“See, squire,” he said to the wide-eyed hotel manager, “our boss tells us we don’t want a lot of fuss about this. None of this evacuating the area bollocks you see on telly. We go in, we disarm him nice and quiet, then bob’s your uncle, we’re out of your hair for good. Okay? No problems for us and no bad publicity for the hotel.”

The manager, clearly not used to being called “squire,” swallowed, bobbing an oversize Adam’s apple, and nodded.

“But what we do need to do,” Spike went on, “is to clear the floor. Now, is there anyone else up there apart from this Jameson?”

The manager looked at the keys. “Only room 316,” he said. “It’s lunch-time. People usually go out for lunch.”

“What about the chambermaids?”

“Finished.”

“Good,” said Spike, then turned to one of the others in trainers, jeans and leather jacket. “Smiffy, go get number 316 out quietly, okay?”

“Right, boss,” said Smiffy, and headed for the stairs.

Spike tapped his long fingers on the desk and turned to Banks. “You know this bloke, this Jameson, right, sir?” he said.

Banks was surprised he had remembered the honorific. “Not personally,” he said, and filled Spike in.

“He’s shot a policeman, right?”

“Yes. Two of them. One’s dead and the other’s still in the operating room waiting to find out if he’s got a brain left.”

Spike slipped a stick of Wrigley’s spearmint gum from its wrapper and popped it in his mouth. “What do you suggest?” he asked between chews.

Banks didn’t know if Spike was being polite or deferential in asking an opinion, but he didn’t get a chance to find out. As Smiffy came down the stairs with a rather dazed old dear clutching a pink dressing-gown around her throat, the phone rang at the desk. The manager answered it, turned even more gray as he listened, then said, “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. At once, sir.”

“Well?” Spike asked when the manager had put the phone down. “What’s put the wind up you?”

“It was him. The man in room 324.”

“What’s he want?”

“He wants a roast beef sandwich and a bottle of beer sent up to his room.”

“How’d he sound?”

“Sound?”

“Yeah. You know, did he seem suspicious, nervous?”

“Oh. No, just ordinary.”

“Right on,” said Spike, grinning at Banks. “ Opportunity knocks.” He turned back to the manager. “Do the doors up there have those peep-hole things, so you can see who’s knocking?”

“No.”

“Chains?”

“Yes.”

“No problem. Right,” said Spike. “Come with me, Shandy. The rest of you stay here and make sure no one gets in or out. We got the back covered?”

“Yes, sir,” one of the blousons answered.

“Fire escape?”

“That, too, sir.”

“Good.” Spike looked at Banks. “I don’t suppose you’re armed?”

Banks shook his head. “No time.”

Spike frowned. “Better stay down here then, sir. Sorry, but I can’t take the responsibility. You probably know the rules better than I do.”

Banks nodded. He gave Spike and Shandy a floor’s start, then turned to Sergeant Hatchley. “Stay here, Jim,” he said. “I don’t want to lead you astray.”

Without waiting for an answer, he slipped into the stairwell. One of the Yard men in the lobby noticed but made no move to stop him. At the first-floor landing, Banks heard someone wheezing behind him and turned.

“Don’t worry, I’m not deaf,” said Hatchley. “I just thought you might like some company anyway.”

Banks grinned.

“Mind if I ask you what we’re doing this for?” Hatchley whispered as they climbed the next flight.

“To find out what happens,” said Banks. “I’ve got a funny feeling about this. Something Spike said.”

“You know what curiosity did.”

They reached the third floor. Banks peeked around the stairwell and put his arm out to hold Hatchley back.

Glancing again, Banks saw Spike point at his watch and mouth something to Shandy. Shandy nodded. They drew their weapons and walked slowly along the corridor toward Jameson’s room.

The worn carpet that covered the floor couldn’t stop the old boards creaking with each footstep. Banks saw Spike knock on the door and heard a muffled grunt from inside.

“Room service,” said Spike.

The door rattled open – on a chain, by the sound of it. Someone – Spike or Jameson – swore loudly, then Banks saw Shandy rear back like a wild horse and kick the door open. The chain snapped. Spike and Shandy charged inside and Banks heard two shots in close succession, then, after a pause of three or four seconds, another shot, not quite as loud.

Banks and Hatchley waited where they were for a minute, out of sight. Then, when Banks saw Spike come out of the room and lean against the doorjamb, he and Hatchley walked into the corridor. Spike saw them coming and said, “It’s all over. You can go in now, if you like. Silly bugger had to try it on, didn’t he?”

They walked into the room. Banks could smell cordite from the gunfire. Jameson had fallen backward against the wall and slid down into a perfect sitting position on the floor, legs splayed, leaving a thick red snail’s trail of blood smeared on the wallpaper. His puppy-dog eyes were open. His face bore no expression. The front of his green shirt, over the heart, was a tangle of dark red rag and tissue, spreading fast, and there was a similar stain slightly above it, near his shoulder. His hands lay at his side, one of them holding his gun. Another dark wet patch spread between his legs. Urine.

Banks thought of the chair at Arkbeck Farm, where this man had scared Alison Rothwell so much that she had wet herself. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered.

“We’d no choice,” Spike said behind him. “He had his gun in his hand when he came to the door. You can see for yourself. He fired first.”

Two shots, in close succession, followed by another, sounding slightly different. Two patches of spreading blood. “Our boss tells us we don’t want a lot of fuss about this.”

Banks looked at the two policemen, sighed and said, “Give my regards to Dirty Dick.”

Shandy came back with a not very convincing, “Who’s that?”

Spike grinned, rubbed the barrel of his gun against his upper thigh, and said, “Will do, sir.”

Chapter 16

1

Banks had always hated hospitals: the antiseptic smells, the starched uniforms, the mysterious and unsettling pieces of shiny equipment around every corner – things that looked like modern sculpture or instruments of torture made of articulated chrome. They all gave him the creeps. Worst of all, though, was the way the doctors and nurses seemed to huddle in corridors and doorways and whisper about death, or so he imagined.

It was Saturday afternoon, May 21, just over a week since Rothwell’s murder and two days after Jameson’s shooting, when Banks walked into Leeds Infirmary.

He had spent Thursday night in London, then headed back to Amersham for his car the next morning. After spending a little time with Superintendent Jarrell, Banks and Hatchley had driven back to Eastvale that Friday evening and arrived a little after nine.

On Saturday morning, he had to go into Leeds to consult with Ken Blackstone and wrap things up. After their pub lunch, he had taken a little time off to go and buy some more compact discs at the Classical Record Shop and pay a sick visit before heading back to Eastvale for Richmond ’s farewell bash. Sandra was off with the Camera Club photographing rock formations at Brimham Rocks, so he was left to his own devices for the day.

Banks paused and looked at the signs, then turned left. At last, he found the right corridor. Pamela Jeffreys shared a room with one other person, who happened to be down in X-ray when Banks called. He pulled up a chair by the side of the bed and put down the brown paper package he’d brought on the table. Pamela looked at it with her one good eye. The other was covered in bandages.