Avoiding City Square and the scene of the previous evening’s debacle, he cut up King Street instead, walked past the recently restored Metropole Hotel, all redbrick and gold sandstone masonry, and along East Parade through the business section of banks and insurance buildings in all their jumbled glory. Here, Victorian Gothic rubbed shoulders with Georgian classicism and sixties concrete and glass. As in many cities, you had to look up, above eye level, to see the interesting details on the tops of the buildings: surprising gables where pigeons nested, gargoyles, balconies, caryatids.

As he walked along The Headrow past Stumps and the art gallery, he became aware again of the sharp pain in his knee, with which he had probably chipped a cheekbone or broken a jaw the previous evening.

He arrived at the Merrion Centre a couple of minutes early. Melissa Clegg had told him on the phone that she had a very busy day planned. She was expecting a number of important deliveries and had appointments with her suppliers. She could, however, allow him half an hour. There was a quiet coffee bar with outside tables, she told him, on the second level, up the steps over the entrance to Le Phonographique. She would meet him there at half past ten.

Banks found the coffee bar, and an empty table, with no trouble. At that time on a Wednesday morning, the Merrion Centre was practically deserted: especially the upper level, which seemed to have nothing but small offices and hairdressers.

Melissa Clegg arrived on time with all the flurry of the busy executive. When she sat down, she tucked her hair behind her ears. Today, she wore a pink dress cut square at her throat and shoulders.

The last thing on earth Banks felt he needed was another cup of coffee, but he took an espresso just to have something in front of him. Also, by the feel of his chest, he didn’t need a cigarette, either, but he lit one nonetheless. The first few drags made him a bit dizzy, then it tasted fine.

“You look a bit the worse for wear,” Melissa observed.

“You should have seen the other two,” Banks said. He could tell by the way she laughed that she didn’t believe him, just as he had expected. But he had also noticed the angry contusion high on his left cheek, just to the side of his eye, when he shaved that morning. Another result of his crash into the alley wall. He tried to keep his skinned knuckles out of sight, which made drinking coffee difficult.

“What can I do for you this time, Inspector, or Chief Inspector, is it?”

“Chief Inspector. I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from your husband?”

“Ex. Well, near as. No, I haven’t. But he’s hardly likely to get in touch with me. I still don’t know why you’re so worried. I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

“I don’t think so, Mrs. Clegg. Remember last time we met I asked you if you knew a Robert Calvert?”

“Yes. I said I didn’t and I still don’t.”

“I’d appreciate it if you would keep this quiet for the moment, but we believe that Robert Calvert was also Keith Rothwell.”

“I don’t understand. Do you mean he had a false name, an alias?”

“Something like that. More, actually. He lived in Leeds, had a flat in the name of Robert Calvert. A whole other life. Mary Rothwell doesn’t know, so-”

“Don’t worry, I won’t say anything. You’ve got me puzzled.”

“We were, too. But the reason I’m telling you this is that your husband acted as a reference for Robert Calvert in the matter of his bank account and credit card. Also, ironically enough, Calvert listed his employer as Keith Rothwell.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” said Melissa. “Daniel must have known about this double life, then?”

“It looks that way.”

“Well, I certainly knew nothing about it. As I told you before, I haven’t seen Keith Rothwell since Danny and I split up two years ago.” She frowned. “I must say it surprises me that Daniel would risk doing something so obviously dishonest as that. Not that dishonesty is beneath him, but it seems too much of a risk for no return.”

“We don’t know what the returns were,” Banks said. “How close are you and Daniel?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he ever mention a woman called Marci Lapwing to you?”

“God, what a name. No. Who is she? His girlfriend?”

“Someone he’s been seeing lately.”

“Well, he wouldn’t tell me about her, would he?”

“Why not?”

She shrugged. “He never does. Maybe he thinks I’d be jealous.”

“Would you?”

“Look, I don’t see what it has to do with anything, but no. It’s over. O. V. E. R. We made our choices.”

“Is there someone else?”

She blushed a little but met his gaze with steady eyes as she fingered the top of her dress over her freckled collarbone. “As a matter of fact there is. But I won’t tell you anything more. I don’t want him dragged into this. It’s none of your business, anyway. Danny’s probably run off with his bimbo.”

“No. Marci Lapwing is still around. Never mind. Let’s move on. How do you explain the two men who visited you?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps her husband sent them?”

“Whose husband?”

“The bimbo’s. Marci whatever-her-name-is.”

“She’s not married. Since we last talked,” Banks said, lowering his voice, “things have taken several turns for the worse. We’re talking about very serious matters indeed. It looks as if your husband might be implicated in murder, money-laundering, theft and fraud, and that he may be partly responsible for the savage beating of a young woman.”

“My God… I… ”

“I know. You didn’t take all this seriously. Nor did you want to. Now will you?”

She began to fidget with her coffee-spoon. “Yes. Yes, of course. I assume you’re talking about Keith Rothwell’s murder?”

“Yes.”

“And who has been beaten?”

“A friend of Mr. Rothwell’s. The way it looks, both Keith Rothwell and your husband were laundering money for a Mr. X. We think we know his identity, but I’m afraid I can’t reveal it to you. Rothwell was either stealing or threatening to talk, or both, and Mr. X asked your husband to get rid of him.”

She shook her head. “Danny? No. I don’t believe it. He couldn’t kill anyone.”

“Hear me out, Mrs. Clegg. He did as he was asked. Maybe his own life was threatened, we don’t know. Immediately after he arranged to get rid of Keith Rothwell, he either became a threat himself, or he made off with a lot of illegal money, so Mr. X sent two goons to track him down. Maybe he’d seen it coming and anticipated what they would do. At this point, there’s a lot we can only speculate about.”

“And that explains the two men?”

“Yes.” Banks leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. “They visited your ex-husband’s office, they visited you, then they visited a girl they saw me talking to. She was the one they beat up. Now tell me again, Mrs. Clegg, have you ever seen or heard of a woman called Pamela Jeffreys? She was born here in Yorkshire, but her family came originally from Pakistan. She’s about five foot four, slender figure, with almond eyes and long black hair that she sometimes wears tied back. She has a smooth, dark gold complexion and a gold stud through her left nostril. She’s a classical musician, a violist with the Northern Philharmonia.”

Banks watched Melissa’s face as he described Pamela Jeffreys. When he had finished, she shook her head. “Honestly,” she said, “I’ve never seen her, and Danny never mentioned anyone like that. She sounds impressive, but he doesn’t go for that type.”

“What type?”

“Bright women. Career women. It scared him to death when I started to make a success of the wine business. At first he could just look down on it as my little hobby. You said she was a classical musician?”

“Yes.”

“He doesn’t like classical music. All he likes is that bloody awful trad jazz. A woman like the one you describe would bore Danny to death. Besides, she sounds so gorgeous, I’m sure I’d remember her.”