Shit, thought Susan, it’s going to be one of those days.

2

Banks was right, he saw, as he stood on the threshold of Robert Calvert’s flat and surveyed the wreckage. The only difference between this and Pamela Jeffreys’s flat was that there had been no human being hurt and no prized possessions utterly destroyed. Stuffing from the sofa lay strewn over the carpet, which had been partly rolled up to expose the bare floorboards. In places, wallpaper had been ripped down, and the television screen had been shattered.

So they had come back. It supported his theory. They obviously didn’t know that Banks was a policeman, didn’t know that Calvert’s flat had already been thoroughly searched by professionals. If they had known, they would never have come here.

It was as he had suspected. They had started following him when he left Clegg’s Park Square office on Monday morning. They must have seen the police arrive first, but from their point of view, the police arrived sometime after Banks, and he left alone, so there was no reason to make a connection, certainly none to suspect that he was a policeman. For all they knew, he could have been a friend of Betty Moorhead’s, or a colleague of Clegg’s.

Still looking for clues to Clegg’s whereabouts, they had trailed Banks on his lunch date with Pamela and noted where she was rehearsing. One of them must have found out where she lived. They didn’t know about the Calvert flat until Banks led them there, and they must have thought the place had something to do with Clegg. Finally, when Banks saw them from the window, they ran off, only to come back later and search the place when the coast was clear.

Where were they now? Already, their descriptions had been sent to other police forces, to the airports and ports. If the men had any sense, they would lie low for a while before trying to leave the country. But criminals don’t always have sense, Banks knew. In fact, more often than not, they were plain stupid.

And what about Rothwell’s killers? If the man Melissa Clegg remembered was involved – and it was a big if – then he was local. Was he the kind to stay put or run? And what about his partner?

No one else was at home in the building, and there was no point looking over the rest of the flat. From the box at the corner of the street, Banks went through the motions of calling the local police to report the break-in, but he knew there was nothing they could do. He had no doubts as to who had done it; he just had to find them. Dirty Dick Burgess knew something, Banks believed, but he would talk only when he wanted and tell only as little as he needed.

When Banks had finished the call, he took a bus to Millgarth at the bottom of Eastgate. Over the road, on the site of the demolished Quarry Hill flats, stood the new West Yorkshire Playhouse with its “City of Drama ” sign. It seemed uncannily appropriate, Banks thought, given the events of the past couple of days. Beyond the theater, high on a hill, was Quarry House, new home of the Department of Health and Social Security, and already nicknamed “The Kremlin” by locals.

Ken Blackstone was in his office bent over a stack of paperwork. He pushed the pile aside and gestured for Banks to sit opposite him.

“No earth-shattering developments to report, before you get your hopes up,” he said. “We’re still no closer to finding Clegg or Rothwell’s killers, but there’s a couple of interesting points. First off, you might like to know that the lab boys say the dirt and gravel on the tires of Ronald Hamilton’s Escort match that around Arkbeck Farm. They said a lot of other things about phosphates and sulphides or whatever, which I didn’t understand, but it looks like the car the killers used. Rest of it was clean as a whistle. And airport security at Heathrow have found Clegg’s red Jag in the long-stay car park.”

“Surprise, surprise,” said Banks.

“Indeed. Coffee?”

Bank’s stomach was already grumbling from too much caffeine, so he declined. Blackstone went and poured himself a mug from a machine in the open-plan office and returned to his screened-off corner. There was a buzz of constant noise around them – telephones, computer printers, fax machines, doors opening and closing, and the general banter of a section CID department – but Blackstone seemed to have carved himself a small corner of reasonably quiet calm.

Banks told him about Calvert’s flat.

“Interesting,” said Blackstone. “When do you think that happened?”

“I’d say before they went to Pamela’s,” Banks said. “Finding nothing there would put them in a fine mood for hurting someone. Is there any news from the hospital?”

Blackstone shook his head. “No change. She’s stable, at least.” He frowned at Banks and touched the side of his own cheek. “What about you? And I noticed you limping a bit when you came in.”

“Slipped in the shower. Look, Ken, I might have a lead on one of Rothwell’s killers.” He went on quickly to tell Blackstone what Melissa Clegg had said about the mysterious client with the puppy-dog eyes that Clegg had passed on to Harvey Atkins.

Blackstone put the tip of a yellow pencil to his lower lip. “Hmm… ” he said. “We’re already running a check on all Clegg’s contacts and clients. We can certainly check the court records. At least we’ve got the brief’s name, which helps a bit. Harvey Atkins is certainly no stranger around here. He’s not a bad bloke, as lawyers go. It’s a bit vague, though, isn’t it? About two years ago, she says, something to do with assault, maybe? Do we know if the bloke was convicted?”

Banks shook his head. “I’m afraid we’ll have to depend on the kindness of microchips.”

Blackstone scowled. “Hang on a minute.” He made a quick phone call and set the inquiry in motion. “They say it could take a while,” he said. “It might be a long list.”

Banks nodded. “What do you know about Tahiti?” he asked.

“ Tahiti? That’s where Captain Bligh’s men deserted in the film. It’s part of French Polynesia now, isn’t it?”

“I think so. It’s in the South Pacific at any rate. And Gauguin painted there.”

“Why are you interested?”

Banks told him what Melissa Clegg had said.

“Hmm,” said Blackstone. “It wouldn’t do any harm to put a few inquiries in motion, check on flights, would it? Especially now we’ve found the car at Heathrow. A relative newcomer might stand out there. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks. Anything else?”

“We finished the house-to-house in Pamela Jeffreys’s street. Nothing really, except I think we’ve fixed the time. One neighbor remembered hearing some noise at about nine-fifteen Monday evening, which fits with what the doc said, and with Mr. Judd’s statement.”

Banks nodded.

“The people on the other side were out.”

“These neighbors,” said Banks, “they said they just heard some noise?”

“Yes.”

“Ken, imagine how much noise it must have made when they smashed that stuff. Imagine how Pamela Jeffreys must have screamed for help when she realized what was happening.”

“I know, I know.” Blackstone shook his head and sighed. “I suppose they would have gagged her.”

“Still… ”

“Look, Alan, according to DC Hyatt, who talked to them, they said they thought it was the television at first. He asked them if she usually played her television set so loud, and they said no. Then they said they thought she was having a fight with her boyfriend. He asked them if that was a regular occurrence, too, and again they said no. Then they said, or implied, that dark-skinned people have odd forms of entertaining themselves and that we white folks had best leave them to it.”

“They really said that?”

Blackstone nodded. “Words to that effect. They’re the sort of people who wouldn’t cross the street to piss on an Asian if she was on fire. And they don’t want to get involved.”