“Because I thought he was up to something. He was away so often. He was always so remote, like he wasn’t really with us even when he was at home. I thought he was doing damage to the family.”

“He wasn’t always like that?”

Tom shook his head. “No. Believe it or not, Dad used to have a bit of life about him. I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to make a bad joke.”

“I know. How long had he been behaving this way?”

“Hard to say. It was gradual, like. But this past couple of years it was getting worse. You could hardly talk to him.” He shrugged.

“Was that the only reason you followed him, because you thought he was up to something?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I wanted to get something on him. Revenge, I don’t know. Find out what his guilty secret was.”

“And did you?”

Tom took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then let it out loudly with a nervous laugh. “This is harder than I thought. Okay. Here goes. Yes. I saw my father with another woman.” He said it fast, staccato-style. “There, that’s it. I said it.”

Susan paused a moment to take the information in, then asked, “When?”

“Sometime in February.”

“Where?”

“ Leeds. In a pub. They were sitting together at a table in the Guildford, on The Headrow. They were holding hands. Christ.” His eyes were glassy with gathering tears. He rubbed the backs of his hands over them and collected himself. “Do you know what that feels like?” he asked. “Seeing your old man with another woman. No, of course you don’t. It was like a kick in the balls. Sorry.”

“That’s all right. Did your father see you?”

“No. I kept myself well enough hidden. Not that they had eyes for anyone but each other.”

“What happened next?”

“Nothing. I left. I was so upset I just got in the van and drove around the countryside for a while. I remember stopping somewhere and walking by a river. It was very cold.”

“Was the woman dark-skinned? Indian or Pakistani?”

Tom looked surprised. “No.”

Susan took her notepad and pen out. “What did she look like?”

Tom closed his eyes. “I can see her now,” he said, “just as clearly as I could then. She was young, much younger than Dad. Probably in her mid-twenties, I’d guess. Not much older than me. She was sitting down, so I couldn’t really see her figure properly, but I’d say it was good. I mean, she didn’t look fat or anything. She looked nicely proportioned. She was wearing a blouse made of some shiny white material and a scarf sort of thing, more like a shawl, really, over her shoulders, all in blues, whites and reds. It looked like one of those Liberty patterns. She had long fingers. I noticed them for some reason. Am I going too fast?”

“No,” said Susan. “I’ve got my own kind of shorthand. Carry on.”

“Long, tapered fingers. No nail varnish, but her nails looked well kept, not bitten or anything. She had blonde hair. No, that’s not quite accurate. It was a kind of reddish blonde. It was piled and twisted on top with some strands falling loose over her cheeks and shoulders. You know the kind of look? Sort of messy but ordered.”

Susan nodded. Hairstyles like that cost a fortune.

“She was extraordinarily good-looking,” Tom went on. “Very fine, pale skin. A flawless complexion, like marble, sort of translucent. The kind where you can just about see the blue veins underneath. And her features could have been cut by a fine sculptor. High cheekbones, small, straight nose. Her eyes were an unusual shade of blue. They may have been contact lenses, but they were sort of light but very bright blue. Cobalt, I guess. Is that it?”

“It’ll do. Go on.”

“That’s about all really. No beauty spots or anything. She was wearing long dangly earrings, too. Lapis lazuli. No rings, I don’t think.”

“That’s a very good description, Tom. Do you think you could work with a police artist on this? I think we’d like to have a talk with this woman, and your description might help us find her.”

Tom nodded. “No problem. I could paint her myself from memory if I had the talent.”

“Good. We’ll arrange something, then. Maybe this evening.”

Tom took his watch out again. “I suppose I’d better be going home. Mum and Alison need my support.”

“Did you ever challenge your father about what you saw?” Susan asked.

Tom shook his head. “I came close once, when he kept going on about how disappointed he was in me, how sick I was. I told him I was disappointed in him, too, but I wouldn’t tell him why.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing. Just carried on as if I hadn’t spoken.”

“Does your mother know?”

He shook his head. “No. She doesn’t know. I’m sure of it.”

“Do you think she suspects?”

“Maybe. Who knows? She’s been living in a bit of a dream world. I’m worried about her, actually. Sometimes I get the feeling that underneath all the lies she knows the truth but she just won’t admit it to herself. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes. What about Alison?”

“Alison’s a sweet thing really, but she hasn’t got a clue. Lives in her books. She’s Brontë mad, is Alison, you know. Reads nothing but. And she’s got notebooks full of her own stories, all in tiny handwriting like the Brontës did when they were kids. Made up her own world. I keep thinking she’ll grow out of it, but… I don’t know… she seems even worse since… since Dad… ” He shook his head slowly. “No, she doesn’t know. I wouldn’t confide in her. I kept it all to myself. Can you imagine that? I still do. You’re the first person I’ve told.” He stood up. “Look, I really must be off.”

“We’ll be in touch about the artist, then.”

“Yes. Okay. And… ”

“Yes?”

“Thanks,” he said, then turned abruptly and hurried off.

Susan watched him go down the path, hands in pockets, shoulders slumped. She poured herself another cup of tea, stewed though it was, and looked out at the river. A beautiful insect with iridescent wings hovered a few feet above the water. Suddenly, a chaffinch shot out from one of the trees and took the insect in its beak in mid-air. Susan left her lukewarm tea and headed off to meet Sergeant Hatchley. The porn hunt awaited.

3

After Banks had gone for a swim in the hotel pool, taken a long sauna, and put away three cups of freshly brewed coffee and a plateful of bacon and eggs, courtesy of room service, he was feeling much better.

As he made a few phone calls, he tried to remember something that had been nagging away at him since the early hours, something he should do, but he failed miserably. At about the same time that Susan Gay was talking to Tom Rothwell, he went out for his first appointment, with Melissa Clegg.

The morning sun had burned off most of the rain, and the pavements had absorbed the rest, leaving them the color of sandstone, with small puddles catching the light here and there. As wind ruffled the water’s surface, golden light danced inside the puddles.

It wasn’t as warm as it had been, Banks noticed. He had left his torn sports jacket at the hotel. All he wore on top was a light blue, open-neck shirt. He carried his notebook, wallet, keys and cigarettes in his briefcase.

A cool wind whispered through the streets, and there were plenty of dark, heavy clouds now lurking on the northern horizon behind the Town Hall. It looked like the region was in for some “changeable” weather, as the forecasters called it: sunny with cloudy periods, or cloudy with sunny periods.

He could drive to his appointment, he knew, but the one-way system was a nightmare. Besides, the city center wasn’t all that big, and the fresh air would help blow away the cobwebs that still clung to his brain.

Banks had grown quite fond of Leeds since he had been living in Yorkshire. It had an honest, slightly shabby charm about it that appealed to him, despite the new “Leeds-look” architecture – redbrick revival with royal blue trim – that had sprouted up everywhere, and despite the modern shopping centers and the yuppie developments down by the River Aire. Leeds was a scruff by nature; it wouldn’t look comfortable in fancy dress, no matter what the price. And then there was Opera North, of course.