“I had no idea you’d been looking for me,” said Whitaker. “How could I?”

They were in the same interview room as last time, only today Whitaker was already wearing the disposable red overalls. He hadn’t been charged, but he had been arrested and read his rights, and the tape recorders were running. The duty solicitor, Gareth Bowen, sat beside him. Banks could still sense some tension between Annie and himself, but he knew that they were both professional enough to do their jobs, especially now they seemed close to the end. If they could break Whitaker, it would be drinks all around in the Queen’s Arms, and there was a good chance Banks would get to see Michelle this weekend.

“Where were you?” Banks asked.

“I needed to get away. I went to visit a friend in Newcastle.”

“Rather an opportune time to go away, wasn’t it?”

“As I said, I had no idea you would want to talk to me again.”

“Oh, I think you did, Leslie,” said Banks. “In fact, I’m sure you did.”

“Why don’t you tell us about it?” Annie said. “You’ll feel better if you do.”

Whitaker curled his lip. “Tell you about what?”

“About Thomas McMahon. Tommy. And about Roland Gardiner. Rolo. How long have you known them?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve already told you I saw Thomas McMahon in the shop from time to time, but I don’t know the other person you’re talking about.”

Banks sighed. “All right, we’ll do it the hard way.”

“Lay a finger on me and I’ll sue you.” Whitaker looked over to Bowen, who just rolled his eyes.

“What I meant,” said Banks, “is that I’m tired, DI Cabbot’s tired, and I’m sure you and Mr. Bowen are tired, too. But we’ll stay here as long as it takes to get the truth.” He glanced at Bowen. “With all requisite meal breaks and rest periods, as required by the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, of course.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” said Whitaker.

“No, you don’t,” Banks agreed. “In fact, if you remember that bit in the caution about later relying in court on something you didn’t say when we first asked you, you’ll understand exactly what it means not to have to tell us anything. But let me lay my cards on the table, Leslie. At the moment, you’re our main suspect in the murders of Thomas McMahon and Roland Gardiner.”

“But I told you, I was in Harrogate, at a dinner party. Surely you must have checked?”

“We checked.”

“And?”

“Everyone we talked to corroborates your statement. You were there.”

Whitaker folded his arms. “I told you so.”

“I wouldn’t look so smug if I were you, Leslie,” Banks went on. “We now have evidence to suggest that a timing device was used in Roland Gardiner’s caravan.”

“A timing device?”

“Yes. A candle. Crude but effective. It allowed the arsonist to prepare the fire scene but leave before the blaze started. A good couple of hours before. Easily. Wouldn’t you agree, DI Cabbot?”

“Yes,” said Annie, turning the pages of Stefan Nowak’s report. “Easily.”

“But do you have any evidence specifically to connect Mr. Whitaker to the scene?” Bowen asked. “All you’re saying is that anyone could have set that fire.”

“Have you ever heard of a man called William Masefield?” Banks asked Whitaker.

“No. Never.”

“All right. We’ll leave that for the moment. Did you or did you not supply period paper to Thomas McMahon?”

“He bought books and prints from me. It’s my business. It’s what I sell.”

“But did you sell them to him for the purpose of forging works of art?”

“Chief Inspector Banks,” Bowen cut in. “Mr. Whitaker can hardly be held responsible for what a client did after a purchase, or even know what he intended to do.”

“Perhaps in this case, he can,” said Banks. “If money was involved.”

Whitaker looked sheepish.

“Leslie?” Banks went on. “What’s it to be?”

“I told you,” Whitaker repeated. “I sold him what he wanted. It’s what you do when you’re in business.”

“You own a Jeep Cherokee, am I right?” said Banks.

“You know I do. Your men have been taking it apart since we last spoke.”

“And,” Bowen added, “might I say that they have come up with nothing to connect my client’s car with either crime scene.”

“Not yet,” said Banks.

“In fact,” Bowen went on, “I understand that a Jeep Cherokee has been connected with the Thomas McMahon fire, and that it was rented to this mysterious, and late, Mr. William Masefield by a garage outside York. Are you now saying that my client is this Mr. Masefield?”

“I’m saying that it might be the case that your client has taken Mr. Masefield’s identity,” Banks went on.

“Have you any proof of this?” Bowen asked.

“The investigation is ongoing.”

“In other words, you haven’t?”

“This is ridiculous,” said Whitaker. “I’ve already got a Jeep Cherokee. Why would I rent one?”

“To avoid exactly the kind of situation you’re in,” said Banks.

“But I’m in it anyway, aren’t I?”

“There are several counts against you. First, you’re a minor art dealer and one of the victims was a forger you supplied with paper. Secondly, you drive a Jeep Cherokee and such a car, or one very much like it, was spotted at the scene of the Thomas McMahon fire.”

“But you’ve already found-” Bowen started.

Banks cut him off. “That doesn’t mean Mr. Whitaker’s Jeep was never there.” He went on. “Add to this that you have no alibi for either murder, and that you lied to us in your previous interview, I’d say it adds up to a pretty strong case against you.”

“Circumstantial,” said Bowen. “You’ve no proof my client had ever heard of, let alone knew, Roland Gardiner; the car in the lay-by spotted near the scene has been identified; the accelerant used did not come from Mr. Whitaker’s fuel tank; and there’s no connection between Mr. Whitaker and the man whose credit card was used to rent the car. I’d say that adds up to nothing.”

“Except,” said Annie Cabbot, “that Mr. Whitaker’s business has been reporting a loss for two years in a row now, yet he has recently made several rather expensive purchases. For cash.” Annie opened a file folder. “To wit, a thirty-two-inch widescreen television and a home theater system, a state-of-the-art Dell desktop computer system, and he’s had his house repainted and added a new conservatory. Do you deny these purchases?”

Whitaker looked at Annie. “I… er… no.”

“Where did you get the money?”

“I won it. The horses.”

“You don’t bet on the horses.”

“How do you know?”

“Do you think we overlook the bookies when we’re investigating someone’s financial status, Leslie?” Annie said. “Do you really think we’re that stupid?”

“It was a gift. A friend gave it to me.”

“Which friend?”

“He wants to remain anonymous. A tax thing. You understand.”

Banks was shaking his head, and even Gareth Bowen looked anxious.

“Where did you get the money, Leslie?” Annie repeated.

“You don’t have to answer,” said Bowen.

“Right,” said Banks, standing up. “I’ve had enough of this. Interview terminated at six thirty-five P.M. I’m going home and the suspect is going back to his cell.”

“You can’t – -”

Bowen touched Whitaker’s sleeve. “Yes, they can, Leslie,” he said. “For twenty-four hours. But don’t worry. I’ll be working for you.”

Whitaker glared at the solicitor. “Well,” he said, “you’ve no idea how bloody confident that makes me feel.”

Annie munched on a salad sandwich Winsome had brought her from the bakery across Market Street and started reading through the statements again. Andrew Hurst. Mark Siddons. Jack Mellor. Leslie Whitaker. Elaine Hough. There had to be something there to link Whitaker more closely to the killings, but if there was, she was damned if she could find it. It didn’t help that she was having trouble concentrating, partly because she still couldn’t stop herself wondering what Banks was up to, and partly because of something else, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It would come, she knew, if she let her mind drift.