“Did she usually do that?”

“Alison’s a sweet child, but she’s a real loner, very secretive. Takes after her father. She’s a bit of a bookworm, too.”

“What did you talk about that evening?”

“Oh, I can’t remember. The usual stuff. Politics. Europe. The economy. Holiday plans.”

“Who else was there?”

“Just us, this time.”

“And Mr. Rothwell said nothing that caused you any concern?”

“No. He was quiet.”

“Unusually so?”

“He was usually quiet.”

“Secretive?”

Pratt swivelled his chair and gazed out of the window at the upper story of the Victorian community center. Susan followed his gaze. She was surprised to see a number of gargoyles there she had never noticed before.

When he spoke again, Pratt still didn’t look at Susan. She could see him only in profile. “I’ve always felt that about him, yes,” he said. “That’s why I hesitated to call him a close friend. There was always something in reserve.” He turned to face Susan again and placed his hands, palms down, on the desk. “Oh, years ago we’d let loose once in a while, go get blind drunk and not give a damn. Sometimes we’d go fishing together. But over time, Keith sort of reined himself in, cut himself off. I don’t really know how to explain this. It was just a feeling. Keith was a very private person… well, lots of people are… But the thing was, I had no idea what he lived for.”

“Did he suffer from depression? Did you think-”

Pratt waved a hand. “No. No, you’re getting me wrong. He wasn’t suicidal. That’s not what I meant.”

“Can you try and explain?”

“I’ll try. It’s hard, though. I mean, I’d be hard pushed to say what I live for, too. There’s the wife and kids, of course, my pride and joy. And we like to go hang-gliding over Se-merwater on suitable weekends. I collect antiques, I love cricket, and we like to explore new places on our holidays. See what I mean? None of that’s what I actually live for, but it’s all part of it.” He took off his glasses and rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes and the bridge of his nose, then put them back on again. “I know, I’m getting too philosophical. But I told you it was hard to explain.”

Susan smiled. “I’m still listening.”

“Well, all those are just things, aren’t they? Possessions or activities. Things we do, things we care about. But there’s something behind them all that ties them all together into my life, who I am, what I am. With Keith, you never knew. He was a cipher. For example, I’m sure he loved his family, but he never really showed it or spoke much about it. I don’t know what really mattered to him. He never talked about hobbies or anything like that. I don’t know what he did in his spare time. It’s more than being private or secretive, it’s as if there was a dimension missing, a man with a hole in the middle.” He scratched his temple. “This is ridiculous. Please forgive me. Keith was a perfectly nice bloke. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. But you never really knew what gripped him about life, what his dream was. I mean, mine’s a villa in Portugal, but a dream doesn’t have to be a thing, does it? I don’t know… maybe he valued abstractions too much.”

He paused, as if he had run out of breath and ideas. Susan didn’t really know what to jot down, but she finally settled for “dimension missing… interests and concerns elusive.” It would do. She had a good memory for conversations and could recount verbatim most of what Pratt had said, if Banks wished to hear it.

“Let’s get back to Mr. Rothwell’s work with your firm. Is there anything you can tell me about his… style… shall we say, his business practices?”

“You want to know if Keith was a crook, don’t you?”

She did, of course, though that wasn’t why she was asking. Still, she thought, never look a gift horse in the mouth. She gave him a “you caught me at it” smile. “Well, was he?”

“Of course not.”

“Oh, come on, Mr. Pratt. Surely in your business you must sail a little close to the wind at times?”

“I resent that remark, especially coming from a policeman.”

Susan let that one slip by. “Touché,” she said. Pratt seemed pleased enough with himself. Let him feel he’s winning, she thought, then he’ll tell you anyway, just to show he holds the power to do so. She was still sure he was holding something back. “But seriously, Mr. Pratt,” she went on, “I’m not just playing games, bandying insults. If there was anything at all unusual in Mr. Rothwell’s business dealings, I hardly need tell you it could have a bearing on his murder.”

“Hmm.” Pratt swirled the rest of the brandy and tossed it back. He put the snifter in his “Out” tray, no doubt for the secretary to take and wash. “I stand by what I said,” he went on. “Keith Rothwell never did anything truly illegal that I knew of. Certainly nothing that could be relevant to his death.”

“But…?”

He sighed. “Well, maybe I wasn’t entirely truthful earlier. I suppose I’d better tell you about it, hadn’t I? You’re bound to find out somehow.”

Susan turned her page. “I’m listening,” she said.

The Black Sheep was the closest Swainsdale had to a well-kept secret. Most tourists were put off by the pub’s external shabbiness. Those who prided themselves on not judging a book by its cover would, more often than not, pop their heads around the door, see the even shabbier interior and leave.

The renowned surliness of the landlord, Larry Grafton, kept them away in droves, too. There was a rumor that Larry had once refused to serve an American tourist with a Glen-morangie and ginger, objecting to the utter lack of taste that led her to ask for such a concoction. Banks believed it.

Larry was Dales born and bred, not one of the new landlords up from London. So many were recent immigrants these days, like Ian Falkland in the Rose and Crown. That was a tourist pub if ever there was one, Banks thought, probably selling more lager and lime, pork scratchings and microwaved curries than anything else.

The Black Sheep didn’t advertise its pub grub, but anyone who knew about it could get as thick and fresh a ham and piccalilli sandwich as ever they’d want from Elsie, Larry’s wife. And on some days, if her arthritis hadn’t been bothering her too much and she felt like cooking, she could do you a fry-up so good you could feel your arteries hardening as you ate.

As usual, the public bar was empty apart from one table of old men playing dominoes and a couple of young farmhands reading the sports news in the Daily Mirror.

As Banks had expected, Pat Clifford also stood propping up the bar. Pat was a hard, stout man with a round head, stubble for hair and a rough, red face burned by the sun and whipped by the wind and rain for fifty years.

“Hello, stranger,” said Pat, as Banks stood next to him. “Long time, no see.”

Banks apologized for his absence and brought up the subject of Keith Rothwell.

“So tha only comes when tha wants summat, is that it?” Pat said. But he said it with a smile, and over the years Banks had learned that Yorkshire folk often take the sting out of their criticisms that way. They put a sting in their compliments, too, on those rare occasions they get around to giving any.

In this case, Banks guessed that Pat wasn’t mortally offended at his protracted absence; he only wanted to make a point of it, let Banks know his feelings, and then get on with things. Banks acknowledged his culpability with a mild protest about the pressures of work, as expected, then listened to a minute or so of Pat’s complaining about how the elderly and isolated were neglected by all and sundry.

When Pat’s glass was empty, an event which occurred with alarming immediacy at the end of the diatribe, Banks’s offer to buy him another was grudgingly accepted. Pat took a couple of sips, put the glass down on the bar and wiped his lips with the back of his grimy hand.