Susan nodded. “I understand.”

“Anyway,” Banks went on, “there’s one thing we can check, for a start. I got a fax from Ken Blackstone listing Motcombe’s properties and tenants. I haven’t had time to have a good look at it yet.” He pulled the sheets of paper out and glanced over them. “Seems Motcombe owns a fair bit of property,” he said after a few moments. “Four houses in addition to his own, two of them divided into flats and bed-sits, the semi where Jason Fox lived, and a shop with a flat above it in Bramley. He also owns the old grocer’s shop where the Albion League operates from, as we thought.” Finally, a few seconds later, he shook his head in disappointment. “There’s no Mark Wood listed among the tenants. Maybe that would have been too easy.”

“I wonder where Motcombe got his money from,” Susan said.

“Members’ dues?” Hatchley chipped in.

“Hardly likely,” said Banks with a grim smile. “Maybe he inherited it? I’ll get in touch with Ken again, see if he can work up some more background on Mr. Motcombe for us.”

“You don’t really think he did it, do you?” Susan asked.

“Kill Jason? Honestly? No. For a start, he doesn’t seem to have a motive. And even if he did have something to do with it, he certainly didn’t do it himself. I doubt he’s got the bottle. Or the strength. Remember, Jason was a pretty tough customer. But let’s have a closer look at him anyway. I don’t like the bastard, or what he stands for, so any grief we can give him is fine with me. Even a traffic offense. Besides, I’d look a right prat if we overlooked something obvious, wouldn’t I? And that’s the last thing I need right now.”

“The chief constable?” Susan ventured.

Banks nodded. “Himself. In the flesh. So I’d better get back to my desk and coordinate.”

IV

Banks felt bone-weary when he arrived home that evening shortly after six o’clock. He was still upset about Frank Hepplethwaite’s senseless death, his run-in with Jimmy Riddle was still niggling him, and the lack of progress in the Jason Fox case was sapping his confidence. Well, he’d done the best he could so far. If only the lab boys or Vic Manson could come through with something.

Sandra wasn’t home. In a way, that made him feel relieved. He didn’t think he could deal with another argument right now. Or the cold shoulder.

He made himself a cheese omelet. There wasn’t any real cheese in the fridge, so he used a processed slice. It tasted fine. Shortly after eight, when Banks was relaxing with Così Fan Tutte and a small Laphroaig, Sandra got back. Anxious to avoid another scene, Banks turned the volume on the stereo very low.

But Sandra didn’t seem to notice the opera playing softly in the background. At least she didn’t say anything. She seemed distracted, Banks thought, as he tried to engage her in conversation about the day.

When he offered to take her out for a bite to eat – the omelet not having filled him up nearly as much as he’d hoped – she said she’d already eaten with a couple of friends after the arts committee meeting and she wasn’t hungry. All Banks’s conversational gambits fell on deaf ears. Even his story of Jimmy Riddle’s bollocking failed to gain an ounce of sympathy. Finally, he turned to her and said, “What’s wrong? Is this because of the other night? Are you still pissed off at me about that?”

Sandra shook her head. The blond tresses danced over her shoulders. “I’m not pissed off,” she said. “That kind of thing is always happening with us. That’s the real problem. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed how little we see of one another these days? How we both seem to go our separate ways, have our separate interests? How little we seem to have in common? Especially now Tracy’s gone.”

Banks shrugged. “It’s only been a couple of weeks,” he said. “I’ve been busy. So have you. Give it time.”

“I know. But that’s not it. We’re always busy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Work. Yours. Mine. Oh, that’s not the real problem. We’ve always been able to deal with that before. You’ve never expected a dutiful little wife staying at home all day cooking and cleaning, ironing, sewing buttons on, and I thank you for that. But even that’s not it.” She took one of his cigarettes, something she did so rarely these days that the gesture worried him. “I’ve been thinking a lot since the other night, and I suppose what I’m saying is that I feel alone. I mean in the relationship. I just don’t feel I’m part of your life anymore. Or that you’re part of mine.”

“But that’s absurd.”

“Is it? Is it, really?” She looked at him, frowning, black eyebrows crooked in the furrow of her brow. Then she shook her head slowly. “I don’t think it is, Alan. What was Saturday all about, then? And the other night? I think if you’re honest with yourself, you’ll agree. This house feels empty. Cold. It doesn’t feel like a home. It feels like the kind of place that two people living separate lives use to sleep and eat in, occasionally passing one another on the landing and saying hello. Maybe stopping for a quick fuck if they’ve got time.”

“That’s not fair, and you know it. I think you’re just feeling depressed because both the kids have grown up and flown the coop. It’ll take time to get used to.”

“Next thing you’ll be saying I’m feeling this way because it’s that time of the month,” said Sandra. “But you’re wrong. It’s not that, either.” She thumped her fist on the arm of the chair. “You’re not listening to me. You never really listen to me.”

“I am listening, but I’m not sure I understand what I’m hearing. Are you sure this isn’t still about last Saturday?”

“No, it’s not about last bloody Saturday. Yes, all right, I admit I was angry. I thought for once you might just forsake your sacred bloody opera to do something that I thought was important. Something for my career. But you didn’t. Fine. And then the other night you go and put your opera on the stereo. But you’ve always been selfish. Selfishness I can deal with. This is something else.”

“What?”

“What I’ve been trying to tell you. We’re both independent people. Always. That’s why our marriage worked so well. I wasn’t waiting and fretting at home for you to come back from work. Worrying that your dinner might get cold. Worrying that something might have happened to you. Though, Lord knows, that was something I never could put out of my mind, even though I tried not to let on to you too much. And if I was out and there was no dinner, if your shirt wasn’t ironed, you never complained. You did it yourself. Not very well, maybe, but you did it.”

“I still don’t complain when dinner’s not ready. I made a bloody processed-cheese omel-”

Sandra held her hand up. “Let me finish, Alan. Can’t you see what’s happened? What used to be our strength – our independence – now it’s driving us apart. We’ve led separate lives for so long, we take it for granted that’s how a relationship should be. As long as you’ve got your work, your music, your books and the occasional evening with the lads at the Queen’s Arms, then you’re perfectly happy.”

“And what about you? Are you happy with your gallery, your photography, your committee meetings, your social evenings?”

Sandra paused a long time, long enough for Banks to pour them both a stiff Laphroaig, before she answered. “Yes,” she said finally in a soft voice. “That’s just it. Yes. Maybe I am. For a while I’ve been thinking they’re all I do have. You just haven’t been here, Alan. Not as a real factor.”

Banks felt as if a hand made of ice had slid across his heart. It was such a palpable sensation that he put his hand to his chest. “Is there someone else?” he asked. On the stereo, Fiordiligi was singing quietly about being as firm as a rock.

Suddenly Sandra smiled, reached out and ran her hand over his hair. “Oh, you sweet, silly man,” she said. “No, there’s no one else.” Then her eyes clouded and turned distant. “There could have been… perhaps… but there isn’t.” She shrugged, as if to cast off a painful memory.