“What is it?” Annie asked from the top of the cellar steps.

One of the men looked up at her. She hadn’t recognized Stefan Nowak at first. She didn’t know him well, as he hadn’t been at Eastvale’s Western Divisional Headquarters for long, but Banks had introduced them once. Stefan was the man, ACC Ron McLaughlin had said, who would drag North Yorkshire kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century. Annie had found him rather reserved, a bit mysterious, even, as if he were carrying around a grave secret or a great weight of past pain. He affected a cheery enough demeanor on the surface, but she could tell it didn’t run very deep. He was tall, over six feet, and handsome in a clean-cut, elegant sort of way. She knew his background was Polish and had often wondered if he was a prince or a count or something. Most of the Poles she had ever met said they were descended from counts or princes at one time or another, and there was something regal and stately in Stefan’s bearing.

“It’s Annie, isn’t it?” he said. “DS Annie Cabbot?”

“DI, now, Stefan. How’s it going?”

“Didn’t know you were on this case.”

“One of them,” Annie explained. “Terence Payne. I’m with Complaints and Discipline.”

“I can’t believe the CPS will even let that one see the light of day,” said Stefan. “Justifiable homicide, surely?”

“I hope that’s how they’ll see it, but you never know with them. Anyway, I just wanted a look at the place.”

“I’m afraid we’ve made rather a mess,” said Stefan. “It looks as if we’ve just found another body. Want a look?”

Annie ducked under the tape. “Yes.”

“Be careful,” said Stefan. “Follow the marked path.”

Annie did as he said and soon found herself standing beside the partially excavated grave. This one was a skeleton. Not quite as stained and filthy as the one she had seen at Hobb’s End, but a skeleton nonetheless. She could see part of the skull, one shoulder and part of the left arm. “How long?” she asked.

“Hard to say,” Stefan answered. “More than a few months.” He introduced the two men who had been poring over the grave with him, one a botanist and the other an entomologist. “These lads should be able to help with that. And we’re getting Dr. Ioan Williams to come over from the university and give us a hand.”

Annie remembered the young doctor with the long hair and the prominent Adam’s apple from the Hobb’s End case, the way he had caressed Gloria Shackleton’s pelvic bone and leered over it at Annie.

“I know this isn’t my case,” Annie said, “but isn’t this one body too many?”

Stefan looked up at her and shielded his eyes from the sun. “Yes,” he said. “It is. Rather throws a spanner in the works, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed it does.”

Annie walked back toward her car. There was nothing more to be gained from hanging around The Hill. Besides, she realized, glancing at her watch, she had a postmortem to attend.

“What the hell do you mean, talking to press like that?” said Banks. “Didn’t I warn you about it?”

“This is the first I’ve heard we’re living in a police state,” said Maggie Forrest, arms folded over her chest, eyes angry and tearful. They stood in her kitchen, Banks brandishing the Post and Maggie in the midst of clearing away her breakfast dishes. After seeing the article at Millgarth, he had headed straight for The Hill.

“Don’t give me that adolescent crap about police states. Who do you think you are, a student protesting some distant war?”

“You’ve no right to talk to me like this. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Anything wrong? Have you any idea of the wasp’s nest you could be helping to stir up?”

“I don’t know what you mean. All I wanted to do was tell Lucy’s side of the story, but that woman twisted it all.”

“Are you so naïve that you didn’t expect that?”

“There’s a difference between being naïve and caring, but a cynic like you probably wouldn’t understand it.”

Banks could see that Maggie was shaking, either with anger or fear, and he was worried that he had given too free a rein to his anger. He knew she had been abused by her husband, that she was a bruised soul, so she was probably scared stiff of this man raising his voice in her kitchen. It was insensitive of him, but damn it, the woman irritated him. He sat at the kitchen table and tried to cool things down a bit. “Maggie,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, but you could cause us a lot of problems.”

Maggie seemed to relax a little. “I don’t see how.”

“Public sympathy is a very fickle thing, and when you mess with it, it’s like dancing with the devil. It’s just as likely to reach out and eat you up as anyone else.”

“But how would people find out what Lucy went through at her husband’s hands? She won’t talk about it, I can guarantee you that.”

“None of us know what went on in Lucy’s house. All you’re doing is jeopardizing her chance of a fair trial, if-”

“Trial? Trial for what?”

“I was going to say, ‘if it comes to that.’ ”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t agree.” Maggie put the electric kettle on and sat opposite Banks. “People need to know about domestic abuse. It’s not something that should be swept under the carpet for any reason. Especially not just because the police say so.”

“I agree. Look, I understand you’re prejudiced against us, but-”

“Prejudiced? Right. With your help I ended up in hospital.”

“But you have to understand that in many of these matters our hands are tied. We’re only as good as the information we have and the laws of the land allow.”

“All the more reason for me to speak out about Lucy. After all, you’re not exactly here to help her, are you?”

“I’m here to find out the truth.”

“Well, that’s all very high-and-mighty of you.”

“Now who’s the cynic?”

“We all know the police only want convictions, that they’re not overly concerned with the truth, or with justice.”

“Convictions help, if they keep the bad guys off the street. Too often they don’t. And justice we leave to the courts, but you’re wrong about the rest. I can’t speak for anyone else, but I’m very much concerned with the truth. I’ve worked day and night on this case since the beginning of April, and every case I work I want to know what happened, who did it and why. I don’t always find out, but you’d be surprised how much I do learn. Sometimes it gets me into trouble. And I have to live with the knowledge, take it into my life, take it home with me. I’m that snowball rolling down the hill, only the pure snow’s run out and I’m picking up layer after layer of dirt and gravel just so that you can sit safe and warm at home and accuse me of being some sort of Gestapo officer.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. And I wasn’t always safe and warm.”

“Do you know that what you’ve just done actually stands a good chance of warping the truth, whatever it may be?”

“I didn’t do that. It was her. That journalist. Lorraine Temple.”

Banks slapped the table and immediately regretted it when Maggie jumped. “Wrong,” he said. “She was only doing her job. Like it or not, that’s what it was. Her job’s to sell newspapers. You’ve got this all backward, Maggie. You think the media’s here to tell the truth and the police to lie.”

“You’re confusing me now.” The kettle boiled and Maggie got up to make tea. She didn’t offer Banks a cup, but when it was ready, she poured him one automatically. He thanked her.

“All I’m saying, Maggie, is that you might be doing Lucy more harm than good by talking to the press. Look at what happened this time. You say it came out all wrong and that they practically said Lucy is as guilty as her husband. That’s hardly helping her, is it?”

“But I told you. She twisted my words.”

“And I’m saying you should have expected that. It made a better story.”

“Then where am I supposed to go to tell the truth? Or to find it?”