"I don't know."

"What if the law said that anyone caught stealing a loaf of bread should lose his or her hand? Would you actively go looking for people stealing bread?"

"I think that, in that kind of society, I wouldn't be a policeman."

"Oh, what an evasive answer!"

Banks shrugged. "What can I say? At least its an honest one."

"All right, what about the drug laws? What about students smoking pot?"

"What are you asking me?"

"Do you pester them? Do you think people should be prosecuted for smoking pot?"

"As long as it's against the law, yes. If you want to know whether I agree with every law in the country, the answer's no. There's a certain amount of discretion allowed in the enforcement, you know. We don't tend to bother students smoking pot so much these days, but we are interested in people bringing heroin up from London or the Midlands."

"Why shouldn't a person take heroin if he or she wants to? It doesn't hurt anyone else."

"I could well ask why shouldn't a man go around watching women get undressed. That doesn't hurt anyone, either."

"It's not the same thing and you know it. Besides, the woman is hurt. She's shocked, degraded."

"Only the ones who know."

"What?"

"Think of it this way. So far, four incidents have been reported. How many do you think have gone unnoticed? How many times has he got away with it?"

"I never really thought of that," Jenny admitted. "And by the way, I'm not going to forget our discussion of a few moments ago, before you so cleverly sidetracked me back to work." She smiled sharply at him as he went off to buy two more drinks.

"I suppose," she said when Banks returned, "that he could actually do it every night, though I doubt it."

"Why?"

"Most sexual activities, normal or perverted, require a kind of gestation period between acts. It varies. The pressure builds again and there's only one way to relieve it."

"I see. Would once or twice a week be too much?"

"For who? You or me?"

"Don't distract me. For our man."

"No. I'd say once a week might do him fine, two at the most." She broke into a fit of laughter and covered her mouth with her hand. "Sorry. I get a bit gigglish sometimes. I think you must make me nervous."

"It comes with the job. Though I sometimes wonder which came first. A chicken or egg thing. Do I make people nervous because I've learned to do it unconsciously through dealing with so many criminals, or was I like that in the first place? Is that why the job suited me?"

"Well?"

"I didn't say I knew the answer, only that I wonder sometimes. Don't worry, when you get to know me better it won't bother you."

"A promise?"

"Let's get back to business."

"All right." Jenny wiped her eyes, full of tears of laughter, sat up straight and once again broke into a laughing fit. Banks watched her, smiling, and soon the others in the pub were looking. Jenny was turning as red as her hair, which was shaking like the fire in the grate. "Oh, I'm sorry, I really am," she said. "Whenever I get like this it's so hard to stop. You must think I'm a real idiot."

"Not at all," Banks said dryly. "I appreciate a person with a sense of humor."

"I think it's better now," she said, sipping cautiously at her half of bitter. "It's just all those double entendres.

Oops," she said, putting her hand to her chest. "Now I've got hiccups!"

"Drink a glass of water in an inverted position," Banks told her. "Best cure for hiccups I've ever known."

Jenny frowned at him. "Standing on my head?"

"No, not like that." Banks was just about to demonstrate to her, using his pint glass, when he sensed a shadow over the table and heard a polite cough. It was Fred Rowe, the station desk-sergeant.

"Pardon me for bothering you, sir," Rowe said quietly, pulling up a chair, "but there's been some trouble."

"Go on," Banks said, putting down his glass.

"It's an old woman, sir, she's been found dead."

"Cause?"

"We can't say yet, sir, but it looks suspicious. The friend who reported it said the place had been robbed."

"All right. Thanks, Fred. I'll get right over. Address?"

"Number two, Gallows View. That's down by-"

"Yes, I know it. Look, get onto Sergeant Hatchley. He'll be in The Oak. And get Dr. Glendenning and the photographer out there, and as many of the Scene-of-Crime boys as you can rustle up. Better get DC Richmond along too. Does the super know?"

"Yes, sir."

"Fine. Tell him I'm on my way, then."

Sergeant Rowe returned to the station and Banks stood up to leave, making his apologies to Jenny. Then he remembered that Sandra had taken the Cortina.

"Dammit," he cursed, "I'll have to go over and sign out a car."

"Can't I drive you?" Jenny offered. "I know where Gallows View is."

"Would you?"

"Of course. You're probably over the limit, anyway. I've only been drinking halves."

"You'll have to keep out of the way, stay in the car."

"I understand."

"Right, then, let's go."

"Yes, sir," Jenny said, saluting him.

It had stopped raining only an hour earlier, and the air was still damp and chilly. Trevor held his jacket collar tight around his neck as he set off across The Green thinking over what Mick had said. Past the Georgian semis, he crossed the fourteenth-century bridge and spat in the water that cascaded over the terraced falls. Then he strode through the riverside gardens, and took the road that curved around Castle Hill to the market square.

Sometimes Mick scared him. Not his physical presence, but his stupidity. There would be no increased percentage from Lenny, Trevor was certain, because Mick wouldn't even dare ask him. Trevor would. He wasn't frightened of Lenny, gun or no gun. The gun didn't really interest him at all; it seemed more like a silly toy for Mick to show off about.

It was the pills, most likely. Them and natural stupidity. Trevor was sick of seeing Mick sweating and ranting on, hopping from one foot to the other as if he wanted to piss all the time. It was pathetic. He hadn't tried them himself, though he thought he might one day. After all, he wasn't Mick; they wouldn't affect him the same way.

He hadn't tried sex either. Mick kept boasting about having it off with some scrubber up against an alley wall, but Trevor was unimpressed. Even if it was true, it wasn't the kind of fun he was interested in. He would do it all: drugs, sex, whatever. All in his own sweet time. And he would know when the time was right.

As for the new idea, it made sense. Old people seemed to have nothing worth much these days. Probably had to pawn all their old keepsakes just to keep them in pabulum. Trevor laughed at the image. The first time it had been fun, a change from dipping, or mugging the odd tourist-"Just doing my bit for the Tourist Board, your honor, trying to make the New Yorkers feel at home"-it was exciting being able to do whatever you wanted in somebody else's house, break stuff, and them too feeble to do a thing about it. Not that Trevor was a bully; he would never touch the old women (more out of disgust than kindness, though). That was Mick's specialty-Mick was a bully.

This would be something different. The old folks' houses all smelled of the past: lavender water, Vicks chest rub, commodes, old dead skin. This time they would be in the classy homes, places with VCRs, fancy music centers, dishwashers, freezers full of whole cows. They could take their time, enjoy it, maybe even do some real damage. After all, they wouldn't be able to carry everything away. Best stick to the portables: cash, jewelry, silver, gold. He could just imagine Mick and Lenny being stupid enough to try and sell stolen color tellys and videos at Eastvale market. These days everyone wrote their bloody names and zip codes on everything from microwaves to washing-machines with those ultraviolet pens, and the cops could read them under special lights. He hoped Mick was right about burglar alarms, too. It seemed that people were becoming very security-conscious these days.