Again, Annie nodded.

“Well, it might be nothing,” said Chambers, looking away from her, at a point high on the wall. “Summat and nowt, as they say up here. But on the other hand…”

“Sir?”

“Keep an eye on him. Play your cards close to your chest.”

He looked at her chest as he spoke and Annie gave an involuntary shudder. She stood up and walked over to the door.

“And another thing, DI Cabbot.”

Annie turned. “Sir?”

Chambers smirked. “This Banks. Watch out for him. He’s got the reputation for being a bit of a ladies’ man, in case you don’t know that already.”

Annie felt herself flush as she left the office.

Banks followed Maggie Forrest into the living room, with its dark wainscoting and brooding landscapes in heavy gilt frames on the walls. The room faced west, and the late-afternoon sun cast dancing shadows of twisted foliage on the far walls. It was not a feminine room, but more like the kind to which the men withdrew for port and cigars in BBC period dramas, and Banks sensed that Maggie was uncomfortable in it, though he wasn’t quite certain what gave him that impression. Noticing a whiff of smoke in the air and a couple of cigarette ends in the ashtray, Banks lit up, offering Maggie a Silk Cut. She accepted. He looked at the schoolgirl on the sofa, head lowered, bare knees close together, one of them scabbed from a recent fall, thumb in her mouth.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” he asked Maggie.

“Detective…?”

“Banks. Acting Detective Superintendent.”

“Detective Superintendent Banks, this is Claire Toth, a neighbor.”

“Pleased to meet you, Claire,” said Banks.

Claire looked up at him and mumbled hello, then she took a crumpled packet of ten Embassy Regal from her blazer pocket and joined the adult smokers. Banks knew this was no time for lectures on the dangers of smoking. Something was clearly wrong. He could see by her red eyes and the streaks on her face that she had been crying.

“I’ve missed something,” he said. “Anyone care to fill me in?”

“Claire went to school with Kimberley Myers,” said Maggie. “Naturally, she’s upset.”

Claire grew edgy, her eyes flitting all over the place. She took short, nervous puffs on the cigarette, holding it affectedly, straight out with her first two fingers vertical, letting go as she puffed, then closing her fingers. She didn’t seem to be inhaling, just doing it to look and act grown up, Banks thought. Or perhaps even to feel grown up, because only God knew what turbulent feelings must be churning inside Claire right now. And it would only get worse. He remembered Tracy’s reaction to the murder of an Eastvale girl, Deborah Harrison, just a few years ago. They hadn’t even known each other well, had come from differing social backgrounds, but they were about the same age, and they had met and talked on several occasions. Banks had tried to protect Tracy from the truth for as long as he could, but in the end the best he could do was comfort her. She was lucky; she got over it in time. Some never do.

“Kim was my best friend,” Claire said. “And I let her down.”

“What makes you think that?” Banks asked.

Claire flicked her eyes toward Maggie, as if seeking permission. Maggie nodded almost imperceptibly. She was an attractive woman, Banks noticed, not so much physically, with the slightly long nose and pointed chin, though he also admired her elfin looks and her trim, boyish figure, but it was the air of kindness and intelligence about her that struck him. He could see it in her eyes, and there was an artist’s grace in the economy of her simplest movements, such as flicking ash from her cigarette, in her large hands with the long, tapered fingers.

“I should have been with her,” Claire said. “But I wasn’t.”

“Were you at the dance?” Banks asked.

Claire nodded and bit her lip.

“Did you see Kimberley there?”

“Kim. I always called her Kim.”

“All right: Kim. Did you see Kim there?”

“We went together. It’s not far. Just up past the roundabout and along Town Street, near the Rugby ground.”

“I know where you mean,” said Banks. “It’s the Congregational church opposite Silverhill Comprehensive, right?”

“Yes.”

“So you went to the dance together.”

“Yes, we walked up there and… and…”

“Take your time,” said Banks, noticing that she was about to cry again.

Claire took a final puff at her cigarette, then stubbed it out. She didn’t do a good job, and the ashes continued to smolder. She sniffled. “We were going to walk home together. I mean… people had said… you know… it was on the radio and television and my father told me… we had to be careful, stick together.”

Banks had been responsible for the warnings. There was a fine line between panic and caution, he knew, and while he wanted to avert the kind of widespread paranoia that the Yorkshire Ripper case had whipped up for years in the early eighties, he also wanted to make it clear that young women should be cautious after dark. But short of instituting a curfew, you can’t force people to be careful.

“What happened, Claire? Did you lose sight of her?”

“No, it wasn’t that. I mean, not really. You don’t understand.”

“Help us to understand, Claire,” said Maggie, holding her hand. “We want to. Help us.”

“I should have been with her.”

“Why weren’t you?” Banks asked. “Did you have an argument?”

Claire paused and looked away. “It was a boy,” she said finally.

“Kim was with a boy?”

“No, me. I was with a boy.” Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she pressed on. “Nicky Gallagher. I’d fancied him for weeks and he asked me to dance. Then he said he wanted to walk me home. Kim wanted to leave just before eleven, she had a curfew, and normally I’d have gone with her, but Nicky… he wanted to stay for a slow dance… I thought there would be lots of people around… I…” Then she broke down in tears again and buried her head in Maggie’s shoulder.

Banks took a deep breath. Claire’s pain and guilt and grief were so real they broke over him in waves and made his breath catch in his chest. Maggie stroked her hair and muttered words of comfort, but still Claire let it all pour out. Finally, she came to the end of her tears and blew her nose in a tissue. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Really, I am. I’d give anything to live that night over again and do it differently. I hate Nicky Gallagher!”

“Claire,” said Banks, who was no stranger to guilt himself. “It’s not his fault. And it’s certainly not yours.”

“I’m a selfish bitch. I had Nicky to walk me home. I thought he might kiss me. I wanted him to kiss me. See? I’m a slut, too.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Maggie. “The superintendent is right. It’s not your fault.”

“But if I’d only-”

“If. If. If,” said Banks.

“But it’s true! Kim had no one, so she had to walk home by herself and Mr. Payne got her. I bet he did awful things to her before he killed her, didn’t he? I’ve read about people like him.”

“Whatever happened that night,” said Banks, “is not your fault.”

“Then whose fault is it?”

“Nobody’s. Kim was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have been-” Banks stopped. Not a good idea. He hoped Claire hadn’t picked up on the implication, but she had.

“Me? Yes, I know that. I wish it had been.”

“You don’t mean that, Claire,” said Maggie.

“Yes, I do. Then I wouldn’t have to live with it. It was because of me. Because she didn’t want to be a gooseberry.” Claire started crying again.

Banks wondered if it could have been Claire. She was the right type: blond and long-legged, as so many young northern girls were. Was it as random as that? Or had Payne had his eyes on Kimberley Myers all along? Jenny might have some theories on that.

He tried to picture what had happened. Payne parked in his car, near the youth club, perhaps; knowing there was a dance on that night, knowing the one he’d had his eye on would be there. He couldn’t count on her going home alone, of course, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. There was always a chance. A risk, of course, but it would have been worth it to him. His heart’s desire. All the others were practice. This was the real thing, the one he had wanted right from the start, there at school under his very eyes, tormenting him, day after day.