Fool, he told himself. He had been looking for Keith Rothwell in Robert Calvert’s flat. But he wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere; he was just a slab of chilled meat waiting for a man with his collar on the wrong way around to chant a few meaningless words that might just ease the living’s fear of death until the next time it touched too close to home for comfort.

As he glanced out of the window, he glimpsed two men in suits across the street looking up at him. They were partially obscured by trees, but he could see that one was black, the other white.

He hurried down to the street. When he got there, nobody was about except a young man washing his car three houses down.

Banks approached him and showed his identification. The man wiped the sweat off his brow and looked up at Banks, shielding his eyes from the glare. Sunlight winked on the bubbles in his bucket of soapy water.

“Did you see a couple of blokes in business suits pass by a few minutes ago?” Banks asked.

“Yeah,” said the man. “Yeah I did. I thought it was a bit odd the way they stopped and looked up at that house. To be honest, though, the way they were dressed I thought they were probably coppers.”

Banks thanked him and went back to the car. So he wasn’t getting paranoid. How did the saying go? Just because you think they’re out there following you, it doesn’t mean they aren’t.

Tom Rothwell resembled his father more than his mother, Banks thought, sitting opposite him in the split-level living room at Arkbeck Farm the following morning. Though his hair was darker and longer, he had the same thin oval face and slightly curved nose and the same gray eyes as Banks had seen in the photograph. His sulky mouth, though, owed more to early Elvis Presley, and was no doubt more a result of artifice than nature.

His light brown hair fell charmingly over one eye and hung in natural waves over his ears and the collar of his blue denim shirt. Both knees of his jeans were torn, and the unlaced white trainers on his feet were scuffed and dirty.

The best of the lot, Cathy Grafton had said, and it wasn’t hard to guess why a rather plain girl like her would value a smile and a kind word from a handsome lad like Tom.

But right from the start Banks sensed something else about him, an aura of affected arrogance, as if he were condescending from a great intellectual and moral height to answer such stupid questions as those relating to his father’s murder.

It was rebellious youth, in part, and Banks certainly understood that. Also, Tom seemed to exhibit that mix of vanity and over-confidence that Banks had often encountered in the wealthy. In addition there was a hell of a lot of the wariness and subterfuge that he usually associated with someone hiding a guilty secret. Tom’s body language said it all: long legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, arms folded high on his chest, eyes anywhere but on the questioner. Susan Gay sat in the background to take notes. Banks wondered what she thought about Tom.

“Did you have any problems getting a flight?” Banks asked.

“No. But I had to change at some dreary place in Carolina, and then again in New York.”

“I know you must be tired. I remember from my trip to Toronto, the jet lag’s much worse flying home.”

“I’m all right. I slept a little on the plane.”

“I can never seem to manage that.”

Tom said nothing. Banks wished that Alison and Mary Rothwell weren’t flanking Tom on the sofa. And again the room felt dark and cold around him. Though it had windows, they were set or angled in such a way that they didn’t let in much natural light. And they were all closed.

“I imagine you’re upset about your father, too,” he said.

“Naturally.”

“We wanted to talk to you so soon,” Banks said, “because we hoped you might be able to tell us something about your father, something that might help lead us to his killers.”

“How would I know anything? I’ve been out of the country since the end of March.”

“It’s possible,” Banks said, weighing his words carefully, “that the roots of the crime lie farther back than that.”

“That’s ridiculous. You lot have far too much imagination for your own good.”

“Oh? What do you think happened?”

Tom curled his lip and looked at the carpet. “It was clearly a robbery gone wrong. Or a kidnap attempt. Dad was quite well off, you know.”

Banks scratched the scar beside his right eye. “Kidnapping, eh? We’d never thought of that. Can you explain?”

“Well, that’s your job, isn’t it? But it’s hardly difficult to see how it could have been a kidnap attempt gone wrong. My father obviously wouldn’t cooperate, so they had to kill him.”

“Why not just knock him out and take him away?”

Tom shrugged. “Perhaps the gun went off by accident.”

“Then why not take the body and pretend he was still alive till they got the money?”

“How would I know? You’re supposed to be the professionals. I only said that’s what it might have been. I also suggested a bungled robbery.”

“Look, Tom, this is a pointless game we’re playing. Believe me, we’ve covered all the possibilities, and it wasn’t a kidnap attempt or a bungled burglary. I realize how difficult it is for the family to accept that a member may have been involved in something illegal, but all the evidence points that way.”

“Absurd,” spat Mary Rothwell. “Keith was an honest businessman, a good person. And if you persist in spreading these vicious rumors, we’ll have to contact our solicitor.”

“Mrs. Rothwell,” Banks said, “I’m trying to talk to your son. I’d appreciate it if you would keep quiet.” More than once he had thought about breaking the news that her husband led another existence as Robert Calvert, but he held back. In the first place, it would be cruel, and in the second, Gristhorpe said the Chief Constable wanted it kept from the press and family, if possible, at least until they developed a few more leads on the case.

Mary Rothwell glared at him, lips pressed so tight they were white around the edges.

Banks turned back to Tom. “Were you close to your father?”

“Close enough. He wasn’t… ” Tom turned up his nose. “He wasn’t a clinging, emotional sort of person.”

“But you were on good terms?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then you might know something that could help us.”

“I still don’t see how, but if I can be of any use… Ask away.”

“Did he ever mention a man called Martin Churchill?”

“Churchill? No.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“That chap in the Caribbean?”

“Yes.”

“Are you serious?” Tom looked puzzled. “You are, aren’t you? The answer’s no, of course he didn’t. Why would he?”

“Did you ever see your father with two well-dressed men, both about six feet tall, one black, one white?”

Tom frowned. “No. Look, I’m sorry but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Did he ever talk to you about business?”

“No.”

“Did you ever meet any of his business associates?”

“Only if they came over to dinner. And even then, I wasn’t generally invited.” Tom looked at his mother. “I had to find something else to do for the evening. Which usually wasn’t much trouble.” He glanced over at Susan, and Banks sensed a softening in his expression as he did so. He seemed interested in her presence, curious about her.

The radio had been playing a request program quietly in the background, and Banks suddenly picked out the haunting chorus of Delibes’s “Viens, Mallika… Dôme épais,” popularized as the “Rower Duet” by a television advert. Even trivialization couldn’t mar its beauty and clarity. After pausing for a moment, he went on.

“When did you leave for your holiday?”

“March,” he said. “The thirty-first. But I don’t see-”