“Of course he’d get nothing out of Vic. He doesn’t like talking about the old days. They’re painful for him to remember, if indeed he can remember much about them.”

“Makes him angry, does it? Gives him a tantrum?”

Adams leaned forward, face thrust out aggressively. “Now, wait a minute. You surely can’t be thinking…” Then he leaned back. “You’ve got it all wrong. Vic’s a gentle soul. He’s got his problems, sure, but he wouldn’t harm a fly. He’s no more capable of-”

“Your confidence in him is admirable, but he certainly strikes me as being capable of irrational or violent behavior.”

“But why would he hurt Nick Barber?”

“You’ve just said it yourself. He’s not good at interaction, especially with strangers or people he doesn’t trust, people he perceives as a threat. Maybe Barber was after information that was painful for Vic to remember, something he’d buried long ago.”

Adams relaxed and sat back in his chair. The vinyl squeaked. “That’s a bit fanciful, if you don’t mind my saying so. Why would Vic perceive Nick Barber as a threat? He was just another fucking music journalist, for crying out loud.”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” said Banks.

“Well, good luck to you, but I honestly can’t see you getting anywhere. I think you’re barking up the wrong tree on this one. And besides, I’d guess there were plenty of heavy people more interested in Nick Barber than Vic.”

“What do you mean?”

Adams gave a twisted smile, put his finger to one nostril and sniffed through the other one. “Had quite a habit, so I heard. They can be very unforgiving, some of those coke dealers.”

Banks made a note to check into that area of Barber’s life, but he wasn’t going to be deflected so easily. “Did he talk to you?”

“Who?”

“Nick Barber. He was doing a feature on the Hatters reunion, after all. It would only have been natural.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“I suppose he just hadn’t got round to it,” Banks said. “Early days. Were you present when Robin Merchant drowned in the swimming pool at Swainsview Lodge?”

Adams looked surprised at the change of direction. He took a packet of Benson amp; Hedges from his jacket pocket and lit one, not offering the packet to Banks. Banks was grateful; he might have accepted one. Adams inhaled noisily, and the smoke curled in the dim, chilly light of the pink-and-green-shaded table lamps. “I wasn’t present at the drowning, but I was in the lodge, yeah, asleep, like everybody else.”

“Like everybody else said they were.”

“And like the police and the coroner believed.”

“We’ve had a lot of success lately with cold cases.”

“It’s not a cold case. It’s an over and done with case, dead and buried. History.”

“I’m not too sure about that,” said Banks. “Did you drop by to see Vic last week at all?”

“I was in London most of last week for meetings with promoters. I called in to see him on my way back up north.”

“What day would that be?”

“I’d have to check my calendar. Why is it important?”

“Would you check, please?”

Adams paused a moment, obviously not used to being given orders, then pulled a PDA from his inside pocket. “Isn’t it wonderful, modern technology?” he said, tapping it with the stylus.

“Indeed,” said Banks. “It’s one of the reasons we’ve had such a high success rate with cold cases. New technology. Computers. DNA. Magic.” Banks wasn’t too sure about it himself, though. He was still trying to master a laptop computer and an iPod; he hadn’t got around to PDAs yet.

Adams shot him an angry glance. “Are we talking about last week?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Then I would have seen him on Wednesday, on my way back from London. I’d been down there since the previous weekend.”

“Wednesday. Was there anything odd or different about his behavior, anything he said?”

“No, not that I noticed. He was quite docile. He was reading a book when I arrived. He reads a lot, mostly nonfiction.” Adams gestured to the magazines, books and papers. “As you can see, he doesn’t like to throw anything away.”

“He didn’t tell about anything unusual or frightening happening, about Nick Barber or anyone else coming to see him?”

“No.”

According to John Butler at MOJO, Nick Barber had tracked down Vic Greaves to this cottage and paid him a visit, but Butler hadn’t known the actual day this had happened. Vic had freaked out, refused to talk, become angry and upset, and Barber had said he was going to try again. The phone call to Butler had been made on Friday morning, probably from the telephone box by the church.

If Vic Greaves hadn’t told Adams about his meeting with Barber, then it must have happened as late in the week as Thursday, perhaps, and Barber might have tried again on Friday, the day of his murder. Kelly Soames said he had been in bed with her between two and four, but that still left him virtually all day. Unless, of course, either Kelly Soames or Chris Adams was lying, in which case all bets were off. And of the two, Banks felt that while Kelly Soames would lie to protect herself from her father, Adams might have any number of less forgivable reasons for doing it.

“Where were you on Friday?” Banks asked.

“Home. All weekend.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Sorry. I’m afraid my wife was away, visiting her mother.”

“Can you give me the names and addresses of some of the people you met with in London, and the hotel you were staying at?” Banks asked.

“Am I hearing you right? Are you asking me for an alibi now?”

“Process of elimination,” said Banks. “The more people we can rule out straightaway, the easier our job is.”

“Bollocks,” said Adams. “You don’t believe me. Why don’t you just come right out and admit it?”

“Look,” said Banks, “I’m not in the business of believing the first thing I’m told. Not by anybody. I’d be a bloody useless detective if I were. It’s a job, nothing personal. I want to get the facts straight before I come to any conclusions.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Adams, tapping his way through the PalmPilot and giving Banks some names and numbers. “And I was staying at the Mont-calm. They’ll remember me. I always stay there when I’m in town. I’ve got a suite. Okay?”

“Appreciate it,” said Banks.

They heard a bang from upstairs. Adams cursed and headed out. While he was gone, Banks took as good a look as he could around the room. Some of the newspapers were ten years old or more, the same with the magazines, which meant Greaves must have brought them with him when he moved in. The books were mostly biography or history. One thing he did find of interest, on the table half hidden under the lamp, was a business card that had Nick Barber’s Chiswick address printed on it and his Fordham address scribbled on the other side. Had Barber left this for Vic Greaves when he paid his visit? It should be possible to check it against a sample of his handwriting.

Adams came back. “Nothing,” he said. “His book slipped off the bed to the floor. He’s still out.”

“Are you staying here overnight?” Banks asked.

“No. Vic’ll sleep right through till morning now, and by then he’ll have forgotten whatever upset him today. One of the marvels of his condition. Every day is a new adventure. Besides, it won’t take me too long to drive home, and I have a lovely young wife waiting for me there.”

Banks wished he had someone living with him, but even if he had, he realized, it wouldn’t be possible with Brian and Emilia around. How ironic, he thought. They could do whatever they wanted, but he didn’t feel he could spend the night with a woman in his own house while they were there. Chance would be a fine thing. Banks felt nervous about going home, fearing what he might disturb. He’d phone them on his way, when he got within mobile range, just to warn them, give them time to get dressed, or whatever.