“It’s a pity he didn’t,” said Banks, “because now Mazuryk is dead, Artyom is dead and the rest are going to jail. And you…”

“What about me?”

“I can’t decide whether to kill you or turn you in.”

And it was true. Banks had never in his life felt like killing someone as much as he felt like killing Gareth Lambert at that moment. If he’d had a gun, he might have done it. He hefted the iron bar, heavy in his hand, and smacked it against his palm again. That would do it. One swift blow. Crush his skull like an eggshell. Lambert was looking at him, fear in his eyes.

“No!” he said, holding his hands out to protect his face. “Don’t. Don’t kill me.”

It wasn’t just revenge for Roy, but also because he had never come across anyone so loathsome he’d even contemplate doing what Lambert was doing, let alone defend it and justify it. He could not have imagined such a thing if he hadn’t gone to see Mercedes Lambert, as Roy had, and heard poor Nina cry. Mercedes Lambert obviously knew nothing about her husband’s unholy scheme. The disgust Banks felt churned the bile in his stomach and he could bear to look at Lambert no longer.

“What are you going to do? Are you going to hurt me?” Lambert whined.

Banks hurled the iron bar. It clanged into the tangled metal about two inches above Lambert’s head. Then Banks walked away, bent over and vomited on the floor. When he had finished, he took a few deep breaths, hands on his knees, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took out his mobile.

One evening a few days later, Banks crossed the old pack-horse bridge at the western end of Helmthorpe High Street and turned right on the riverside path. It was a walk he had often enjoyed before. Flat and easy, between the trees and water, no hills to climb, and he’d end up back in Helmthorpe, where there were three pubs to choose from.

As he walked he thought about the events of the past month, how it had all started that night he saw Penny Cartwright in the Dog and Gun singing “Strange Affair.” He thought about Roy, Jennifer Clewes, Carmen Petri, Dieter Ganz and the rest.

And Gareth Lambert.

Now it was just about over. Artyom and Mazuryk were dead. Gareth Lambert was in custody, along with Boris and Max Broda, and the odds were good that they would get very long sentences. Banks’s actions had forced his hand, but Dieter Ganz seemed to think his team had enough evidence to convict them on charges of trafficking in underage girls across international borders for the purposes of prostitution. Unfortunately, raids on similar houses in Paris, Berlin and Rome had netted only minor players, as word of what had happened in London spread fast. In the Balkans, guides, drivers, kidnappers and traders had scattered. They would be back, though, Dieter had told Banks, and he would be waiting for them.

Whether Lambert would be tied to the conspiracy to kill Roy Banks and Jennifer Clewes was another matter. Lambert’s more sinister intentions couldn’t be proved. And as he had said, only he and the doctor knew what they intended to do with Carmen’s baby, and neither was talking. Banks had received a reprimand for his treatment of Lambert at the abandoned factory, which would also tend to discredit anything he claimed Lambert had told him. Still, there was a good chance that Max Broda would implicate him in the conspiracy rather than take the fall alone. And Lambert’s mobile phone records for that Friday, the eleventh of June, at the Albion Club, showed a call to Mazuryk’s number at about eleven o’clock.

As for the rest, Banks wasn’t quite sure how things would turn out. Mazuryk’s girls would eventually be processed and sent home, but who was going to repair their lives, heal their broken spirits? Perhaps some would recover in time and move on, but others would drift back into the only life they knew. Carmen Petri, Annie had told Banks, was to be reunited with her parents in Romania, where, contrary to what Gareth Lambert thought, there was a good chance that her baby might end up with a decent crack at life. Carmen had been abducted from the street three years ago and in all that time her parents hadn’t given up hoping she was still alive.

Of all of them, perhaps Mercedes Lambert had come out of it worst of all, and Banks felt deeply for her. Not only was her husband probably going to jail for a long time, but in all likelihood, short of a miracle, her baby, Nina, was going to die soon. The police were investigating Banks’s accusation and had questioned her about it, so now she also had to live with the knowledge of what her husband had been about to do. Banks could only imagine how knowledge like that might tear a mother apart and haunt her dreams forever. What might have been. The nameless, faceless issue of a Romanian prostitute she had never met measured against the life of her daughter.

His mind turned to other thoughts. He had just got back from Roy’s funeral in Peterborough. Needless to say, it had been a sad and tearful affair, but at least he had spent some time with Brian and Tracy, who had come in for the occasion, and it had given his parents some sense of that closure they valued so much. Banks never really got it. For him there was no closure.

The good news was that his mother had managed to get speedy results on the medical tests. Her colon cancer was operable and her chances of making a full recovery were excellent. She also seemed to be coping a bit better with the loss of her son, though Banks knew she would never fully recover from it, never be her old self again.

Brilliant green dragonflies hovered above the water’s surface and clouds of gnats and midges gathered above the path. The sun had almost set and the water was dark blue, the sky streaked with blood orange. Banks could hear the calls of night birds from the trees and the sounds of small animals scuffling in the under-growth. Across the river he could see the backs of the shops and houses on Helmthorpe High Street. People were sitting outside in the beer garden of the Dog and Gun and he could hear muffled conversations and music from the jukebox. It should have been Delius’s “Summer Night on the River,” he thought, breathing in the perfumed air, but it wasn’t even “Strange Affair,” it was Elvis Costello’s “Watching the Detectives.”

Banks paused to light a cigarette and saw a figure walking toward him from the other direction. He couldn’t make out any more than a dark shape, but when it got closer he saw it was Penny Cartwright. He stood aside to let her pass. The overhanging leaves brushed the back of his neck and made him shiver. It felt as if a spider had slipped under his collar and was making its way down his back.

As she passed, Banks nodded politely and said hello, making to hurry along, but her voice came from behind him. “Wait a minute.”

Banks turned. “Yes?”

“Got a light?”

As Banks flicked his lighter she leaned in toward him, cigarette in her mouth, and her eyes were on his as she inhaled. “Thanks,” she said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Yes. Fancy. Good night, then.”

“Don’t go. I mean, wait a sec. Okay?”

She sounded nervous and edgy. Banks wondered what was wrong. They stood and faced each other on the narrow path. An owl hooted deep in the woods. Elvis continued to watch the detectives. It was almost dark now, only a few streaks of purple and crimson in the sky, like some great god’s robes.

“I was sorry to read about your brother,” she said.

“Thank you.”

Penny pointed to the beer garden. “Do you remember that night?” she said. “All those years ago?”

Banks remembered. He had sat in the garden with his wife, Sandra, and Penny and her boyfriend, Jack Barker, explaining the Harry Steadman murder. It had been a warm summer evening, just like tonight.

“How’s Jack?” he asked.

Penny smiled. She wasn’t a woman who smiled easily, and it was worthwhile when she did. “I’m sure Jack’s doing fine,” she said. “I haven’t seen him in ages. He went off to live in Los Angeles. Does a bit of TV writing. You even see his name on the screen sometimes.”