Mario paused a moment, then went behind the counter and looked in the ledger where he kept the addresses for newspaper deliveries. “ Forty-seven Bridgeport Road,” he said. “But you won’t find him there.”

“Oh?”

“Canceled his papers.”

“How long for?”

“Three weeks.”

“Since when?”

“Last Friday.”

“Where’s he gone?”

“I’ve no idea, have I? Off on his holidays, maybe.”

“Don’t come the clever bugger with me.”

“I’m not. Honest.”

“Is that all you know?” Hatchley moved forward and Mario backed off.

“I swear it. We’re not mates or anything. He’s just a customer. And do me a favor – when you do find him, don’t tell him you found out from me.”

“Scared of him?”

“He’s got a bit of a reputation for scrapping, that’s all. When he’s had a few, like. I don’t think he’d take kindly.”

“Aye, all right, then,” said Hatchley. “Susan, would you do the honors?”

Susan went over and unlocked the door. A red-faced old woman bustled in. “What’s going on here? I’ve been waiting five minutes. My poor Marmaduke is going to starve to death if you-” She stopped talking, looked at the mess on the floor, then back at the three of them.

“Slight accident, Mrs. Bagshot,” said Mario, straightening his tie and smiling. “Nothing serious.”

Hatchley bent down and grabbed a pickled onion. After a cursory check to make sure there was no broken glass clinging to it, he popped it in his mouth, smiled at Mrs. Bagshot, and left.

4

After a light lunch in the police canteen with Ken Blackstone – a toasted cheese sandwich and a plastic container of orange juice – Banks set off back to the hotel. The weather was the same, fast-moving cloud on the wind, sun in and out casting shadows over the streets and buildings. He would have to do something about his jacket, he realized as he walked past the Corn Exchange. Maybe he could get it fixed this afternoon. The hotel should be able to help. Or maybe he should buy a new one.

He wasn’t looking forward to explaining his adventures to Sandra, either. He hadn’t phoned her last night, and she would probably be out until this evening. He could phone the gallery, he knew, but she would be busy. Besides, it would only worry her if he told her about the fight over the telephone. He might get his jacket fixed, but there would be no hiding the skinned knuckles and bruised cheekbone from Sandra, let alone the bruises that would soon show up on his side.

All he had to say was that two kids had tried to mug him, simple as that. It might not be the complete truth, but it certainly wasn’t a lie. On the other hand, he wondered who he was trying to fool. If he couldn’t talk to Sandra about what had happened, who could he talk to? Right now, he just didn’t know.

A local train must have just come in, judging from the hordes issuing from the station and heading for the bus stops around City Square and Boar Lane. Banks picked up a Yorkshire Evening Post from the aged vendor, who was shouting out a headline that sounded like “TURKLE AN HONEST LIAR” but which, on reading, turned out to be “TWO KILLED IN HUNSLET FIRE.” Banks refused the free packet of Old El Paso Taco Shells he was offered with his newspaper.

At the hotel, he found three messages: one to call Melissa Clegg at the wine shop; one to meet Sergeant Hatchley and Susan Gay at The Victoria, behind the Town Hall, as soon as possible; and one to call Ken Blackstone at Millgarth. First, he went to his room and phoned Melissa Clegg.

“Oh, Mr. Banks,” she said. “I didn’t want to get your hopes up, but I’ve remembered his name, the man Daniel met in the pub.”

“Yes?”

“Well, I knew there was something funny about it. After I left you I just couldn’t get it out of my mind. Then I was filling some orders and I saw it written down. It came to me, just like that.”

“Yes?”

“Irish whiskey. Funny how the mind works, isn’t it?”

“Irish whiskey?”

“His name. It was Jameson. I’m sure of it.”

Banks thanked her and called Ken Blackstone.

“Alan, we’ve got some names for you,” Blackstone said. “Quite a lot, I’m afraid.”

“Never mind,” said Banks. “Is Jameson among them?”

Banks heard Blackstone muttering to himself as he went through the list. “Yes. Yes, there he is. Bloke called Arthur Jameson. Alan, what-”

“I can’t talk now, Ken. Can you pull his file and meet me at The Victoria in about fifteen minutes? I assume you know where it is?”

“The Vic? Sure. But-”

“Fifteen minutes, then.” Banks hung up.

Chapter 13

1

It was foolish, Susan knew, but she couldn’t help feeling butterflies in her stomach as she turned the corner where Courtney Terrace intersected Bridgeport Road at number thirty-five. It was mid-afternoon; there was no one about. She felt completely alone, and the click of her heels, which seemed to echo from every building, was the only sound breaking the blanket of silence. Her instructions were simple: find out what you can about Arthur Jameson and his whereabouts.

In her blue jacket and matching skirt, carrying a briefcase and clipboard, she looked like a market researcher. A light breeze ruffled her tight blonde curls and a sudden burst of sun through the clouds dazzled her. She could smell rain in the air.

We know he’s not at home, she repeated to herself. He has cancelled his papers for three weeks and gone on a long holiday on the proceeds earned from killing Keith Rothwell. He doesn’t answer his telephone, and the two men observing the house over the past hour or so have seen no signs of occupation. So there’s nothing to worry about.

But still she worried. She remembered Keith Rothwell kneeling there on the garage floor in his suit, his head blown to a pulp. She remembered the tattered pieces of the girlie magazine, ripped images of women’s bodies, as if the killer had intended some kind of sick joke.

And she remembered what Ken Blackstone had told her about Jameson at the makeshift briefing in The Victoria. He had been kicked out of the army for rushing half-cocked, against orders, into an ambush that had killed two innocent teenage girls as well as one suspected IRA triggerman. After that, he had drifted around Africa and South America as a mercenary. Then, back home, he had beaten an Irishman senseless in a pub because the man’s Belfast accent hit a raw nerve. Since the GBH, he hadn’t done much except work on building sites and, perhaps, the occasional hit, though there was no evidence of this. He had four A-levels and an incomplete degree in Engineering from the University of Birmingham.

Susan looked around her as she walked. Bridgeport Road was a drab street of dirty terrace houses with no front gardens. From each house, two small steps led right onto the worn pavement, and the tarmac road surface was in poor repair. At the back, she knew, each house had a small bricked-in backyard, complete with privy, full of weeds, and each row faced an identical row across an alley. A peculiar smell hung in the air, a mix of raw sewage and brewery malt, Susan thought, wrinkling her nose.

Outside one or two houses, lines of washing propped up by high poles hung out to dry right across the street. A woman came out of her house with a bucket and knelt on the pavement to scour her front steps. She glanced at Susan without much interest, then started scrubbing. If Jameson really is our man, Susan thought, he’ll probably be looking for somewhere a bit more upmarket to live after he has laid low for a while.

There was nobody at home in the first two houses; the timid woman at number thirty-nine said she knew nothing about anyone else in the street; the man at number forty-one didn’t speak English; the West Indian couple at number forty-three had just moved into the area and didn’t know anyone. Number forty-five was out. Susan felt her heart beat faster as she lifted the brass lion’s head knocker of number forty-seven, Jameson’s house. She was sure the whole street could hear her heart and the knocker thumping in concert, echoing from the walls.