Banks found Owen Doughton hefting bags of fertilizer around in the garden centre early the next morning. Doughton was a short, rather hangdog-looking man in his early thirties with shaggy dark hair and a droopy moustache. The rain had stopped overnight, but a brisk, chill wind was fast bringing in more cloud, so Banks asked if they could talk inside. Doughton led him to a small, cluttered office that smelled faintly of paraffin. Doughton sat on the desk and Banks took the swivel chair.

‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you, Mr Doughton,’ Banks started.

Doughton studied his cracked, dirty fingernails. ‘I read about Anna in the paper this morning, if that’s what you mean,’ he said. ‘It’s terrible, a tragedy.’ He brushed back a thick lock of hair from his right eye.

‘Did you see much of her lately?’

‘Not a lot, no. Not since we split up. We’d have lunch occasionally if neither of us was too busy.’

‘So there were no hard feelings?’

‘No. Anna said it was just time to move on, that we’d outgrown each other. We both needed more space to grow.’

‘Was she right?’

He shrugged. ‘Seems so. But I still cared for her. I don’t want you to think I didn’t. I just can’t take this in.’ He looked Banks in the eye for the first time. ‘What’s wrong, anyway? Why are the police interested?’

‘It’s just routine,’ Banks said. ‘I don’t suppose you’d know anything about her state of mind recently?’

‘Not really.’

‘When did you see her last?’

‘A couple of weeks ago. She seemed fine, really.’

‘Did you know her new boyfriend?’

Doughton returned to study his fingernails. ‘No. She told me about him, of course, but we never met. Sounded like a nice bloke. Probably better for her than me. I wished her every happiness. Surely you can’t think she did this herself? Anna just wasn’t the type. She had too much to live for.’

‘Most likely food poisoning,’ Banks said, closing his notebook, ‘but we have to cover the possibilities. Nice talking to you, anyway. I don’t suppose I’ll be troubling you again.’

‘No problem,’ Doughton said, standing up.

Banks nodded and left.

‘If we split up,’ Banks mused aloud to Sandra over an early lunch in the new McDonald’s that day, ‘do you think you’d be upset?’

Sandra narrowed her eyes, clear blue under the dark brows and blonde hair. ‘Are you trying to tell me something, Alan? Is there something I should know?’

Banks paused, Big Mac halfway to his mouth, and laughed. ‘No. No, nothing like that. It’s purely hypothetical.’

‘Well, thank goodness for that.’ Sandra took a bite of her McChicken sandwich and pulled a face. ‘Yuck. Have you really developed a taste for this stuff?’

Banks nodded. ‘It’s all right, really. Full of nutrition.’ And he took a big bite as if to prove it.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘you certainly know how to show a woman a good time, I’ll say that for you. And what on earth are you talking about?’

‘Splitting up. It’s just something that puzzles me, that’s all.’

‘I’ve been married to you half my life,’ Sandra said. ‘Twenty years. Of course I’d be bloody upset if we split up.’

‘You can’t see us just going our separate ways, growing apart, needing more space?’

‘Alan, what’s got into you? Have you been reading those self-help books?’ She looked around the place again, taking in the plastic decor. ‘I’m getting worried about you.’

‘Well, don’t. It’s simple really. I know twenty years hardly compares with five, but do you believe people can just disentangle their lives from one another and carry on with someone new as if nothing had happened?’

‘Maybe they could’ve done in 1967,’ Sandra answered. ‘And maybe some people still can, but I think it cuts a lot deeper than that, no matter what anyone says.’

‘Anna said it was fine,’ Banks muttered, almost to himself. ‘But Anna’s dead.’

‘Is this that investigation you’re doing for Dr Glendenning, the reason you stood me up last night?’

‘I didn’t stand you up. I phoned to apologize. But, yes. I’ve got a nagging feeling about it. Something’s not quite right.’

‘What do you mean? You think she was poisoned or something?’

‘It’s possible, but I can’t prove it. I can’t even figure out how.’

‘Then maybe you’re wrong.’

‘Huh.’ Banks chomped on his Big Mac again. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?’ He explained about his talks with John Billings and Owen Doughton. Sandra thought for a moment, sipping her Coke through a straw and picking at her chips, sandwich abandoned on her tray. ‘Sounds like a determined woman, this Anna. I suppose it’s possible she just made a seamless transition from one to the other, but I’d bet there’s a lot more to it than that. I’d have a word with both of them again, if I were you.’

‘Mmm,’ said Banks. ‘Thought you’d say that. Fancy a sweet?’

‘The tests are going to take time,’ Glendenning said over the phone, ‘but from what I could see there’s severe damage to the liver, kidneys, heart and lungs, not to mention the central nervous system.’

‘Could it be food poisoning?’ Banks asked.

‘It certainly looks like some kind of poisoning. A healthy person doesn’t usually die just like that. I suppose at a pinch it could be botulism,’ Glendenning said. ‘Certainly some of the symptoms match. I’ll get the Board of Trade to check out that Chinese restaurant.’

‘Any other possibilities?’

‘Too damned many,’ Glendenning growled. ‘That’s the problem. There’s enough nasty stuff around to make you that ill if you’re unlucky enough to swallow it: household cleaners, pesticides, industrial chemicals. The list goes on. That’s why we’ll have to wait for the test results.’ And he hung up.

Cantankerous old bugger, Banks thought with a smile. How Glendenning hated being pinned down. The problem was, though, if someone – Owen, John or some undiscovered enemy – had poisoned Anna, how had he done it? John Billings could have doctored her food at the Chinese restaurant, or her drink in the pub, or perhaps there was something she had eaten that he had simply failed to mention. He certainly had the best opportunity.

But John Billings seemed the most unlikely suspect: he loved the woman; they were going to get married. Or so he said. Anna Childers was quite well off and upwardly mobile, but it was unlikely that Billings stood to gain, or even needed to gain, financially from her death. It was worth looking into, though. She had only been thirty, but she might have made a will in his favour. And Billings’s consultancy could do with a bit of scrutiny.

Money wouldn’t be a motive with Owen Doughton, though. According to both the late Anna and to Owen himself, they had parted without rancour, each content to get on with life. Again, it might be worth asking a few of their friends and acquaintances if they had reason to think any differently. Doughton had seemed gentle, reserved, a private person, but who could tell what went on in his mind? Banks walked down the corridor to see if either Detective Constable Susan Gay or Detective Sergeant Philip Richmond was free for an hour or two.