“What’s going to happen to Tina now?” Mark asked.

Banks didn’t want to go into the gory details of the postmortem, so he just said, “We’ll be hanging on to her until we’ve got this sorted.”

“And after? I mean, there’ll be a funeral, won’t there?”

“Of course,” said Banks. “Don’t worry. Nobody’s going to abandon her.”

“Only once we were talking, like you do, and she said when she died she wanted ‘Stolen Car’ played at her funeral. Beth Orton. It was her favorite. She wanted to be a singer.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged. But that’s a while off yet. What are you going to do in the meantime?”

“Find somewhere to live, I suppose.”

“The social will help out. With your clothes and money and accommodation and all. Talking about that, have you got any money?”

“I’ve got about ten quid in my wallet. There was some money we’d saved on the boat, a couple of hundred. But that’s gone now, along with everything else. I’m not a sponger. I’ve got a job. I’m not afraid of hard work.”

Banks remembered what Annie had told him about her interview with Mandy Patterson, about Mark’s dreams. “Someone said you wanted to be a stonemason, do church-restoration work. Is that right?”

Mark looked away, embarrassed. “Well, I don’t have the qualifications, but I’d like to have a go. I just like old churches, that’s all. I’m not religious or anything, so I don’t know why. I just do. They’re beautiful buildings.”

“What about clothes?”

“The clothes you took are all I’ve got,” he said. “Everything else went up with the boat.”

“We’re about the same size,” said Banks. “I can let you have some old jeans and stuff till you get yourself sorted.”

“Thanks,” said Mark, looking down at the red low-cost suspect overalls he had been issued with. “Anything would be better than this.”

“Can you go home for a while? To your parents?”

Mark gave a sharp shake of his head. Again, Banks knew better than to pursue the subject, no matter how curious he was to know what made Mark react in such a frightened manner at the mention of his parents. Same as Tina, most likely. There was too much of it about, and most of it still didn’t get reported.

“What about mates? Someone from the building site, perhaps?”

“I suppose there’s Lenny.”

“Do you know his address?”

“No, but he’s in the George most lunchtimes. Besides, the people at the site know him.”

“Do you think he’d be willing to put you up for a couple of nights until you find a flat, get on your feet again?”

“Maybe. Look, don’t worry about me,” Mark said. “I’ll be all right. I’m used to taking care of myself. Can I go back to my cell now? I didn’t sleep, and I’m dog-tired.”

Banks glanced at his watch. “It’s lunchtime. I hear they do a decent burger and chips.”

Mark stood up. The two of them walked downstairs, where Banks handed Mark over to one of the constables on duty, who would escort him down to the basement custody facilities. Then Banks walked out into the market square and headed for the Queen’s Arms. He fancied a beef burger and chips, too, but he’d have to miss out on his usual lunchtime pint. He was going to Adel to talk to Tina’s parents, and he didn’t want the smell of beer on his breath when he spoke to Dr. Patrick Aspern.

After stopping off at home for a quick shower and a change of clothes, Banks headed down to Adel early that afternoon, listening to the same Beethoven string quartet that had been playing on the radio during his talk with Mark: number 12 in E flat.

The fog had thinned to a mere gauze, except in patches, so it wasn’t a difficult drive, and the temperature was heading toward double figures. One or two hardy souls were out playing on the golf course near Harrogate, dressed in sweaters and jeans.

Banks turned off the Leeds ring road onto Otley Road and stopped by the imposing gates of Lawnswood Crematorium to consult his map. A little farther along the main road, he turned right and drove into the affluent community of winding streets that was Adel.

He soon found the large detached corner house, which also doubled as the doctor’s surgery. This wasn’t going to be an easy job, Banks reflected as he got out of his car. Mark’s allegations against Patrick Aspern might be groundless, and Banks was there to tell the parents that their daughter was dead and ask them to identify the body, not to interrogate the stepfather over sexual abuse. That might come later, though, Banks knew, so he would have to be alert for anything out of the ordinary in Aspern’s reactions to his questions.

Banks took a deep breath and pushed the doorbell. The woman who answered looked younger than he expected. About Annie’s age, early thirties, with short layered blond hair, pale, flawless skin and a nervous, elfin look about her. “Mrs. Aspern?” he asked.

The woman nodded, looking puzzled, and put her hand to her cheek.

“It’s about your daughter, Tina. I’m a policeman. May I come in for a moment?”

“Christine?” Mrs. Aspern fingered the loose neck of her cable-knit sweater. “She doesn’t live here anymore. What is it?”

“If I might come in, please?”

She stood aside and Banks stepped onto the highly polished hardwood floor. “First on the right,” said Mrs. Aspern.

He followed her direction and found himself in a small sitting room with a dark blue three-piece suite and cream walls. A couple of framed paintings hung there, one over the decorative, but functional, stone fireplace, and the other on the opposite wall. Both were landscapes in simple black frames.

“Is your husband home?” Banks asked.

“Patrick? He’s taking afternoon surgery.”

“Can you fetch him for me, please?”

“Fetch him?” She looked alarmed. “But… the patients.”

“I want to talk to you both together. It’s important,” Banks said.

Shaking her head, Mrs. Aspern left the room. Banks took the opportunity to stand up and examine the two paintings more closely. Both were watercolors painted in misty morning light, by the looks of them. One showed the church of St. John the Baptist, just down the street, which Banks happened to have visited once with his ex-wife Sandra during his early days in Yorkshire. He knew it was the oldest Norman church in Leeds, built around the middle of the twelfth century. Sandra had taken some striking photographs. A plain building, it was most famous for the elaborate stone carvings on the porch and chancel arch, at which the painting merely hinted.

The other painting was a woodland scene, which Banks assumed to be Adel Woods, again with that wispy, fey early-morning light about it, making the glade look like the magical forest of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The signature “Keith Peverell” was clear enough on both. No connection to “Tom” there, not that he had expected any.

Mrs. Aspern returned some minutes later, along with her clearly perturbed husband. “Look,” he said, before any introductions had been made. “I can’t just leave my patients in the lurch like this. Can’t you come back at five o’clock?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Banks, offering his warrant card.

Aspern scrutinized it, and a small, unpleasant smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He glanced at his wife. “Why didn’t you say, darling? A detective chief inspector, no less,” he said. “Well, it must be important if they sent the organ grinder. Please, sit down.”

Banks sat. Now that Aspern was pleased he’d been sent someone he thought commensurate with his social standing, though probably a chief constable would have been preferable, the patients were quickly forgotten. Things were likely to go a bit more easily. If Banks let them.

Aspern was a good fifteen years or so older than his wife, Banks guessed. Around fifty, with thinning sandy hair, he was handsome in a sharp-angled way, though Banks was put off by the cynical look in his eyes and the lips perpetually on the verge of that nasty little superior smile. He had the slim, athletic figure of a man who plays tennis and golf and goes to the gym regularly. Being a doctor, of course, he’d know all about the benefits of exercise, though Banks knew more than one or two doctors, the Home Office pathologist Dr. Glendenning among them, who smoked and drank and didn’t give a damn about fitness.