Brian and Emilia were in the entertainment room watching La Dolce Vita on the plasma screen when Banks got home. They were on the sofa, Brian sitting up with his feet on the pouf, his arm around Emilia, who leaned against him, head on his chest, face hidden by a cascade of hair. She was wearing what looked like one of Brian’s shirts. It wasn’t tucked in at the waist because she wasn’t wearing anything to tuck it into. They certainly looked as if they had made themselves at home during the couple of days they’d been around, and Banks realized sadly that he had been so busy he had hardly seen them. A tantalizing smell drifted from the kitchen.

“Oh, hi, Dad,” said Brian, putting the DVD on pause. “Got your note. We were out walking around Relton way.”

“Not a very nice day for it, I’m afraid,” said Banks, flopping onto one of the armchairs.

“We got soaked,” said Emilia.

“It happens,” said Banks. “Hope it didn’t put you off?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Banks. It’s beautiful up here. I mean, even when it’s gray and rainy it’s got a sort of romantic, primitive beauty, hasn’t it? Like Wuthering Heights.”

“I suppose it has,” said Banks. He gestured toward the screen. “And call me Alan, please. Didn’t know you were Fellini fans. It’s one of your Uncle Roy’s. I’ve been trying to watch them all. Bergman. Truffaut. Chabrol. Kurasawa. I’m getting quite used to the subtitles now, but I still have a bit of trouble following what’s going on half the time.”

Brian laughed. “I heard someone talking about La Dolce Vita a while ago, how great it was, and there it was, right in front of me. Emmy here’s an actress.”

“I thought I’d seen you somewhere before,” Banks said. “You’ve done TV, right?”

Emilia blushed. “A little. I’ve had small parts in Spooks, Hustle and Bad Girls, and I’ve done quite a bit of theater, too. No movies yet.” She stood up. “Please excuse me a moment.”

“Of course.”

“What’s that smell?” Banks asked Brian when she had left the room.

“Emilia’s making us dinner.”

“I thought we’d get a take-away tonight.”

“This’ll be better, Dad, believe me. You took us out on Sunday. Emilia wants to repay you. She’s a gourmet cook. Leg of lamb with garlic and rosemary. Potatoes dauphinois.” He put his fingers to his lips and made a kissing sound. “Fantastic.”

“Well,” said Banks, “I’ve never been one to turn down a gourmet meal, but she doesn’t have to feel obliged.”

“She likes doing it.”

“Then I’d better open a nice bottle of wine.”

Banks walked to the kitchen and opened a bottle of Peter Lehmann Australian Shiraz, which he thought would go well with the lamb. When Emilia came in, she was wearing jeans, with the shirt tucked in at the waist and her long hair tied back in a simple ponytail. She smiled at him, cheeks glowing, and bent to open the oven. The smell was even stronger.

“Wonderful,” said Banks.

“It won’t be long now,” said Emilia. “The lamb and potatoes are almost done. I’m just going to make a salad. Pear and blue cheese. That’s okay, isn’t it? Brian said you like blue cheese.”

“It’s fine,” said Banks. “Sounds delicious, in fact. Thank you.”

Emilia flashed him a shy smile, and he guessed she was a little embarrassed because he’d caught her with her trousers down, so to speak.

Banks poured a glass of Shiraz, offered one to Emilia, who said she’d wait until later, then went back to sit with Brian, who had now turned off the DVD and was playing the first Mad Hatters CD, which Banks had bought at the HMV on Oxford Street, along with their second and third albums.

“What do you think of it?” he asked Brian.

“It must have been quite something in its time,” Brian said. “I like the guitar and keyboards mix they’ve got. That sounds quite original. Really spacey. It’s good. Especially for a debut. Better than I remember. I mean, I haven’t listened to them in years.”

“Me, neither,” said Banks. “I met Vic Greaves today. At least, I think I did.”

“Vic Greaves? Jesus, Dad. He’s a legend. What was he like?”

“Strange. He spoke in non sequiturs. Referred to himself in the third person a lot.” Banks shrugged. “I don’t know. Everyone says he took too much LSD.”

Brian seemed deep in thought for a few moments, then he said, “Acid casualties. Makes it sound like war, doesn’t it? But things like that happened. It’s not as if he was the only one.”

“I know that,” said Banks, finding himself starting to wonder about Brian. He was living the rock-star life, too, as Vic Greaves had. What did he get up to? How much did he know about drugs?

“Dinner’s ready!” Emilia called out.

Banks and Brian got up and went into the kitchen, where Emilia had lit candles and presented the salad beautifully. They talked about Brian’s music and Emilia’s acting ambitions as they ate, a pleasant relief for Banks after his distressing encounter with Vic Greaves. This time, Banks actually got as far as dessert – raspberry brûlée – before the phone rang. Cursing, he excused himself.

“Sir?”

“Yes.”

“Winsome here. Sorry to bother you, Guv, but it’s Jean Murray. You know, from the post office in Lyndgarth. She rang about five minutes ago about Vic Greaves. Said she was out walking her dog and heard all sorts of shenanigans up at the house. Lights going on and off, people shouting and running around and breaking things. I thought I should tell you.”

“You did right,” said Banks. “Did you send a car?”

“Not yet.”

“Good. Don’t. Is there more than one person involved?”

“Sounds like it to me.”

“Thanks, Winsome,” said Banks. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He thanked Emilia for a wonderful dinner, made his apologies and left, saying he wasn’t sure how late he would be back. He didn’t think Brian minded too much, the way he was looking at Emilia and holding her hand in the candlelight.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Friday, 19th September, 1969

Detective Chief Superintendent McCullen called a meeting for Friday afternoon in the incident room at Brotherton House. The town hall dome looked dark and forbidding against the iron-gray sky, and only a few shoppers were walking up the Headrow toward Lewis’s and Schofield’s, struggling with their umbrellas. Chadwick was feeling a little better after a decent and nightmare-free sleep in his own bed, helped along considerably by the news that Leeds United beat SK Lyn Oslo 10-0 in the first round of the European Cup.

Photos were pinned to the boards at the front of the room – the victim, the scene – and those present sat in chairs at the various scattered desks. Occasionally a telephone rang and a telex machine clattered in the distance. Present were McCullen, Chadwick, Enderby, Bradley, Dr. O’Neill and Charlie Green, a civilian liaison from the forensic laboratory in Wetherby, along with a number of uniformed and plainclothes constables who had been involved in the Lofthouse case. McCullen hosted the proceedings, calling first on Dr. O’Neill to summarize the pathology findings, which he did most succinctly. Next came the lab liaison man, Charlie Green.

“I’ve been in meetings with our various departments this morning,” he said, “so I think I can give you a reasonable précis of what we’ve discovered so far. Which isn’t very much. Blood analysis determines that the victim’s blood is group A, a characteristic she shares with about forty-three percent of the population. As far as toxicology has been able to gather so far, there is no evidence to suggest the presence of illegal substances. I must inform you at this point, though, that we have no test for LSD, a fairly common drug among… well, the type of people we’re dealing with. It disappears from the system very quickly.