“Look at that tan,” Annie said when he sat down again, her laugh lines crinkling. “It’s all right for some.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage a week in Blackpool before summer’s over,” said Banks.

“Dancing to the Wurlitzer in the Tower Ballroom? Donkey rides on the beach in the rain? Candy floss on the prom and a kiss-me-quick hat? I can hardly wait.” She leaned over and patted his arm. “It is good to see you again, Alan.”

“You, too.”

“So come on, then. Tell. How was Greece?”

“Magnificent. Magical. Paradisiacal.”

“Then what the bloody hell are you doing back in Yorkshire? You were hardly forthcoming on the phone.”

“Years of practice.”

Annie leaned back in her chair and stretched out her legs the way she did, crossing them at the slender ankles, where the thin gold chain hung, sipped some beer and almost purred. Banks had never met anyone else who could look so comfortable and at home in a hard chair.

“Anyway,” she said, “you’re looking well. Less stressed. Even half a holiday seems to have had some effect.”

Banks considered for a moment and decided that he did feel much better than he had when he had left. “It helped put things in perspective,” he said. “And you?”

“Swimmingly. Thriving. The job’s going well. I’m getting back into yoga and meditation. And I’ve been doing some painting again.”

“I kept you away from all that?”

Annie laughed. “Well, it’s not as if you twisted my arm, but when you’ve got as little time as people in our line of work have, then something has to go by the wayside.”

Banks was about to make a sarcastic reference to that something being him this time, but he bit his tongue. He wouldn’t have done that two weeks ago. The holiday really must have done him good. “Well,” he said, “I’m glad you’re happy. I mean it, Annie.”

Annie touched his hand. “I know you do. Now what brings you back here in such a hurry? I hope it’s not serious.”

“It is, in a way.” Banks lit a cigarette and went on to explain about the discovery of Graham Marshall’s bones.

Annie listened, frowning. When Banks had finished, she said, “I can understand why you’re concerned, but what can you do?”

“I don’t know,” Banks said. “Maybe nothing. If I were the local police, I wouldn’t want me sticking my nose in, but when I heard, I just felt… I don’t know. It was a big part of my adolescence, Annie, Graham just disappearing like that, and I suppose it’s a big part of me now, always has been. I can’t explain, but there it is. I told you about the man by the river, the one who tried to push me in?”

“Yes.”

“If it was him, then maybe I can help them find him, if he’s still alive. I can remember what he looked like. Odds are there could be a photo on file.”

“And if it wasn’t him? Is that it? Is this the guilt you talked about before?”

“Partly,” said Banks. “I should have spoken up. But it’s more than that. Even if it’s nothing to do with the man by the river, someone killed Graham and buried his body. Maybe I can remember something, maybe there was something I missed at the time, being just a kid myself. If I can cast my mind back… Another?”

Annie looked at her glass. Half full. And she was driving. “No,” she said. “Not for me.”

“Don’t worry,” said Banks, catching her anxious glance as he went to the bar. “This’ll be my last for the evening.”

“So when are you going down there?” Annie asked when he came back.

“First thing tomorrow morning.”

“And you’re going to do what, exactly? Present yourself at the local nick and offer to help them solve their case?”

“Something like that. I haven’t thought it out yet. It’ll hardly be high priority with the locals. Anyway, surely they’ll be interested in someone who was around at the time? They interviewed me back then, you know. I remember it clearly.”

“Well, you said yourself they won’t exactly welcome you with open arms, not if you go as a copper trying to tell them how to do their jobs.”

“I’ll practice humility.”

Annie laughed. “You’d better be careful,” she said. “They might have you down as a suspect.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Anyway, it’s a pity you’re not sticking around. We might be able to use your help up here.”

“Oh? What’s on?”

“Missing kid.”

“Another?”

“This one disappeared a bit more recently than your friend Graham.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Does it matter?”

“You know it does, Annie. Far more girls are abducted, raped and killed than boys.”

“A boy.”

“How old?”

“Fifteen.”

That was almost Graham’s age when he disappeared, Banks thought. “Then the odds are good he’ll turn up none the worse for wear,” he said, though Graham hadn’t.

“That’s what I told the parents.”

Banks sipped his beer. There were some compensations to being back in Yorkshire, he thought, looking around the quiet, cozy pub, hearing the rain patter on the windows, tasting the Black Sheep and watching Annie shift in her chair as she tried to phrase her concerns.

“He’s an odd kid,” she said. “Bit of a loner. Writes poetry. Doesn’t like sports. His room is painted black.”

“What were the circumstances?”

Annie told him. “And there’s another thing.”

“What?”

“He’s Luke Armitage.”

“Robin’s boy? Neil Byrd’s son?”

“Martin Armitage’s stepson. Do you know him?”

“Martin Armitage? Hardly. Saw him play once or twice, though. I must say I thought he was overrated. But I’ve got a couple of CDs by Neil Byrd. They did a compilation three or four years ago, and they’ve just brought out a collection of outtakes and live performances. He really was very good, you know. Did you meet the supermodel?”

“Robin? Yes.”

“Quite the looker, as I remember.”

“Still is,” said Annie, scowling. “If you like that sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?”

“Oh, you know… skinny, flawless, beautiful.”

Banks grinned. “So what’s the problem?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just me. He’ll probably turn up safe and sound.”

“But you’re worried?”

“Just a teeny bit.”

“Kidnapping?”

“It crossed my mind, but there’s been no ransom demand yet. We searched the house, of course, just in case, but there was no sign he’d been back home.”

“We did talk to the Armitages about security when they first moved to Swainsdale Hall, you know,” Banks said. “They installed the usual burglar alarms and such, but beyond that they said they just wanted to live a normal life. Nothing much we could do.”

“I suppose not,” Annie agreed. She brought out her notebook and showed Banks the French words she had copied down from Luke’s wall. “Make any sense of this? It’s awfully familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

Banks frowned as he peered at the text. It looked familiar to him, too, but he couldn’t place it, either. Le Poëte se fait voyant par un long, immense et raisonné dérèglement de tous les sens. He tried to decipher it word by word, reaching far back into his memory for his grammar school French. Hard to believe now that he had been quite good at it at one time, even got a grade two in his O-Levels. Then he remembered. “It’s Rimbaud, I think. The French poet. Something about the total disordering of all the senses.”

“Of course!” said Annie. “I could kick myself. Robin Armitage told me Luke was into Rimbaud, Baudelaire and Verlaine and all that stuff. What about these?” She named the subjects of Luke’s posters. “I mean, I’ve heard of some of them, Nick Drake, for example, and I know Kurt Cobain was in Nirvana and killed himself, but what about the others?”

Banks frowned. “They’re all singers. Ian Curtis used to sing with Joy Division. Jeff Buckley was Tim Buckley’s son.”

“Used to? Was? There’s an ominous past tense to all this, isn’t there?”

“Oh, yes,” said Banks. “They all either committed suicide or died under mysterious circumstances.”