It was a dull journey down the Al to Leeds, and Banks cursed himself for not taking the quieter, more picturesque minor roads through Ripon and Harrogate, or even further west, via Grassington, Skipton and Ilkley. There always seemed to be hundreds of ways of getting from A to B in the Dales, none of them direct, but the Al was usually the fastest route to Leeds, unless the farmer just north of Wetherby exercised his privilege and switched on the red light while he led his cows across the motorway.

As if the rain weren't bad enough, there was also the muddy spray from the juggernauts in front-transcontinentals, most of them, traveling from Newcastle or Edinburgh to Lille, Rotterdam, Milan or Barcelona. Still, it was cozy inside the car, and he had Rigoletto for company…

At the Wetherby roundabout, Banks turned onto the A58, leaving most of the lorries behind, and drove by Collingham, Bardsey and Scarcroft into Leeds itself. He carried on through Roundhay and Harehills, and arrived in Chapeltown halfway through " La Donna e Mobile."

It was a desolate area and looked even more so swept by dirty rain under the leaden sky. Amid the heaps of red-brick rubble, a few old houses clung on like obstinate teeth in an empty, rotten mouth; grim shadows in raincoats pushed prams and shopping-carts along the pavements as if they were looking for shops and homes they couldn't find. It was Chapeltown Road, "Ripper" territory, host of the '81 race riots.

Crutchley's shop had barred windows and stood next to a boarded-up grocer's with a faded sign. The paintwork was peeling and a layer of dust covered the objects in the window: valves from old radios; a clarinet resting on the torn red velvet of its case; a guitar with four strings; a sheathed bayonet with a black swastika inlaid in its handle; chipped plates with views of Weymouth and Lyme Regis painted on them; a bicycle pump; a scattering of beads and cheap rings.

The door jerked open after initial resistance, and a bell pinged loudly as Banks walked in. The smell of the place-a mixture of mildew, furniture polish and rotten eggs-was overwhelming. Out of the back came a round-shouldered, shifty-looking man wearing a threadbare sweater and woollen gloves with the fingers cut off. He eyed Banks suspiciously, and his "Can I help you?" sounded more like a "Must I help you?"

"Mr. Crutchley?" Banks showed his identification and mentioned Inspector Barnshaw, who had first put him onto the lead. Crutchley was immediately transformed from Mr. Krook into Uriah Heep.

"Anything I can do, sir, anything at all," he whined, rubbing his hands together. "I try to run an honest shop here, but," he shrugged, "you know, it's difficult. I can't check on everything people bring in, can I?"

"Of course not," Banks agreed amiably, brushing off a layer of dust and leaning carefully against the dirty counter. "Inspector Barnshaw told me he's thinking of letting it go by this time. He asked for my advice. We know how hard it is in a business like yours. He did say that you might be able to help me, though."

"Of course, sir. Anything at all."

"We think that the jewelry the constable saw in your window was stolen from an old lady in Eastvale. You could help us, and help yourself, if you can give me a description of the man who brought it in."

Crutchley screwed up his face in concentration-not a pretty sight, Banks thought, looking away at the stuffed birds, elephant-foot umbrella stands, sentimental Victorian prints and other junk. "My memory's not as good as it used to be, sir. I'm not getting any younger."

"Of course not. None of us are, are we?" Banks smiled. "Inspector Barnshaw said he thought it would be a crying shame if you had to do time for this, what with it not being your fault, and at your age."

Crutchley darted Banks a sharp, mean glance and continued to probe his ailing memory.

"He was quite young," he said after a few moments. "I remember that for sure."

"How young, would you say?" Banks asked, taking out his notebook. "Twenty, thirty?"

"Early twenties, I'd guess. Had a little mustache." He gestured to his upper lip, which was covered with about four days' stubble. "A thin one, just down to the edge of the mouth at each side. Like this," he added, tracing the outline with a grubby finger.

"Good," Banks said, encouraging him. "What about his hair? Black, red, brown, fair? Long, short?"

"Sort of medium. I mean, you wouldn't really call it brown, but it wasn't what I'd call fair, either. Know what I mean?"

Banks shook his head.

"P'raps you'd call it light brown. Very light brown."

"Was the mustache the same?"

He nodded. "Yes, very faint."

"And how long was his hair?"

"That I remember. It was short, and combed-back, like." He made a brushing gesture with his hand over his own sparse crop.

"Any scars, moles?"

Crutchley shook his head.

"Nothing unusual about his complexion?"

"A bit pasty-faced and spotty, that's all. But they all are, these days, Inspector. It's the food. No goodness in it, all-"

"How tall would you say he was?" Banks cut in.

"Bigger than me. Oh, about…" He put his hand about four inches above the top of his head. "Of course, I'm not so big myself."

"That would make him about five-foot-ten, then?"

"About that. Medium, yes."

"Fat or thin?"

"Skinny. Well, they all are these days, aren't they? Not properly fed, that's the problem."

"Clothes?"

"Ordinary."

"Can you be a bit more specific?"

"Eh?"

"Was he wearing a suit, jeans, leather jacket, T-shirt, pajamas-what?"

"Oh. No, it wasn't leather. It was that other stuff, bit like it only not as smooth. Brown. Roughish. 'Orrible to touch-fair makes your fingers shiver."

"Suede?"

"That's it. Suede. A brown suede jacket and jeans. Just ordinary blue jeans."

"And his shirt?"

"Don't remember. I think he kept his jacket zipped up."

"Do you remember anything about his voice, any mannerisms?"

"Come again?"

"Where would you place his accent?"

"Local, like. Or maybe Lancashire. I can't tell the difference, though there are some as says they can."

"Nothing odd about it? High-pitched, deep, husky?"

"Sounded like he smoked too much, I can remember that. And he did smoke, too. Coughed every time he lit one up. Really stank up the shop."

Banks passed on that one. "So he had a smoker's cough and a rough voice with a local accent, that right?"

"That's right, sir." Crutchley was shifting from foot to foot, clearly looking forward to the moment when Banks would thank him and leave.

"Was his voice deep or high?"

"Kind of medium, if you know what I mean."

"Like mine?"

"Yes, like yours, sir. But not the accent. You speak proper, you do. He didn't."

"What do you mean he didn't speak properly? Did he have some kind of speech impediment?" Banks could see Crutchley mentally kicking himself for being so unwisely unctuous as to prolong the interview.

"No, nothing like that. I just meant like ordinary folks, sir, not like you. Like someone who hadn't been properly educated."

"He didn't stutter or lisp, did he?"

"No, sir."

"Fine. One last question: had you ever seen him before?"

"No, sir."

"Inspector Barnshaw will want you to look at some photos later today, and he's going to ask you to repeat your description to a police artist. So do your best, keep him in focus. And if you see him again or think of anything else, I'd appreciate your getting in touch with me." Banks wrote down his name and number on a card.

"I'll call you, sir, I'll do that, if I ever clap eyes on him again," Crutchley gushed, and Banks got the distinct impression that his own methods appealed more than Barnshaw's.