‘Do you read a lot of poetry?’

‘Yes. Quite a bit.’

‘Do you read any journals?’

‘Some. The Poetry Review occasionally. Mostly I read old stuff. I prefer rhyme and metre, so I tend to stay away from contemporary work, except Larkin, Seamus Heaney and a couple of others, of course. That’s one area Caroline and I disagreed on. She liked free verse and I never could see the point of it. What was it Robert Frost said? Like playing tennis without a net?’

‘But you’ve never noticed Ruth Dunne’s name in print, never come across her work?’

Veronica tightened her lips and looked out the window She seemed irritated that Banks had broken the spell and plunged into what must have felt like an interrogation.

‘I don’t remember it, no. Why?’

‘I just wondered what kind of stuff she writes, and why Caroline didn’t tell you about her.’

‘Because she tended to be secretive about her past. Sketchy, anyway. I also suspect that maybe she didn’t want to make me jealous.’

‘Were they still seeing one another?’

‘As far as I know, Caroline made no trips to London while we were together, I haven’t even been myself for at least three years. No, I mean jealous of a past lover. It can happen, you know – people have even been jealous over dead lovers – and I was especially vulnerable, being in such a new and frightening relationship.’

‘Frightening?’

‘Well, yes. Of course. Especially at first. Do you imagine it was easy for me, with my background and my sheltered existence, to go to bed with a woman, to give up my marriage and live with one?’

‘Was there anyone else who might have been jealous enough of Caroline’s relationship with you?’

Veronica raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re never very far away from your job, are you? It makes it hard to trust you, to open up to you. I can never tell what you’re thinking from your expression.’

Banks laughed. ‘That’s because I’m a good poker player. But seriously, despite all evidence to the contrary, I am a human being. And I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit that the foremost thing on my mind is catching Caroline’s killer right now. The work is never far away. That’s because somebody took something they had no right to.’

‘And do you think catching and punishing the criminal will do any good?’

‘I don’t know. It becomes too abstract for me at that point. I told you, I like concrete things. Put it this way, I wouldn’t like to think that the person who stabbed Caroline is going to be walking around Eastvale, or anywhere else for that matter, whistling “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’ “ for the rest of his or her life. Do you know what I mean?’

‘Revenge?’

‘Perhaps. But I don’t think so. Something more subtle, more right than mere revenge.’

‘But why do you take it so personally?’

‘Somebody has to. Caroline isn’t around to take it so personally herself.’

Veronica stared at Banks. Her eyes narrowed, then she shook her head.

‘What?’ Banks asked.

‘Nothing. Just trying to understand, thinking what a strange job you do, what a strange man you are. Do all policemen get as involved in their cases?’

Banks shrugged. ‘I don’t know. For some it’s just a day’s work. Like anyone else, they’ll skive off as much as they can. Some get very cynical, some are lazy, some are cruel, vicious bastards with brains the size of a pea. Just people.’

‘You probably think I don’t care about revenge or justice or whatever it is.’

‘No. I think you’re confused and you’re too shaken by Caroline’s death to think about whoever did it. You’re also probably too civilized to feel the blood lust of revenge.’

‘Repressed?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Then perhaps a little repression is a good thing. I’ll have to tell Ursula that before she releases the raging beast inside me.’

Banks smiled. ‘I hope we’ve got the killer safely behind bars long before that.’

The train passed a patch of waste ground scattered with bright yellow oil drums and old tyres, then a factory yard, a housing estate and a graffiti-scarred embankment. Soon, Banks could see Alexandra Palace through the window.

‘Better get ready,’ he said, standing up and reaching for his camel-hair overcoat. ‘We’ll be at King’s Cross in a few minutes.’

TWO

Half an hour later, Banks looked across the street at the Gothic extravaganza of St Pancras, complete with its chimneys, crocketed towers and crenellated gables. So, here he was, back in London for the first time in almost three years. Black taxis and red double-decker buses clogged the roads and poisoned the streets with exhaust fumes. Horns honked, drivers yelled at one another and pedestrians took their lives into their hands crossing the street.

Veronica had taken a taxi to her friend’s house. For Banks, the first priority was lunch, which meant a pint and a sandwich. He walked down Euston Road for a while, taking in the atmosphere, loving it almost as much as he hated it. There didn’t appear to have been much snow down here. Apart from occasional lumps of grey slush in the gutters, the streets were mostly clear. The sky was leaden, though, and seemed to promise at least a cold drizzle before the end of the day.

He turned down Tottenham Court Road, found a cosy pub and managed to elbow himself a place at the bar. It was lunchtime, so the place was crowded with hungry and thirsty clerks come to slag the boss and gird up their loins for another session at the grindstone. Banks had forgotten how much he liked London pubs. The Yorkshire people were so proud of their beer and their pubs, it had been easy to forget that a London boozer could be as much fun as any up north. Banks drank a pint of draught Guinness and ate a thick ham and cheese sandwich. As always in London, such gourmet treats cost an arm and a leg; even the pint cost a good deal more than it would in Eastvale. Luckily, he was on expenses.

The raised voices all around him, with their London accents, brought it all back, the good and the bad. For years he had loved the city’s streets, their energy. Even some of the villains he’d nicked had a bit of class, and those that lacked class at least had a sense of humour.

He pushed his plate aside and lit a cigarette. The bottles ranged at the back of the bar were reflected in the gilt-edged mirror. The barmaid had broken into a sweat trying to keep up with the customers – her upper lip and brow were moist with it – but she managed to maintain her smile. Banks ordered another pint.

He couldn’t put his finger on when it had all started to go wrong for him in London. It had been a series of events, most likely, over a long period. But somehow it all merged into one big mess when he looked back: Brian getting into fights at school; his own marriage on the rocks; anxiety attacks that had convinced him he was dying.

But the worst thing of all had been the job. Slowly, subtly, it had changed. And Banks had found himself changing with it. He was becoming more like the vicious criminals he dealt with day in, day out, less able to see good in people and hope for the world. He ran on pure anger and cynicism, occasionally thumped suspects in interrogation and trampled over everyone’s rights. And the damnedest thing was, it was all getting him good results, gaining him a reputation as a good copper. He sacrificed his humanity for his job, and he grew to hate himself, what he had become. He had been no better than Dirty Dick Burgess, a superintendent from the Met with whom he had recently done battle in Eastvale.

Life had dragged on without joy, without love. He was losing Sandra and he couldn’t even talk to her about it. He was living in a sewer crowded with rats fighting for food and space: no air, no light, no escape. The move up north, if he admitted it, had been his way of escape. Put simply, he had run away before it got too late.