“What’s the situation?” Banks asked her.

“Not much change, sir. Lucy Payne’s under sedation. The doctor says we won’t be able to talk to her until tomorrow.”

“Have Lucy and her husband been fingerprinted?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What about her clothes?” Banks had suggested that they take the clothes Lucy Payne had been wearing for forensic examination. After all, she wouldn’t be needing them in hospital.

“They should be at the lab by now, sir.”

“Good. What was she wearing?”

“Nightie and a dressing gown.”

“What about Terence Payne? How’s he doing?”

“Hanging on. But they say that even if he does recover he might be… you know… a vegetable… there might be serious brain damage. They’ve found skull fragments stuck in his brain. It seems… well…”

“Go on.”

“The doctor’s saying that it seems the PC who subdued him used a bit more than reasonable force. He was very angry.”

“Was he, indeed?” Christ. Banks could see a court case looming if Payne survived with brain damage. Best let AC Hartnell worry about it; that was what ACs were put on this earth for, after all. “How’s PC Taylor coping?”

“She’s at home, sir. A friend’s with her. Female PC from Killingbeck.”

“Okay, Karen, I want you to act as hospital liaison for the time being. Any change in the status of the patients – either of them – and I want to know immediately. That’s your responsibility, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And we’re going to need a family liaison officer.” He gestured toward the house. “Kimberley’s parents need to be told, before they hear it on the news. We also need to arrange for them to identify the body.”

“I’ll do it, sir.”

“Good of you to offer, Karen, but you’ve got your hands full already. And it’s a thankless task.”

Karen Hodgkins headed back to her car. If truth be told, Banks didn’t think Karen had the right bedside manner for a family liaison officer. He could picture the scene – the parents’ disbelief, their outpouring of grief, Karen’s embarrassment and brusqueness. No. He would send roly-poly Jonesy. DC Jones might be a slob, but he had sympathy and concern leaking out of every pore. He should have been a vicar. One of the problems with drawing a team from such a wide radius, Banks thought, was that you could never get to know the individual officers well enough. Which didn’t help when it came to handing out assignments. You needed the right person for the right job in police work, and one wrong decision could screw up an investigation.

Banks just wasn’t used to running such a huge team, and the problems of coordination had given him more than one headache. In fact, the whole matter of responsibility was weighing very heavily on his mind. He didn’t feel competent to deal with it all, to keep so many balls up in the air at once. He had already made more than one minor mistake and mishandled a few situations with personnel. So much so that he was beginning to think his people skills were especially low. It was easier working with a small team – Annie, Winsome Jackman, Sergeant Hatchley – where he could keep track of every little detail in his mind. This was more like the kind of work he had done on the Met down in London, only there he had been a mere constable or sergeant, given the orders rather than giving them. Even as an inspector down there, toward the end, he had never had to deal with this level of responsibility.

Banks had just lit his second cigarette when another car came through the barrier and Dr. Jenny Fuller jumped out, struggling with a briefcase and an overstuffed leather shoulder bag, hurrying as usual, as if she were late for an important meeting. Her tousled red mane cascaded over her shoulders and her eyes were the green of grass after a summer shower. The freckles, crow’s-feet and slightly crooked nose that she always complained ruined her looks only made her appear more attractive and more human.

“Morning, Jenny,” Banks greeted her. “Stefan’s waiting inside. You ready?”

“What’s that? Yorkshire foreplay?”

“No. That’s ‘Are you awake?’ ”

Jenny forced a smile. “Glad to see you’re on form, even at this ungodly hour.”

Banks looked at his watch. “Jenny, I’ve been up since half-past four. It’s nearly eight now.”

“My point exactly,” she said. “Ungodly.” She looked toward the house. Apprehension flitted across her features. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“Very.”

“Coming in with me?”

“No. I’ve seen enough. Besides, I’d better go and put AC Hartnell in the picture or he’ll have my guts for garters.”

Jenny took a deep breath and seemed to gird herself. “Right,” she said. “Lay on, Macduff. I’m ready.”

And she walked in.

Area Commander Philip Hartnell’s office was, as befitted his rank, large. It was also quite bare. AC Hartnell didn’t believe in making himself at home there. This, the place seemed to shout, is an office and an office only. There was a carpet, of course – an area commander merited a carpet – one filing cabinet, a bookcase full of technical and procedural manuals and, on his desk, beside the virgin blotter, a sleek black laptop computer and a single buff file folder. That was it. No family photographs, nothing but a map of the city on the wall and a view of the open-air market and the bus station from his window, the tower of Leeds Parish Church poking up beyond the railway embankment.

“Alan, sit down,” he greeted Banks. “Tea? Coffee?”

Banks ran his hand over his scalp. “Wouldn’t mind a black coffee, if it’s no trouble.”

“Not at all.”

Hartnell phoned for coffee and leaned back in his chair. It squeaked when he moved. “Must get this bloody thing oiled,” he said.

Hartnell was about ten years younger than Banks, which put him in his late thirties. He had benefited from the accelerated promotion scheme, which was meant to give bright young lads like him a chance at command before they became doddering old farts. Banks hadn’t been on such a track; he had worked his way up the old way, the hard way, and like many others who had done so, he tended to be suspicious of the fast trackers, who had learned everything but the nitty-gritty down-and-dirty of policing.

The odd thing was that Banks liked Phil Hartnell. He had an easy-going manner, was an intelligent and caring copper and let the men under his command get on with their jobs. Banks had had regular meetings with him over the course of the Chameleon investigation and, while Hartnell had made a few suggestions, some of them useful, he had never once tried to interfere and question Banks’s judgment. In appearance good-looking, tall and with the tapered upper body of a casual weight lifter, Hartnell was also reputed to be a bit of a ladies’ man, still unmarried and tipped to remain that way for a while yet, thank you very much.

“Tell me what we’re in for,” he said to Banks.

“A shit storm, if you ask me.” Banks told him about what they had found so far in the cellar at number 35 The Hill, and the condition of the three survivors. Hartnell listened, the tip of his finger touched to his lips.

“There’s not much doubt he’s our man, then? The Chameleon?”

“Not much.”

“That’s good, then. At least that’s something we can congratulate ourselves on. We’ve got a serial killer off the streets.”

“It wasn’t down to us. Just pure luck the Paynes happened to have a domestic disagreement and a neighbor heard and called the police.”

Hartnell stretched his arms out behind his head. A twinkle came to his gray-blue eyes. “You know, Alan, the amount of shit we get poured on us when luck goes against us, or when we seem to be making no progress at all no matter how many man-hours we put in, I’d say we’re entitled to claim a victory this time and maybe even crow a little about it. It’s all in the spin.”

“If you say so.”

“I do, Alan. I do.”