"Yes, it does," Harriet agreed. "Like a vision. Ooh, look how the colors are shining on us!"

"Vision indeed," Norman sneered, walking over from the northwest window. "A right lot of romantics, you are." And he joined them as they took it in turns to capture the stained glass on film.

Friday brought a lull in affairs at the Eastvale station. Nothing had come of the previous evening's pub surveillance, and Richmond said that he'd shown the artist's impression of their one suspect in the robberies to some of the lads on the beat, but nobody had recognized him. After sending the detective constable to the Town Hall to check on the statistics of young men living alone or with single parents, Banks found himself with little to do. No Dorothy Wycombe marched in to liven up the day; no Jenny Fuller; nothing.

He had plenty of time to think, though, and spent the rest of the morning puzzling over the three cases, whose outlines had become blurred in his mind. There was a Peeping Tom in Eastvale, that was clear enough. Also, two young thugs had robbed defenseless old women. But had any of them killed Alice Matlock?

On the evidence so far, it looked like it: she had been old and alone, her home had been left in a shambles, and money and silverware had been stolen. It was certainly possible that she had tried to struggle with them and had fallen or been pushed backwards, catching the back of her head on the sharp corner of the table.

There was still room for doubt, though, and Banks found himself wondering if it could have happened some other way for some other reason. He had ruled out the peeper after what Jenny had said, so the next step was to try and discover if anyone had a motive for getting rid of Alice Matlock, or at least for engaging in such a violent confrontation with her.

According to Sergeant Hatchley, Ethel Carstairs had said that Alice had kept herself to herself over the past few years, and that she had not been the type to take-in strays or befriend strangers. If the two young tearaways were not responsible for her death, then who was, and why?

Unfortunately, the slow afternoon allowed Banks more time than he would have liked to reflect on the events of the previous evening. Sandra had been asleep when he got home, so he was spared a telling off, but she had been very frosty in the morning, reminding him that they had arranged to go out that evening with Harriet Slade and her husband, who had already booked a sitter, and that he'd promised to take the kids up to Castle Hill on Saturday morning. It was her way of hinting that he wasn't spending enough time with his nearest and dearest, whatever else he might be up to.

Though he certainly felt pangs of guilt, he hadn't really been up to anything much at all.

His first move, after Jenny had led him into her front room, had been to remark on the expensive stereo system and the lack of a television.

"I used to have one," she said, heading for the kitchen, "but I gave it to a colleague. Without it I get much more done-reading, listening to music, going out, seeing films. When I had it I was terribly lazy; I always take the line of least resistance."

"It doesn't look much like a professor's living room," Banks shouted through. There were only a couple of recent psychology journals and a folder of notes on the table.

"The study's upstairs," she yelled back. "I do work hard, honestly, Inspector. Milk and sugar?"

"No, thanks."

Banks squinted at the framed print on the wall. It showed an enormous dark mountain, more steep than broad, completely dominating a small village in the foreground.

"Who did this?" he asked Jenny when she came into the room carrying two mugs of coffee..

"That? It's an Emily Carr."

"I've never heard of her," said Banks, who had gained a basic knowledge of art through Sandra.

"That's not surprising; she's a Canadian. I spent three years doing postgraduate work in Vancouver. She's a West Coast artist, did a lot of totem poles and forest scenes. Oddly enough, I saw that painting in a gallery at Kleinburg, near Toronto. I fell in love with it right away. Everything looks alive, don't you think?"

"Yes, in a dark, creepy kind of way. But I'm not sure it would pass my simple test for paintings."

"Don't tell me!" she said, imitating a Yorkshire accent." 'Ah don't know much about art bu'rah knows whar'ah likes.' Not bad for a Leicester girl, eh?"

Banks laughed. "Better than I could do. Anyway, that's not my test. I just ask myself if I could live with it on my living room wall."

"And you couldn't?"

"No. Not that."

"What could you live with? It sounds like a very hard test."

Banks thought back over some of the paintings Sandra had introduced him to. "Modigliani's Reclining Nude, maybe Chagall's / and the Village. Monet's Water-lilies."

"Good lord, you'd need an entire room for that one."

"Yes, but it would be worth it."

With the coffees, Jenny also poured out generous measures of cognac, giving Banks no time to refuse, then she put some music on the cassette deck and sat down beside him.

"This is good music," he said. "What is it?"

"Bruch's violin concerto."

"Mmm, I've never heard it before. Are you a classical music buff?"

"Oh, no. I mean, I enjoy classical, but I like a bit of everything, really. I like jazz-Miles Davis and Monk. I still love some of the old sixties stuff-Beatles, Dylan, Stones-but my old copies are a bit scratched up by now."

"For a psychology teacher you seem to know a lot about the arts."

"English was my second subject, and my father was a bit of an amateur artist. Even now I seem to spend more time with the arts faculty than the sciences. Most psychologists are so boring."

"Do you like opera?"

"That's one thing I don't know very well. My sister took me to an Opera North performance of La Traviata once, years ago, but I'm afraid I don't remember much about it."

"Try some. I'll lend you a couple of tapes. Tosca, that's a good one."

"What's it about?"

"An evil chief of police who tries to coerce a singer into sleeping with him by threatening to have her lover killed."

"That sounds cheerful," Jenny said; then she shivered. "Someone just walked over my grave."

"The music's good. Some fine arias."

"All right. Here's to opera," said Jenny, smiling and clinking glasses. "Do you think we did a good evening's work?"

"Yes, I think so. We didn't expect miracles. That's not why we brought you in."

"Charming! I know why you brought me in."

"I mean why we brought a psychologist in."

"Yes. I know that, too."

"Why?"

"You were all afraid that this was going to spiral into a rash of rapes and sex murders, and you wanted to check on the evidence."

"Partly true. And given that, we also wanted to make damn sure we had a better chance of stopping him before he went too far."

"Are you any closer?"

"That remains to be seen."

As they sat in silence, Banks could feel his heart beating faster and his throat constricting. He knew he shouldn't be there, knew there could only be one interpretation of his accepting the offer of coffee, and he was nervous about what to do. The music flowed around them and the tension grew so strong it made the muscles in his jaw ache. Jenny stirred and her scent wafted toward him. It was too subtle to be called a perfume; it was the kind of fresh and happy smell that took him back to carefree childhood trips to the country.

"Look," Banks finally blurted out, putting down his coffee and facing Jenny, "I'm sorry if I've given you the impression that… the wrong impression… but I'm married." Then, having confessed in what he felt to be as graceless a manner as possible, he started to apologize and rephrase, but Jenny cut in, "I know that, you fool. You think a psychologist can't spot a married man a mile off?"