Banks nodded. "Why were you wearing gloves, Mr. Sharp?"

"It was a cold night. I've got bad circulation."

"But you didn't have very far to go."

"No, I suppose not."

"And you didn't take them off when you got inside."

"I never thought. Things just started happening too fast. Don't you believe me? Are you suggesting I intended to kill the woman?"

"That's for the court to decide," Banks said. "I'm just gathering the evidence. Did you see Mr. Allott?"

"Yes, on my way in. He looked like he was running away from something himself. I didn't think he got a really good look at me. Still, I was a bit worried for a few days, but then I realized that, whoever he was, he hadn't come forward. Perhaps he hadn't heard of the old woman's death, or maybe he had his own secret to hide. I don't know."

"Did you have any idea why Alice Matlock didn't seem to recognize you but let you in anyway?"

Graham shrugged. "I can't say I gave it much thought. She was old. I suppose she did ramble a bit sometimes."

"Close," Banks said. "She probably couldn't even remember what day she overheard Webster and your son. You see, the irony of it is, Mr. Sharp, that by the morning she would most likely have forgotten all about the incident anyway. And you were quite right to think that nobody would believe a woman who was beginning to live more in the past than the present. You killed her for nothing."

IV

There wasn't much left to do. Statements had to be written up and filed, charges laid, hearing dates fixed. But as far as Banks was concerned, the real job was finished. The rest was up to the courts and the twelve jurors "good and true."

He believed that Sharp had killed Alice Matlock by accident, that he was basically a good man driven too far. But so many criminals were good men gone wrong. It sometimes seemed a pity, or at least an inconvenience, that society seemed to have discarded the concept of evil, something which, in Banks's mind, would always separate Trevor Sharp from his father.

As he had no other pressing business, he decided to go home early and spend some time with Sandra. He would see Jenny again, too. No doubt Sandra would insist that she come over for dinner some evening. But not for a while. It was time to heal the wound and attempt to build more frail bridges between male and female; and the fewer confusing distractions, the easier that would be.

He would buy Sandra a small present, perhaps: that simple gold chain she had admired in H. Samuels' window the last time they were in Leeds; or the new lightweight camera-bag at Erricks' in Bradford. Or he could take her out for dinner and a show. Opera North were doing Gounod's Faust next month. But no, Sandra didn't like opera. Going to see a new film would be a better treat for her.

As he walked home in the steady drizzle, Banks began to feel some of the pleasurable release, the sense of lightness and freedom that was his usual reward at the end of a case.

Before leaving, he had slipped a cassette of highlights from La Traviata , usually reserved for the car, into his Walkman, and now he fumbled around in his pocket to switch it on. He walked down Market Street enjoying the cool needles of rain on his face and hummed along with the haunting prelude. Tourists heading for the car park, merchants closing up for the day, and disappointed shoppers rattling already-locked doors all seemed like actors in the opening scene of a grand opera. When the jaunty "Drinking Song" began, Banks started to sing along quietly, and his step lightened almost to a dance.