“But-”

“Please! No. Okay?”

Lorraine held her hand up. “All right. I’ve never know anyone turn down a bit of free publicity before, but if you insist…” She put her notebook and pencil in her handbag. “I must be going now,” she said. “Thank you for talking to me.”

Maggie watched her leave, feeling oddly apprehensive. She looked at her watch. Time for a little walk around the pond before heading back to work.

“Well, you certainly know how to pamper a girl,” Tracy said as Banks led her into the McDonald’s at the corner of Briggate and Boar Lane later that afternoon.

Banks laughed. “I thought all kids loved McDonald’s.”

Tracy nudged him in the ribs. “Enough of the ‘kid,’ please,” she said. “I’m twenty now, you know.”

For one horrible moment Banks feared he might have forgotten her birthday. But no. It was back in February, before the task force, and he had sent a card, given her some money and taken her out to dinner at Brasserie 44. A very expensive dinner. “Not even a teenager anymore, then,” he said.

“That’s right.”

And it was true. Tracy was young woman now. An attractive one at that. It almost broke Banks’s heart to see how much she resembled Sandra twenty years ago: the same willowy figure, with the same dark eyebrows, high cheekbones, hair in a long blond pony-tail, stray tresses tucked behind her delicate ears. She even echoed some of Sandra’s mannerisms, such as biting her lower lip when she was concentrating and winding strands of hair around her fingers as she talked. She was dressed like a student today: blue jeans, white T-shirt with a rock band’s logo, denim jacket, carrying a backpack, and she moved with assurance and grace. A young woman, no doubt about it.

Banks had returned her phone call that morning, and they had arranged to meet for a late lunch, after her last lecture of the day. He had also told Christopher Wray that they hadn’t found his daughter’s body yet.

They stood in line. The place was full of office workers on afternoon break, truant school-kids and mothers with prams and toddlers taking a break from their shopping. “What do you want?” Banks asked. “My treat.”

“In that case, I’ll have the full Monty. Big Mac, large fries and large Coke.”

“Sure that’s all?”

“We’ll see about a sweet later.”

“It’ll bring you out in spots.”

“No, it won’t. I never come out in spots.”

It was true. Tracy had always had a flawless complexion; school friends had often hated her for it. “You’ll get fat, then.”

She patted her flat stomach and pulled a face at him. She had inherited his metabolism, which allowed him to live on beer and junk food and still remain lean.

They got their food and sat at a plastic table near the window. It was a warm afternoon. Women wore bright sleeveless summer dresses, and the men had their suit jackets slung over their shoulders and their shirtsleeves rolled up.

“How’s Damon?” Banks asked.

“We’ve decided not to see each other till after exams.”

There was something about Tracy’s tone that indicated there was more to it than that. Boyfriend trouble? With the monosyllabic Damon, who had spirited her off to Paris last November, when Banks himself should have been with her instead of hunting down Chief Constable Riddle’s wayward daughter? He didn’t want to make her talk about it; she would get to it in her own time, if she wanted to. He couldn’t make her talk, anyway; Tracy had always been a very private person and could be as stubborn as he was when it came to discussing her feelings. He bit into his Big Mac. Special sauce oozed down his chin. He wiped it off with a serviette. Tracy was already halfway through her burger, and the chips were disappearing quickly, too.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch very often lately,” Banks said. “I’ve been very busy.”

“Story of my life,” said Tracy.

“I suppose so.”

She put her hand on his arm. “I’m only teasing, Dad. I’ve got nothing to complain about.”

“You’ve got plenty, but it’s nice of you not to say so. Anyway, apart from Damon, how are you?”

“I’m fine. Studying hard. Some people say second year’s harder than finals.”

“Any plans for the summer?”

“I might go to France again. Charlotte’s parents have a cottage in the Dordogne but they’re going to be in America and they said she can take a couple of friends down if she wants.”

“Lucky you.”

Tracy finished her Big Mac and sipped some Coke through her straw, looking closely at Banks. “You look tired, Dad,” she said.

“I suppose I am.”

“Your job?”

“Yes. It’s a lot of responsibility. Keeps me awake at night. I’m not at all certain I’m cut out for it.”

“I’m sure you’re just wonderful.”

“Such faith. But I don’t know. I’ve never run such a big investigation before, and I’m not sure I ever want to again.”

“But you’ve caught him,” Tracy said. “The Chameleon killer.”

“Looks that way.”

“Congratulations. I knew you would.”

“I didn’t do anything. The whole thing was a series of accidents.”

“Well… the result’s the same, isn’t it?”

“True.”

“Look, Dad, I know why you haven’t been in touch. You’ve been busy, yes, but it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

Banks pushed his half-eaten burger aside and worked on the chips. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You probably held yourself personally responsible for those girls’ abductions, the way you always do, didn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“I’ll bet you thought that if you relaxed your vigilance for just one single moment he’d get someone else, another young woman just like me, didn’t you?”

Banks applauded his daughter’s perception. And she did have blond hair. “Well, there may be a grain of truth in that,” he said. “Just a tiny grain.”

“Was it really horrible down there?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Not at lunch. Not with you.”

“I suppose you think I’m being nosy for sensation like a newspaper reporter, but I worry about you. You’re not made of stone, you know. You let these things get to you.”

“For a daughter,” said Banks, “you do a pretty good impersonation of a nagging wife.” Immediately the words were out of his mouth he regretted them. It brought the specter of Sandra between them, again. Tracy, like Brian, had struggled not to take sides in the breakup, but whereas Brian had taken an immediate dislike to Sean, Sandra’s new companion, Tracy got along with him quite well and that hurt Banks, though he would never tell her.

“Have you talked to Mum lately?” Tracy asked, ignoring his criticism.

“You know I haven’t.”

Tracy sipped some more Coke, frowned like her mother and stared out of the window.

“Why?” Banks asked, sensing a change in the atmosphere. “Is there something I should know?”

“I was down there at Easter.”

“I know you were. Did she say something about me?” Banks knew he had been dragging his feet over the divorce. The whole thing had just seemed too hurried to him, and he wasn’t inclined to hurry, seeing no reason. So Sandra wanted to marry Sean, make it legal. Big deal. Let them wait.

“It’s not that,” Tracy said.

“What, then?”

“You really don’t know?”

“I’d say if I did.”

“Oh, shit.” Tracy bit her lip. “I wish I’d never got into this. Why do I have to be the one?”

“Because you started it. And don’t swear. Now, give.”

Tracy looked down at her empty chip carton and sighed. “All right. She told me not to say anything to you yet, but you’ll find out eventually. Remember, you asked for it.”

“Tracy!”

“Okay. Okay. Mum’s pregnant. That’s what it’s all about. She’s three months pregnant. She’s having Sean’s baby.”

Not long after Banks had left Lucy Payne’s room, Annie Cabbot strode down the corridors of the hospital to her appointment with Dr. Mogabe. She hadn’t been at all satisfied with PC Taylor’s statement and needed to check out the medical angle as far as it was possible to do so. Of course, Payne wasn’t dead, so there would be no postmortem, at least not yet. If he had done what it very much seemed that he had, then Annie thought it might not be such a bad idea to carry out a postmortem on him while he was still alive.