‘Didn’t know you had it.’

‘Nor did I.’

‘Never mind. Just wait till spring. You’ll be the envy of us all then. Everyone will want to come and visit you on their weekends off.’

‘Aye, maybe. We’ll have to see about renting out the spare room for bed and breakfast. Carol’s got some fancy ideas about starting a garden, too. Sounds like a lot of back breaking work to me.’

And Banks knew what Hatchley felt about work, the dreaded four-letter word, back breaking or not. ‘I’m sorry to lumber you with this, Jim,’ he said. ‘Especially on your honeymoon.’

‘That’s all right. Gets me out of the house. We’re not spring chickens, you know. Can’t expect to be at it all the time.’ He winked. ‘Besides, a man needs time alone with his pint and his paper.’

Banks noticed a copy of the Sun folded in Hatchley’s pocket. From the little he could see, it looked to be open at page three. An attractive new wife, and he still ogled the naked page-three girl. Old habits die hard.

The landlord stirred; his newspaper began to rustle with impatience. Clearly it was all very well for him to be rude to customers, but customers were not expected to be rude to him by warming themselves in front of the sparse flames for too long without buying a drink. Banks walked over and the paper rose up again, covering the man’s beady eyes.

‘Two pints of bitter, please,’ Banks said, and slowly the paper came to rest on the bar. With a why-can’t-everyone-leave-me-alone sigh, the man pulled the pints and plonked them down in front of Banks, holding his other hand out for the money as soon as he had done so. Banks paid and walked back to Sergeant Hatchley.

‘Anything come up?’ Banks asked, reaching for a cigarette.

Hatchley pulled a cigar tube from his inside pocket. ‘Have one of these. Christmas present from the in-laws. Havana. Nice and mild.’

Banks remembered the last cigar he had smoked, one of Dirty Dick Burgess’s Tom Thumbs, and declined. ‘Best stick with the devil you know,’ he said, lighting the cigarette.

‘As you like. Well,’ Hatchley said, ‘there’s nowt been happening around here. I’ve been up with Carol a couple of evenings, for a drink, like, and noticed that Ivers and his fancy woman in here once or twice. Tall chap in need of a hair cut. Looks a bit like that Irish bloke from Camelot, Richard Harris, after a bad night. And that lass of his, young enough to be his granddaughter I’d say. Still, it takes all sorts. Lovely pair of thighs under them tight jeans, and a bum like two peaches in a wet paper bag. Anyroad, they’d come in about nine-ish, nod hello to a few locals, knock back a couple of drinks and leave about ten.’

‘Ever talk to them?’

‘No. They don’t know who I am. They keep themselves to themselves, too. The local constable’s a very obliging chap. I’ve had him keeping an eye open and he says they’ve done nothing out of the ordinary. Hardly been out of the house. Are they still in the running?’

Banks nodded. ‘There’s a couple of problems with the timing, but nothing they couldn’t have worked out between them.’

‘Between them?’

‘Yes. If they killed Caroline Hartley, they must have been in it together. It’s the only way they could have done it.’

‘But you’re not sure they did?’

‘No. I’m just not satisfied with their stories.’

‘What about their motive?’

‘That I don’t know. The husband had one, clearly enough, but the girl didn’t share it. It’d have to be something we don’t know about.’

‘Money?’

‘I don’t think so. Caroline Hartley didn’t have much. It would have to be something more obscure than that.’

‘Perhaps she’s the kind who’d do anything for him, just to hang on to him.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Or they didn’t do it?’

‘Could be that, too.’

‘Or maybe you’re over-complicating things as usual?’

Banks grinned. ‘Maybe I am.’

‘So what now?’ Hatchley asked.

‘A quick visit, just to let them know we haven’t forgotten them.’

‘Me too?’

‘Yes.’

‘But they’ll recognize me. They’ll know me in future.’

‘It won’t do them any harm to know we’re keeping an eye on them. Come on, sup up.’

Grudgingly, Sergeant Hatchley drained his pint and stubbed out his cigar. ‘Still another ten minutes left in that,’ he complained.

‘Take it with you.’

‘Never mind.’

Hatchley followed Banks out into the sharp wind. Thin ice splintered as they made their way up the footpath to Ivers’s cottage, from which a welcoming plume of smoke curled and drifted west. Hatchley groaned and panted as they walked. Banks knocked. This time, Ivers himself answered the door.

‘Come in. Sit down. Sit down,’ he said. Hatchley took the bulky armchair by the mullioned window and Banks lowered himself into a wooden rocker by the fire. ‘Have you caught him?’ Ivers asked. ‘The man who killed Caroline?’

Banks shook his head. ‘Afraid not.’

Ivers frowned. ‘Oh… well. Patsy! Patsy! Some tea, if you’ve got a minute.’

Patsy Janowski came in from her study, glared at Banks’s right shoelace and went into the kitchen.

‘How do you think I can help you again?’ Ivers asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ Banks said. ‘First, I’d just like to go over one or two details.’

‘Shall we wait for Patsy with the tea?’

They waited. Banks passed the time talking music with Ivers, who was excited about the harmonic breakthroughs he had made over the past two days. Hatchley, hands folded in his lap, looked bored.

Finally, Patsy emerged with a tray and put it down on the table in front of the fire. She wore jeans with a plain white shirt, the top two buttons undone. Banks noticed Hatchley take a discreet look down the front as she bent to put the tray down. She didn’t seem pleased to see Banks, and if either of them recognized Sergeant Hatchley, they didn’t show it. This time, Patsy was surly and evasive and Ivers seemed open and helpful. Luckily, Banks had learned never to take anything at face value. When tea was poured, he began with the questions.

‘It’s the timing that’s important, you see,’ he opened. ‘Can you be any clearer about what time you delivered the Christmas present, Mr Ivers?’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t. Sometime around seven, I’m sure of that.’

‘And you stayed how long?’

‘No more than five minutes.’

‘That’s rather a long time, isn’t it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘People have funny ideas about time, about how short or long various periods are. I’d say five minutes was a bit long to spend with someone you didn’t like on an errand like that. Why not just hand over the present and leave?’

‘Maybe it wasn’t that long,’ Ivers said. ‘I just went in, handed it over, exchanged a few insincere pleasantries and left. Maybe two minutes, I don’t know.’

Banks sipped some tea, then lit a cigarette. Patsy, legs curled under her on the rug in front of the fire, passed him an ashtray from the hearth.

‘What pleasantries?’ he asked. ‘What did you say to each other?’

‘As I said before, I asked how she was, how Veronica was, made a remark about the weather. And she answered me politely. I handed over the record, told her it was something special for Veronica for Christmas, then I left. We’d at least reached a stage where we could behave in a civilized manner towards one another.’

‘You said it was something special?’

‘Something like that.’

‘How did she react?’

Ivers closed his eyes for a moment and frowned. ‘She didn’t, really. I mean, she didn’t say anything. She looked interested, though. Curious.’

‘That may be why she opened it, if she did,’ Banks said, almost to himself. ‘Did she seem at all strange to you? Did she say anything odd?’

Ivers shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Did she seem to be expecting someone?’

‘How would I know? She certainly didn’t say anything if she was.’

‘Was she on edge? Did she keep glancing towards the door? Did she give the impression she wanted you out of the way as soon as possible?’