"I have to go in," he said. "There's a few loose ends to tie up."

Sandra nodded. It was nothing new to her.

"I'll probably be late," he added, "so don't wait up."

It was confusing, saying goodbye to the two of them. He bent and kissed Sandra's cheek, then nodded at Jenny and hurried out. Even though he'd got his priorities sorted out, there was something disturbing about being with both women at once. It was extremely disconcerting, and the more Banks analyzed the feeling as he walked-Walkman-less, but grateful to be breathing the cool night air-the more he decided that it wasn't sexual. It had nothing at all to do with the beauty and desirability of both women, but everything to do with his sensing a strong bond between them that put him on the outside. They didn't even have to talk to make it clear. Banks had felt as if he were a clumsy, primitive beast in the presence of two alien creatures.

II

The station was humming with activity. Already, those on duty in plain clothes had been recalled from the pubs and were clustering around the duty roster trying to decide who should go home and who should stay. And downstairs, the phone kept ringing. Residents of the East Side Estate were still calling to report the gunshot.

Upstairs, things were quieter. The Sharps had been taken to an interview room, and Gristhorpe's door was open. As soon as Banks rounded the corner, the superintendent popped his head out and invited him in. One shaded table lamp provided the only illumination, and the bookcases and deep leather chairs gleamed in its dim light. The only thing Banks needed was another cigarette. As if reading his mind Gristhorpe took a Queen's Arms ashtray out of his bottom drawer and pushed it over to him.

"Just this once, Alan. I can see you need it. Though God knows why a person would crave something that's a proven carcinogen."

"There's none worse than ex-smokers," Banks joked. Everybody knew that Gristhorpe's anti-smoking campaign was of fairly recent origin.

"How are things, Alan?"

"Pretty good, considering. It's nice to be able to relax for a moment. I haven't really managed to bring my mind to bear on what happened yet."

"Plenty of time. Write it down in the morning. Sandra's well?"

"Yes. She's either tougher than I thought or she's a good actress."

"I think she's just got hidden depths, Alan. Strong reserves. You'd be surprised how many have. My wife, God bless her, was the mildest, gentlest woman on the face of the earth. Talk about frail-you'd think she'd faint at a cuss word. But she was a nurse in the war, just like Alice Matlock, and she saw more than one member of her family from this world to the next. But she never once flinched or complained, even when the cancer got hold of her. 'Course, she was a Yorkshire woman."

Banks smiled. "Of course."

"Many a copper would have run straight to his wife, Alan. You did the right thing. You weighed up both situations and decided where you could do the most good."

"It didn't seem as logical a process as that. When it comes down to it, there was only one place where I had to be."

"I know that, and so do you. But a lesser man might have let emotion confuse the issue."

"There were times when I thought I had. What's happened to Robin Allott?"

"Mild concussion. He'll be all right. Still at the hospital. If that camera had been out of its leather case, and if Sandra had hit him on the temple or the base of the skull, he might have been dead. It was an old one, metal body instead of that plastic they use nowadays. The young fellow was very lucky indeed."

"Sandra, too."

"No blame would have been attached to her."

"But imagine how she'd feel, even so."

"Aye," Gristhorpe said, rubbing his prickly chin.

"Has he said anything?"

"Not a dicky bird, yet. Still too dazed. I don't think he'll hold back on us, though. Sandra made a very clear statement." His bushy brows knitted in a deep frown. "She went through a lot, you know."

"I know. At least I think I do. I don't know all the details yet."

One of the uniformed constables knocked softly at the half-open door before delivering a tray of coffee and biscuits.

"They're from downstairs, the biscuits, sir," he said. "We keep a few packets in, club together, like. Thought you might appreciate some."

"Thank you, Constable Craig," Gristhorpe said. "Much appreciated. You on late duty tonight?"

"Yes, sir. Me and Susan Gay."

There was something in the constable's clipped tone that prompted Gristhorpe to ask if anything was wrong.

"Well, sir," Craig said, "I don't mean to complain, but every time we're on duty together and something like this comes up-making coffee or delivering biscuits- she always manages to push me into doing it." His face reddened. "It's that blooming women's lib is what it is, sir."

Gristhorpe laughed. "It's what we call 'positive discrimination,' lad, and you'll just have to get used to it. Stick up for yourself. And I hope this coffee's a bit better than the usual muck we get around here."

"It should be, sir," Craig said proudly. "A satisfied customer presented us with one of those automatic drip-filter things earlier this evening, sir. I went across to that fancy tea and coffee shop on King Street and got some fresh-ground Colombian beans."

The superintendent turned his baby blue eyes on Craig. "Did you, now? Not only accepting gifts from the public but playing truant, eh?"

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir," Craig replied, standing stiffly at attention.

"It's all right," Gristhorpe said. "Only joking, lad. Wherever it came from, it's most welcome. The chief inspectoral be able to drink it black. Off you go, lad."

The coffee was good, the best they'd tasted in a long time, and Banks had a fondness for McVities' Chocolate Digestives. Gristhorpe was on yet another diet, though, and refused to give in to his sweet tooth.

"How's Mick Webster?" Banks asked.

"He'll live. Lost a lot of blood, but that tourniquet of yours did the trick."

"His hand?"

"Lost two fingers, and the doc says he might lose another if surgery doesn't go well. Have you any idea where he got the gun from?"

"No. The first I heard of Webster was from Trevor Sharp earlier tonight. I think we should get a warrant and search his place."

"It's already being done. That's where Richmond and Hatchley are now. If I were you, Alan, I'd go home, take care of my wife and get some sleep."

"I want to talk to Sharp."

"It'll wait, Alan."

"No."

"I can do it."

"I started it, and I'd hate to have to begin all over again."

Gristhorpe tapped a pencil on his blotter. "You've got a point, I suppose. We don't want him fresh again after a night's sleep."

"Does he know about Webster?"

"No."

"Good."

"Sure you're up to it?"

"Yes. I wouldn't get any sleep for thinking about it anyway."

Gristhorpe pointed toward the corridor. "Interview room number three. I think Sergeant Rowe's still with them. He'll be worn out by now."