“Yes,” said Banks. “I did.” He started the Tim Buckley CD again. It was “Song to the Siren,” which always sent shivers up his spine. “How’s the CD going?” he asked.

“Haven’t bloody started it yet, have we? Our manager’s still haggling over the contracts. Hence that crappy pile of junk you saw outside.”

“I was expecting a Jag or a red sports car.”

“Soon, Dad. Soon. By the way, we’ve changed our name.”

“Why?”

“The manager thought Jimson Weed was a bit too sixties.”

“He’s right.”

“Yeah, well, we’re The Blue Lamps now.”

“The police.”

“No, that’s another band. The Blue Lamps.”

“I was thinking of Dixon of Dock Green.”

“Come again?”

“The Blue Lamp. It was a film. Fifties. It’s where George Dixon made his debut before it became a TV series. A blue lamp used to be the sign of a police station. Still is in some places. I’m not sure you want to be going around associating yourself with that.”

“The stuff you know. Anyway, our manager thinks it’s okay, more modern – you know, White Stripes, Blue Lamps – but I’ll tell him what you said. Our sound’s hardened up a bit too, got a bit more grungy and less slick. I get to play some real down and dirty guitar solos. You must come and hear us again. We’ve come a long way since that last gig you were at.”

“I’d love to, but I thought you sounded just fine then.”

“Thanks.”

“I saw your grandparents the other day.”

“Yeah? How are they?”

“Same as ever. You should visit them more often.”

“Oh, you know how it is.”

“No. I don’t know.”

“They don’t like me, Dad. Not since I screwed up my degree and joined the band. Whenever I see them, it’s always ‘Tracy’s doing this and Tracy’s doing that.’ They don’t care how well I do.”

“You know that’s not true,” said Banks, who suspected it probably was. After all, weren’t they the same way with him? It was all Roy, Roy, Roy, no matter what Banks achieved. He’d had a hard enough time reconciling himself to his son’s chosen career, just the same way his mother and father had with him. The only difference was that he had come to terms with Brian’s choice, whereas his own parents hadn’t even come to terms with his career, let alone their grandson’s. “Anyway, I’m sure they’d love to see you.”

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll try to go and see them when I’ve got time.”

“How’s your mother?”

“Fine, I suppose.”

“Seen her lately?”

“Not for a few weeks.”

“How’s she doing with the… you know… It must be due soon.”

“Yeah, I guess so. Look, Dad, is there anything to eat? I haven’t had any dinner yet, and I’m starving.”

Banks thought. He’d eaten a prawn sandwich earlier in the Queen’s Arms and wasn’t particularly hungry. He knew there was nothing substantial in the fridge or the freezer. He looked at his watch. “There’s a Chinese take-away down in Helmthorpe. They should still be open, if you like.”

“Cool,” said Brian, finishing off his lager. “What are we waiting for?”

Banks sighed and reached for his jacket again. So much for quality time.

Michelle could have walked to Rivergate, it wasn’t that far, but it also wasn’t a particularly pleasant walk, and the rain was still pouring down, so she decided to treat herself to a taxi from the station.

The first inkling she got that something was wrong in the flat was when she heard the creaking door of her Mystery screen-saver and saw the lights going on and off in the creepy-looking mansion as the full moon slowly crossed the starlit sky. She knew she had turned her computer off after she’d checked her e-mail that morning. She always did; she was compulsive about it. Also, someone had pulled some of the books out of one of the boxes that she hadn’t got around to unpacking. They weren’t damaged or anything, just piled up on the floor beside the box.

Michelle jogged the mouse and the computer returned to its regular display. Only it was open at Michelle’s file of notes about the Marshall case, and she knew she hadn’t opened that since the previous night. There was nothing secret about her speculations, nothing she had thought would even interest anyone else, so she hadn’t bothered with password protection. In the future, she would know better.

With the hairs prickling at the back of her neck, Michelle stood still and strained her ears for any odd sounds in the flat. Nothing except the clock ticking and the humming of the refrigerator. She took her old side-handled baton from her uniform days out of the closet by the door. Gripping that made her feel a little more courageous as she went to explore the rest of the flat.

The kitchen light was on, and a couple of items that she knew she had put back in the fridge that morning – milk, butter, eggs – lay on the countertop. The butter had melted into a shapeless lump and it oozed over her fingers when she picked it up.

Her bathroom cabinet stood open, and the various pills and potions she kept there were not in their usual order. Her bottle of aspirin sat on the edge of the sink, top off and cotton wool missing. Even as the chills went up her spine, Michelle wondered what the hell all this was about. If someone had searched the place, though she couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to, then why not just leave it in a mess? Clearly, whoever had done this had done it to scare her – and they were succeeding.

She went into the bedroom cautiously, gripping the side-handled baton more tightly, expecting the worst. Nobody jumped out of the wardrobe at her, but what she saw there made her drop her baton and put her hands to her mouth.

There was no mess. Perhaps some of her drawers weren’t completely closed, the way she had left them, but there was no mess. It was much, much worse.

Spread out neatly at the center of the bed lay Melissa’s dress. When Michelle reached out to pick it up, she found it had been cut cleanly into two halves.

Michelle staggered back against the wall, half the dress clutched to her chest, hardly able to believe what was happening. As she did so, her eye caught the writing on the dressing-table mirror: FORGET GRAHAM MARSHALL, BITCH. REMEMBER MELISSA. YOU COULD JOIN HER.

Michelle cried out, covered her face with the dress and slid down the wall to the floor.

Norman Wells sat in the interview room with his folded arms resting on the top of his paunch and his lips pressed tight together. If he was scared, he wasn’t showing it. But then, he didn’t know how much the police already knew about him.

Banks and Annie sat opposite him, files spread out in front of them. Banks felt well-rested after a day off. He had stayed up late Saturday night eating Chinese food and talking with Brian, but on Sunday, after Brian left, he had done nothing but read the papers, go for a walk from Helmthorpe to Rawley Force and back by himself, stopping for a pub lunch and fiddling with the Sunday Times crossword. In the evening, he had thought of ringing Michelle Hart in Peterborough but decided against it. They hadn’t parted on the best of terms, so let her contact him first, if she wanted to. After a small Laphroaig and a cigarette outside, enjoying the mild evening air around sunset, he had listened to Ian Bostridge’s English Song Book CD, gone to bed before half past ten, and slept as soundly as he could remember in a long time.

“Norman,” said Banks. “You don’t mind if I call you Norman, do you?”

“It’s my name.”

“Detective Inspector Cabbot here has been doing a bit of digging around in your background, and it turns out you’ve been a naughty boy, haven’t you?”

Wells said nothing. Annie pushed a file toward Banks, and he opened it. “You used to be a schoolteacher, am I right?”