Then, after she had made another appointment to talk to Laurence Pratt, she luxuriated in the empty office, stretching like a cat, feeling as if she were in a deep, warm bubble-bath. Out of the window she could see the maintenance men with their shirtsleeves rolled up washing the patrol cars in the large car park. Sun glinted on their rings and watch-straps and on the shiny chrome they polished; it spread rainbows of oily sheen on the bright windscreens.

One of the men, in particular, caught her eye: well-muscled, but not overbearingly so, with a lock of blond hair that slipped over his eye and bounced as he rubbed the bonnet in long, slow strokes. The telephone broke into her fantasy. She picked it up. “Hello. Eastvale CID. Can I help you?”

“To whom am I speaking?”

“Detective Constable Susan Gay.”

“Is the superintendent there?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“And Chief Inspector Banks?”

“Out of the office. Can I help you? What’s this about?”

“I suppose you’ll have to do. My name is Mary Rothwell. I’ve just had a call from my son, Tom.”

“You have? Where is he?”

“He’s still in Florida. A hotel in Lido Key, wherever that is. Apparently the British newspapers are a couple of days late over there, and he’s just read about his father’s murder. It’s only eight in the morning there. He can’t get a flight back until this evening. Anyway, he said he should get into Manchester at about seven o’clock tomorrow morning. I’m going to meet him at the airport and bring him home.”

“That’s good news, Mrs. Rothwell,” Susan said. “You do know we’d like to talk to him?”

“Yes. Though I can’t imagine why. You’ll pass the message on to the Chief Inspector, will you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. And by the way, I’ve made funeral arrangements for Wednesday. That is still all right, isn’t it?”

“Of course.”

“Very well.”

“Is there anything else, Mrs. Rothwell?”

“No.”

“Goodbye, then. We’ll be in touch.”

Susan hung up and stared into space for a moment, thinking what an odd woman Mary Rothwell was. Imperious, highly strung and businesslike. Probably a real Tartar to live with. But was she a murderess?

Though it would take the Fraud Squad a long time to work out exactly how much Rothwell was worth – and to separate the legal from the illegal money – it was bound to be a fortune. Money worth killing for. The problem was, though Susan could imagine Mary Rothwell being coldblooded enough to have her husband killed, she could not imagine her having it done in such a bloody, dramatic way.

The image of the kneeling, headless corpse came back to her and she tasted the vegetable soup rise in her throat. No, she thought, if the wife were responsible, Rothwell would have been disposed of in a neat, sanitary way – poison, perhaps – and he certainly wouldn’t have made such a mess on the garage floor. What was the phrase? You don’t shit on your own doorstep. It was too close to home for Mary; it would probably taint Arkbeck Farm for her forever.

Still, there was a lot of money involved. Susan had seen Rothwell’s solicitor that morning, and, according to him, Rothwell had owned, or part-owned, about fifteen businesses, from a shipping company registered in the Bahamas to a dry cleaner’s in Wigan, not to mention various properties dotted around England, Spain, Portugal and France. Of course, the solicitor assured her, they were all legitimate. She suspected, however, that some had served as fronts for Rothwell’s illegal activities.

As Susan was wondering if Robert Calvert’s money would now simply get lumped in with Keith Rothwell’s, she became aware of a large shadow cast over her desk by a figure in the doorway.

She looked up, startled, right into the smiling face of Detective Sergeant Jim Hatchley. So soon? she thought, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Now she knew there really was no God.

“Hello, love,” said Hatchley, lighting a cigarette. “I see you’ve taken my pin-ups down. We’ll have to do something about that now I’m back to stay.”

At one-thirty, the hot, smoky pub was still packed with local clerks and shopkeepers on their lunch break. When Banks had phoned Pamela Jeffreys before leaving for Leeds that morning, she had suggested they meet in the pub across from the hall in West Leeds, where she was rehearsing with a string quartet. There was no beer garden, she said, but the curry of the day was usually excellent. Though he had to admit to feeling excitement at the thought of seeing Pamela again, this wasn’t a meeting Banks was looking forward to.

She hadn’t arrived yet, so Banks got himself a pint of shandy at the bar – just the thing for a hot day – and managed to grab a small table in the corner by the dartboard, fortunately not in use. There, he mulled over Daniel Clegg’s disappearance and the mysterious goons Betty Moorhead had seen.

There was no end of trouble a lawyer could get himself into, Banks speculated. Especially if he were a bit crooked to start with. So maybe there was no connection between Clegg’s disappearance and Rothwell’s murder. But there were too many coincidences – the letter, the timing, the shady accounts – and Banks didn’t like coincidences. Which meant that there were two sets of goons on the loose: the ones who killed Rothwell, and the ones who scared Clegg’s secretary. But did they work for the same person?

He was saved from bashing his head against a brick wall any longer by the arrival of Pamela Jeffreys, looking gorgeous in black leggings and a long white T-shirt with the Opera North logo on front. She had her hair tied back and wore black-rimmed glasses. As she sat down, she smiled at him. “The professional musician’s look,” she said. “Keeps my hair out of my eyes so I can read the music.”

“Would you like a drink?” Banks asked.

“Just a grapefruit juice with an ice-cube, please, if they’ve got any. I have to play through ‘Death and the Maiden’ again this afternoon.”

While he was at the bar, Banks also ordered two curries of the day.

“What’s been happening?” Pamela asked when he got back.

“Plenty,” said Banks, hoping to avoid the issue of Calvert’s identity for as long as possible. “But I’ve no idea how it all adds up. First off, have you ever heard of a man called Daniel Clegg?”

She shook her head. “No, I can’t say as I have.”

“He’s a solicitor.”

“He’s not mine. Actually, I don’t have one.”

“Are you sure Robert never mentioned him?”

“No, and I think I’d remember. But I already told you, he never talked about his work, and I never asked. What do I know or care about business?” She looked at him over the top of her glass as she sipped her grapefruit juice, thin black eyebrows raised.

“Did you ever introduce Robert to any of your friends?”

“No. He never seemed really interested in going to parties or having dinner with people or anything, so I never pushed it. They probably wouldn’t have got on very well anyway. Most of my friends are young and artsy. Robert’s more mature. Why?”

“Did you ever meet anyone he knew when you were out together, say in a restaurant or at the casino?”

“No, not that I can recall.”

“So you didn’t have much of a social life together?”

“No, we didn’t. Just a bit of gambling, the occasional day at the races, then it was mostly concerts or a video and a pizza. That was a bit of a problem, really. Robert was a lot of fun, but he didn’t like crowds. I’m a bit more of a social butterfly, myself.”

“I don’t mean to embarrass you,” Banks said slowly, “but did Robert show any interest in pornography? Did he like to take photographs, make videos? Anything like that?”

She looked at him open-mouthed, then burst out laughing. “Sorry, sorry,” she said, patting her chest. “You know, most girls might be insulted if you suggested they moonlighted in video nasties, but it’s so absurd I can’t help but laugh.”