Two hours later, DC Susan Gay sat in front of Banks’s desk, smoothed her grey skirt over her lap and opened her notebook. As usual, Banks thought, she was well dressed: tight blonde curls; just enough make-up; the silver hoop earrings; black scoop-necked top; and a mere whiff of Miss Dior cutting the stale cigarette smoke in his office.

‘There’s not much, I’m afraid,’ Susan started, glancing up from her notes. ‘No will, as far as I can discover, but she did alter the beneficiary on her insurance policy a month ago.’

‘In whose benefit?’

‘John Billings. Apparently she has no family.’

Banks raised his eyebrows. ‘Who was the previous beneficiary?’

‘Owen Doughton.’

‘Odd that, isn’t it?’ Banks speculated aloud. ‘A woman who changes her insurance policy with her boyfriends.’

‘Well she wouldn’t want it to go to the government, would she?’ Susan said. ‘And I don’t suppose she’d want to make her ex rich either.’

‘True,’ said Banks. ‘It’s often easier to keep a policy going than let it lapse and apply all over again later. And they were going to get married. But why change it so soon? How much is it for?’

‘Fifty thousand.’

Banks whistled.

‘Owen Doughton’s poor as a church mouse,’ Susan went on, ‘but he doesn’t stand to gain anything.’

‘But did he know that? I doubt Anna Childers would have told him. What about Billings?’

Susan gnawed the tip of her Biro and hesitated. ‘Pretty well off,’ she said. ‘Bit of an up-and-comer in the consultancy world. You can see why a woman like Anna Childers would want to attach herself to him.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s going places, of course. Expensive places.’

‘I see,’ said Banks. ‘And you think she was a gold-digger?’

Susan flushed. ‘Not necessarily. She just knew what side her bread was buttered on, that’s all. Same as with a lot of new businesses, though, Billings has a bit of a cashflow problem.’

‘Hmm. Any gossip on the split up?’

‘Not much. I had a chat with a couple of locals in the Red Lion. Anna Childers always seemed cheerful enough, but she was a tough nut to crack, they said, strong protective shell.’

‘What about Doughton?’

‘He doesn’t seem to have many friends. His boss says he’s noticed no real changes, but he says Owen keeps to himself, always did. I’m sorry. It’s not much help.’

‘Never mind,’ Banks said. ‘Look, I’ve got a couple of things to do. Can you find Phil for me?’

‘Did you know that Anna had an insurance policy?’ Banks asked Owen Doughton. They stood in the cold yard while Doughton stacked some bags of peat moss.

Doughton stood up and rubbed the small of his back. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘What of it?’

‘Did you know how much it was for?’

He shook his head.

‘All right,’ Banks said. ‘Did Anna tell you she’d changed the beneficiary, named John Billings instead of you?’

Doughton paused with his mouth open. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, she didn’t.’

‘So you know now that you stand to gain nothing, that it all goes to John?’

Doughton’s face darkened, then he looked away and Banks swore he could hear a strangled laugh or cry. ‘I don’t believe this,’ Doughton said, facing him again. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You think I might have killed Anna? And for money? This is insane. Look, go away, please. I don’t have to talk to you, do I?’

‘No,’ said Banks.

‘Well, bugger off then. I’ve got work to do. But remember one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I loved her. I loved Anna.’

John Billings looked even more wretched than he had the day before. His eyes were bloodshot, underlined by black smudges, and he hadn’t shaved. Banks could smell alcohol on his breath. A suitcase stood in the hallway.

‘Where are you going, John?’ Banks asked.

‘I can’t stay here, can I? I mean, it’s not my house, for a start, and… the memories.’

‘Where are you going?’

He picked up the case. ‘I don’t know. Just away from here, that’s all.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Gently, Banks took the case from him and set it down. ‘We haven’t got to the bottom of this yet.’

‘What do you mean? For Christ’s sake, man!’

‘You’d better come with me, John.’

‘Where?’

‘Police station. We’ll have a chat there.’

Billings stared angrily at him, then seemed to fold. ‘Oh, what the hell,’ he muttered. ‘What does it matter?’ And he picked his coat off the rack and followed Banks. He didn’t see DS Philip Richmond watching from the window of the cafe over the road.

It was after seven o’clock, dark, cold and windy outside. Banks decided to wait in the bedroom, on the chair wedged in the corner between the wardrobe and the dressing table. From there, with the door open, he could see the staircase, and he would be able to hear any sounds in the house.

He had just managed to get the item on the local news show at six o’clock, only minutes after Dr Glendenning had phoned with more detailed information: ‘Poison suspected in death of Eastvale woman. Police baffled. No suspects as yet.’ Of course, the killer might not have seen it, or might have already covered his tracks, but if Anna Childers had been poisoned, and Glendenning now seemed certain she had, then the answer had to be here.

Given possible reaction times, Glendenning had said in his late afternoon phone call, there was little chance she could have taken the poison into her system before eight o’clock the previous evening, at which time she had gone out to dine with John Billings.

The house was dark and silent save for the ticking of a clock on the bedside table and the howling wind rattling the window. Eight o’clock. Nine. Nothing happened except Banks got cramp in his left calf. He massaged it, then stood up at regular intervals and stretched. He thought of DS Richmond down the street in the unmarked car. Between them, they’d be sure to catch anyone who came.

Finally, close to ten o’clock, he heard it, a scraping at the lock on the front door. He drew himself deep into the chair, melted into the darkness and held his breath. The door opened and closed softly. He could see a torch beam sweeping the wall by the staircase, coming closer. The intruder was coming straight up the stairs. Damn! Banks hadn’t expected that. He wanted whoever it was to lead him to the poison, not walk right into him.

He sat rigid in the chair as the beam played over the threshold of the bedroom, mercifully not falling on him in his dark corner. The intruder didn’t hesitate. He walked around the bed, within inches of Banks’s feet, and over to the bedside table. Shining his torch, he opened the top drawer and picked something up. At that moment Banks turned on the light. The figure turned sharply, then froze.

‘Hello, Owen,’ said Banks. ‘What brings you here?’