“Don’t let me interrupt your lunch,” said Annie, smiling again at Jenny, then turning to Banks. “But I just happened to be in the station catching up on some paperwork after lunch. Winsome told me you were here and that she’d got a message for you. I said I’d deliver it.”

Banks raised his eyebrows. “And?”

“It’s from your mate Ken Blackstone in Leeds. It seems Lucy Payne’s done a runner.”

Jenny gasped. “What?”

“Local police dropped by her parents’ house this morning just to make sure everything was okay. Turns out her bed hadn’t been slept in.”

“Bloody hell,” said Banks. “Another cock-up.”

“Just thought you’d want to know as soon as possible,” said Annie, untangling herself from the chair. She looked at Jenny. “Nice to meet you.”

Then she walked out with the same elegant grace she had walked in with, leaving Banks and Jenny to sit and stare at each other.

Mick Blair, the fourth person in the group on the night Leanne Wray disappeared, lived with his parents in a semi in North Eastvale, near enough to the edge of town for a fine view over Swainsdale, but close enough to the center for easy access. After Annie’s revelation about Lucy Payne, Banks wondered whether he should change his plans, but he decided that Leanne Wray was still a priority and Lucy Payne was still a victim in the eyes of the law. Besides, there would be plenty of coppers keeping an eye open for her; it was the most they could do until, and unless, they had anything to charge her with.

Unlike Ian Scott, Mick had never been in trouble with the police, though Banks suspected he might well have been buying drugs from Ian. He had a slightly wasted look about him, not quite all there, and didn’t seem to have much time for personal grooming. When Banks called after his lunch with Jenny that Sunday, Mick’s parents were out visiting family, and Mick was slouching around in the living room listening to Nirvana loud on the stereo, wearing torn jeans and a black T-shirt with a picture of Kurt Cobain on it, above his birth and death dates.

“What do you want?” Mick asked, turning down the volume and flopping on to the sofa, hands behind his head.

“To talk about Leanne Wray.”

“We’ve already been over that.”

“Let’s go over it again?”

“Why? Have you found out something new?”

“What would there be to find out?”

“I don’t know. I’m just surprised at your coming here, that’s all.”

“Was Leanne your girlfriend, Mick?”

“No. It wasn’t like that.”

“She’s an attractive girl. Didn’t you fancy her?”

“Maybe. A bit.”

“But she wasn’t having any of it?”

“It was early days, that’s all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some girls need a bit of time, a bit of working on. They don’t all just jump into bed with you the first time you meet.”

“And Leanne needed time?”

“Yes.”

“How far had you got?”

“What do you mean?”

“How far? Holding hands? Necking? Tongue or no tongue?” Banks remembered his own adolescent gropings and the various stages you had to pass. After necking usually came touching above the waist, but with clothes on, then under the blouse but over the bra. After that, the bra came off, then it was below the waist, and so on until you got to go all the way. If you were lucky. With some girls it seemed to take forever to move from one stage to another, and some might let you get below the waist but not go all the way. The whole negotiation was a minefield fraught with the danger of being dumped at every turn. Well, at least Leanne Wray hadn’t been an easy conquest, and for some odd reason, Banks was glad to know that.

“We necked once in a while.”

“What about that Friday night, the thirty-first of March?”

“Nah. We were in a group, like, with Ian and Sarah.”

“You didn’t neck with Leanne in the cinema?”

“Maybe.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“I suppose so.”

“Might you have had a falling-out?”

“What are you getting at?”

Banks scratched the scar beside his right eye. “It’s like this, Mick. I come here to talk to you again, and it seems to bother you, but you don’t ask me if we’ve found Leanne alive, or found her body yet. It was the same with Ian-”

“You’ve talked to Ian?”

“This morning. I’m surprised he didn’t get straight on the phone to you.”

“He can’t have been very worried.”

“Why should he be?”

“I don’t know.”

“The thing is, you see, that you both ought to be asking me if we’ve found Leanne alive, or if we’ve found her body, or if we’ve identified her remains.”

“Why?”

“Why else would I come to talk to you?”

“How should I know?”

“But the fact that you don’t ask makes me wonder if you know something you’re not telling me.”

Mick folded his arms. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

Banks leaned forward and held Mick’s gaze. “Know what? I think you’re lying, Mick. I think you’re all lying.”

“You can’t prove anything.”

“What would I need to prove?”

“That I’m lying. I told you what happened. We went for a drink in the Old-”

“No. What you told us was that you went for coffee after the film.”

“Right. Well…”

“That was lying, wasn’t it, Mick?”

“So what?”

“If you can do it once, you can do it again. In fact, it gets easier the more you practice. What really happened that night, Mick? Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“Nothing happened. I already told you.”

“Did you and Leanne have a fight? Did you hurt her? Maybe you didn’t mean to. Where is she, Mick? You know, I’m certain of it.”

And Mick’s expression told Banks that he did know, but it also told him that he wasn’t going to confess to anything. Not today, at any rate. Banks felt pissed off and culpable at the same time. It was his fault that this line of inquiry hadn’t been properly followed up. So fixated had he become on a serial killer abducting young girls that he had ignored the basics of police work and not pushed hard enough at those in the position to know best what had happened to Leanne: the people she had been with at the time she disappeared. He should have followed up, knowing of Ian Scott’s criminal record, and that it involved drugs. But no. Leanne was put down as the third victim of the unidentified serial killer, another pretty young blond victim, and that was that. Winsome Jackman had done a bit of follow-up work, but she had pretty much accepted the official story too. Banks’s fault, all of it, just like Sandra’s miscarriage. Just like bloody everything, it seemed sometimes.

“Tell me what happened,” Banks pushed again.

“I’ve told you. I’ve fucking told you!” Mick sat up abruptly. “When we left the Old Ship, Leanne set off home. That was the last any of us saw of her. Some pervert must have got her. All right? That’s what you thought, isn’t it? Why are you changing your minds?”

“Ah, so you are curious,” Banks said, standing up. “I’m sure you’ve been following the news. We’ve got the pervert who took and killed those girls – he’s dead, so he can’t tell us anything – but we found no trace of Leanne’s body on the premises, and believe me, we’ve taken the place apart.”

“Then it must’ve been some other pervert.”

“Come off it, Mick. The odds against one are wild enough, the odds against two are astronomical. No. It comes down to you. You, Ian and Sarah. The last people she was seen with. Now, I’m going to give you time to think about it, Mick, but I’ll be back, you can count on that. Then we’ll have a proper talk. No distractions. In the meantime, stick around. Enjoy the music.”

When Banks left, he paused just long enough at the garden gate to see Mick, silhouetted behind the lace curtains, jump up from the sofa and head over to the telephone.