Susan stuck to her guns. “He’s causing problems for his fellow officers on the shift, sir, and he’s disobeying police regulations. I think disciplinary action is called for if all other avenues have been exhausted.”

And she passed. Now she was due to go up before the chief next week for her official promotion. And that chief, of course, was Chief Constable Riddle.

Still, she reminded herself as she walked into the small office she shared with Sergeant Hatchley, there was nothing Riddle could do now to block her promotion. She had already earned it, and the next step was purely a formality, a bit of pomp and circumstance. Unless, of course, she really screwed up. Then, she supposed, he could do whatever he wanted. He was, after all, the chief constable. And, if nothing else, he could certainly make her life uncomfortable.

The office seemed crowded with Riddle in it. The man’s restless, pent-up energy consumed space and burned up the oxygen like a blazing fire. Susan sat in her chair and Riddle perched on the edge of Hatchley’s desk. He was a tall man, and he seemed to tower over her.

“Who authorized the arrest?” he asked.

“They’re not exactly under arrest, sir,” Susan said. “Just detained for questioning.”

“Very well. Who authorized their detention?”

Susan paused, then said softly, “I think it was DCI Banks, sir.”

“Banks. I knew it.” Riddle got up and started to pace, until he found out there was not enough room to do so, then he sat down again, his pate a little redder. Banks always said you could tell how angry Riddle was by the shade of his bald head, and Susan found herself stifling a giggle as she thought she could see it glow. It was like one of those mood rings that were a fad when she was a child, only Riddle’s mood never softened to a peaceful green or calm, cool blue.

“On what evidence?” Riddle continued.

“There’d been some trouble earlier in the pub, sir, the Jubilee. It involved the Mahmood boy and the victim, Jason Fox. When DCI Banks questioned George Mahmood about it, he refused to cooperate. So did his friends. They asked for a lawyer.”

“And did they get one?”

“No, sir. Well, not until this morning. It was Sunday.”

“Any rough stuff?”

“No, sir.”

Riddle slid his hand across his head. “Well, let’s at least be thankful for small mercies. Have you any idea who Ibrahim Nazur is?”

“Owner of the Himalaya, sir.”

“More than that. He owns a whole bloody chain of restaurants, all over Yorkshire, and the Himalaya ’s just the latest. He’s also a highly respected member of the Muslim community and one of the prime movers in that new mosque project down Bradford way.”

“Ah,” said Susan.

“‘Ah,’ indeed. Anything from forensics?”

“Nothing conclusive, sir. Not yet.”

“Witnesses?”

“None, sir. Not so far. We’re still looking.”

Riddle stood up. “Right. I want the three of them out of here. Now. Do you understand?”

Susan stood too. “Yes, sir,” she said.

“And tell Banks I’ll be seeing him very soon.”

Susan nodded. “Yes, sir.”

And with that, Jimmy Riddle straightened his uniform and marched downstairs to face his public.

V

Late that afternoon, Banks walked up to the bar of the Black Bull in Lyndgarth and ordered a double Bell ’s for Frank Hepplethwaite and a half of Theakston’s XB for himself.

According to Susan, who had phoned Banks earlier, Hepplethwaite was Jason Fox’s granddad, and he said he had some information about Jason. He insisted on talking to the “man in charge.” Banks had phoned Frank and, finding out that he didn’t own a car, agreed to meet him in the Black Bull.

Before setting off back for Swainsdale, though, Banks had called at the Leeds address Jason Fox’s parents had given him and found that Jason hadn’t lived there for at least eighteen months. The flat was now occupied by a student called Jackie Kitson, and she had never heard of Jason Fox. There the trail ended.

The barman of the Black Bull was a skinny, hunched, crooked-shouldered fellow in a moth-eaten, ill-fitting pull-over. His greasy black hair and beard obscured most of his face, except the eyes, which stared out in a way reminiscent of photos of Charles Manson. He served the drinks without a word, then took down Banks’s order for one chicken-and-mushroom pie and one Old Peculier casserole. The Black Bull was one of those rare exceptions to the no-food-after-two-o’clock rule that blights most pubs.

Banks took the drinks and joined Frank at a round table by the door. At the bar, one man started telling the barman how much more cozy it was now most of the tourists had gone. He had a whiny, southern accent, and actually lowered his voice when he said “tourists.” The barman, who clearly knew it was the tourist business that kept the place going, grunted “Aye” without looking up from the glass he was drying.

Two other barstool regulars working at a crossword puzzle seemed overjoyed to discover that “episcopal” was an anagram of “Pepsi Cola.” To the left, down the far end where the billiard tables were, two American couples were stuffing coins in the fruit machine, shifting occasionally to the video trivia game opposite.

“You must know Mr. Gristhorpe, young lad?” said Hepplethwaite after thanking Banks for the drink.

Banks nodded. “He’s my boss.”

“Lives here in Lyndgarth, he does. Well, I suppose you know that. Can’t say I know him well, mind you. I’m a fair bit older myself, and he’s been away a lot. Good family, though, the Gristhorpes. Got a good reputation around these parts, anyroad.” He nodded to himself and sipped his Bell ’s.

Frank Hepplethwaite had a thin, lined face, all the lines running vertically, and a fine head of gray hair. His skin was pale and his eyes a dull bottle-green. He looked as if he had once had quite a bit more flesh on his bones but had recently lost weight due to illness.

“Anyway,” he said, “thank you for coming all the way out here. I don’t get around so well these days.” He tapped his chest. “Angina.”

Banks nodded. “I’m sorry. No problem, Mr. Hepplethwaite.”

“Call me Frank. Of course,” he went on, tapping his glass, “I shouldn’t be indulging in this.” He pulled a face. “But there’s limits to what a sick man will put up with.” He glanced at the table, where Banks had unconsciously rested his cigarettes and lighter. “Smoke if you like, lad. I like the smell of tobacco. And secondhand smoke be buggered.”

Banks smiled and lit up.

“Nice state of affairs, isn’t it,” said Hepplethwaite, “when a man has to indulge his vices by proxy.”

Banks raised his eyebrows. The words sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place them.

“Raymond Chandler,” said Hepplethwaite with a sly grin. “General Sternwood at the beginning of The Big Sleep. One of my favorite films. Bogey as Philip Marlowe. Must have seen it about twenty times. Know it by heart.”

So that was it. Banks had seen the film on television just a few months ago, but he had never read the book. Ah well, another one for the lengthening list. As a rule, he didn’t read detective fiction, apart from Sherlock Holmes, but he’d heard that Chandler was good. “I’m sorry about what happened to your grandson,” he said.

The old man’s eyes misted over. “Aye, well… nobody deserves to die like that. He must have suffered like hell.” He took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and passed it to Banks. “This is why I asked you to come.”

Banks nodded. He took the sheet, opened it and spread it on the table in front of him. It looked professionally printed, but most things did these days, with all the laser printers and desktop publishing packages around. Banks could remember the time – not so long ago – when all the copying in a police station was done from “spirit masters” on one of those old machines that made your fingers all purple. Even now, as he remembered it, he fancied he could smell the acrid spirit again.