a few months off, God willing. I only wish I could have been more help.”

“You did fine,” said Banks.

“What the bloody hell was all that about, sir?” Waltham asked as they walked away. “You didn’t tell me you’d been here before.”

Banks noticed Ken Blackstone getting out of a dark blue Peugeot opposite the Sikh Temple. “Didn’t have time,” he said to Waltham, moving away. “Later, Sergeant. I’ll explain it all later.”

2

Banks and Blackstone sat in an Indian restaurant near Woodhouse Moor, a short drive across the Aire valley from Pamela Jeffreys’s house, drinking lager and nibbling at pakoras and onion bhaji as they waited for their main courses. Being close to the university, the place was full of students. The aroma was tantalizing – cumin, coriander, cloves, cinnamon, mingled with other spices Banks couldn’t put a name to. “Not exactly the Shabab,” Blackstone had said, “but not bad.” A Yorkshire compliment.

In the brief time they had been there, Banks had explained as succinctly as he could what the hell was going on – at least to the extent that he understood it himself.

“So why do you think they beat up the girl?” Blackstone asked.

“They must have thought she knew where Daniel Clegg was, or that she was hiding something for him. They ripped her place up pretty thoroughly.”

“And you think they’re working for Martin Churchill?”

“Burgess thinks so. It’s possible.”

“Do you think it was the same two who visited Clegg’s secretary and his ex-wife?”

“Yes. I’m certain of it.”

“But they didn’t beat up either of them, or search their places. Why not?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they were getting desperate by the time they got to Pamela. Let’s face it, they’d found out nothing so far. They must have been frustrated. They felt they’d done enough pussyfooting around and it was time for business. Either that or they phoned their boss and he told them to push harder. They also probably thought she was lying or holding out on them for some reason, maybe something in her manner. I don’t know. Perhaps they’re just racists.”

Banks shook his head, feeling a sudden ache and rage. He couldn’t seem to banish the image of Pamela Jeffreys at the hands of her torturers: her terror, her agony, the smashed viola. And would her broken fingers ever heal enough for her to play again? But he didn’t know Blackstone well enough to talk openly about his feelings. “They’d been polite but pushy earlier,” he said. “Maybe they just ran out of patience.”

The main course arrived: a plate of steaming chapatis, chicken bhuna and goat vindaloo, along with a selection of chutneys and raita. They shared out the dishes and started to eat, using the chapatis to shovel mouthfuls of food and mop up the sauce. Blackstone ordered a couple more lagers and a jug of ice water.

“There is another explanation,” Blackstone said between mouthfuls.

“What?”

“That she did know something. That she was involved in the double-cross, or whatever it was. From the quick look I got at her house, I’d agree there’s no doubt they were looking for something. DS Waltham suggested the same thing.”

“Don’t think I haven’t considered it,” Banks said, carefully piling a heap of the hot vindaloo on a scrap of chapati. “But I’m sure she didn’t even know Clegg.”

“That’s only what she told you, remember.”

“Nobody else contradicted her, Ken. Not Melissa Clegg, not the secretary, not even Mr. Judd.”

“Oh, come on, Alan. The old man can’t have seen everything. Nor could the secretary or the ex-wife have known everything. Maybe Clegg never visited her at her home. They could have had some clandestine relationship, met in secret.”

“Why the need for secrecy? Neither of them was married.”

“Perhaps because they were involved in some funny business – not necessarily of a sexual nature – and it wouldn’t be good to be seen together. Maybe she was involved in whatever scam Clegg and Rothwell had going?”

Banks shook his head. “Clegg was a lawyer, Rothwell a financial whiz-kid, and Pamela Jeffreys is a classical musician. It just doesn’t fit.”

“They could have had business interests in common, though.”

“True. Anything’s possible. But remember, Pamela Jeffreys knew Robert Calvert. She told me they met by chance in a pub. She’d never heard of Keith Rothwell until after his murder, when his photo appeared in the papers. She had no reason to lie. She was even putting herself in an awkward situation by calling us. She needn’t have done so. We hadn’t heard of Robert Calvert and might never have done if it weren’t for her. Usually people want to stay as far away from a murder investigation as they can get. You know that, Ken. Until we find out differently, we have to assume that Calvert was a persona invented by Rothwell, with Clegg’s help, solely for pleasure.”

Blackstone swallowed a mouthful of bhuna. “I sometimes think I could do with one of those myself,” he said.

Banks laughed. “Calvert helped Rothwell express another side of his nature, a side he couldn’t indulge at home. Or perhaps it helped him be the way he used to be, relive something he’d lost. As Calvert, he’d have fun gambling and womanizing, and probably subsidizing himself with his illicit earnings from the money-laundering. And Pamela Jeffreys wasn’t his only conquest, you know. There were no doubt others before her, and she was convinced that he’d met someone else, someone he’d really fallen for.”

“That would upset the apple-cart, wouldn’t it?” said Blackstone.

Banks stopped chewing for a moment

“Alan?” Blackstone said. “Alan, are you all right? I know the curry’s hot, but… ”

“What? Oh, yes. It was just something you said, that’s all. I’m surprised I never thought of it before.”

“What?”

“If Calvert really did do it, you know, fall in love, the real thing, with all the bells and whistles, then what would happen to Rothwell?”

“I don’t get you. It’s the same person, isn’t it?”

“Yes and no. What I mean is, how could he go on living his Rothwell life, the one we assumed was his real life, at Arkbeck Farm with Mary, Alison and Tom? Forgive me, I’m just thinking out loud, going nowhere. It doesn’t matter.”

“I do see what you mean,” said Blackstone. “It would bugger up everything, wouldn’t it?”

“Hmm.” Banks finished his meal and washed away some of the spicy heat with a swig of watery lager. His lips still burned, though, and he felt prickles of sweat on his scalp. The signs of a good curry.

“Did the suspects in the Jeffreys beating know about Rothwell?” Blackstone asked.

Banks shook his head. “Don’t know. They haven’t been seen locally, and they certainly don’t match the daughter’s description of his killers.”

“How old is she?”

“Alison? Fifteen.”

“She didn’t see their faces. Could she be wrong?”

“It’s possible, but not that wrong, I don’t think. Nothing matches.”

“Just a thought. I mean, if Rothwell and Clegg were in the laundering business together, and whoever they were working for sent a couple of goons to find Clegg and whatever money he’s made off with, you’d think they’d start with Rothwell’s family, wouldn’t you?”

“Perhaps. But we’ve been keeping too close a watch. They wouldn’t dare show up within twenty miles of Arkbeck Farm.”

“And another thing: if they killed Rothwell, why did they use different people to chase down Clegg? It seems a bit excessive, doesn’t it?”

“Again,” said Banks, “I can only guess. I think some of what’s been happening took them by surprise. It’s possible that they asked Clegg to get rid of Rothwell and he hired his own men. As you know, we’re looking into what connections he might have had with criminal types.”