“And Megan was embarrassed by it?”

“Yes. I’d guess Megan is a bit shy around boys.”

“Would you agree she was the ugly one in that relationship?”

“I wouldn’t put it quite that way, sir.”

Banks smiled. “I’m sorry. It must be something to do with being on school grounds again. It takes me back. But when you were a teenager and you met two girls, one of them was bound to be the ugly one.”

“And when you met two boys, one of them was certain to be a drip and the other an octopus. If you were really lucky, you got a combination of the two.”

Banks laughed.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Susan went on, “I don’t get your point. Surely you’re not suggesting that Megan Preece had anything to do with Deborah’s murder?”

“No. Of course not. Just thinking out loud, is all.”

They got in the unmarked police car. When it started up, Vaughan Williams’s Suite for Viola and Orchestra was playing on the radio: the beautiful, melancholy “Ballad.” It suited the falling leaves and the November drizzle perfectly, Banks thought.

“I’m just trying to understand the relationship so that I can understand the way Deborah related to people,” he said. “The way I see it is that Megan was the less attractive of the two friends. That would probably make her adoring and resentful in equal measures. She knew she was overshadowed and outclassed by Deborah’s looks and talent, and for the most part she was probably content to bask in the glory of being the chosen one, best friend of the goddess. Are you with me so far?”

“Yes, sir. Megan was the kind of friend who could only make Deborah look even better.”

“Right. But it also sounded as if Deborah could twist the knife, too, could be cruel. If she could annoy her best friend the way she did, then she could have angered a more dangerous enemy, don’t you think?”

“It’s possible, sir. But a bit far-fetched, if you don’t mind me saying so. I still say we’re looking for a stranger. And from what we know already, that stranger on the bridge could have been Ive Jelačić.”

“True,” said Banks. “It could also have been a figment of Megan’s imagination, at least in part. But we’ll sort out Mr. Jelačić later. He’s not going anywhere. Ken Blackstone’s got him under surveillance. What do you think about the secret?”

“Not much. A lot of schoolkids are like that. As Megan said, it probably didn’t mean anything.”

“Not to her, perhaps. But maybe to someone else. Look, isn’t that…” He pointed.

As they were turning left onto North Market Street, Banks noticed a woman in a long navy raincoat standing at the bus-stop over the road.

“Isn’t it who?” Susan asked.

“Oh, I forgot. You haven’t met her. Rebecca Charters, the vicar’s wife. I’m sure it was her. I wonder where she’s going?”

“Curioser and curioser,” said Susan.

“Well, sir,” said Sergeant Hatchley, looking at his watch. “Don’t you think we might as well have a spot of lunch?”

Barry Stott sighed. “Oh, all right. Come on.”

This was the detective inspector’s first major case after his promotion and transfer, and he intended to make the most of it. The only thorn in the ointment was this idle, thick lump of Yorkshire blubber beside him: Detective Sergeant Hatchley.

Stott would have preferred DC Susan Gay. Not because she was prettier than Hatchley-he didn’t find her attractive in that way-but because she was smarter, keener and a lot less trouble.

Like now. Left to himself, Stott would have skipped lunch, or bought a take-away from one of the cafés on North Market Street. The morning had been a waste of time; they had found no leads in the sex offender files, and all Stott could find out from immigration about Jelačić was that he was an engineer from Split, who had come to England two years ago. And since then, he had worked at a variety of odd jobs, never lasting long in any one place. Short of going to Croatia himself, Stott thought, it didn’t look as if it would be an easy task getting hold of a criminal record, if there was one.

At least out here, near the crime scene, he felt he had a good chance of scoring some success. Somebody had to have noticed a stranger in the area, fog or no fog. Or a car parked where it shouldn’t be. St. Mary’s was, after all, an upper-crust area, and people who could afford to live there were very wary of strangers. And Stott was sure that a stranger had murdered Deborah Harrison.

They were standing in the rain outside the Nag’s Head at the north-west corner of Kendal Road and North Market Street, diagonally across from St. Mary’s Church, and Stott was ready to do just about anything to shut Hatchley up.

It wasn’t the kind of pub you’d expect in such a wealthy area, Stott thought: no thick carpet, polished brass and gleaming wood, pot of mulled wine heating on the bar. In fact, it looked distinctly shabby. He guessed it was probably a traveler’s pub, being situated at such an important junction. In one form or another, Kendal Road ran all the way from the Lake District to the east coast and Market Street was a major north-south route. The locals would have their own tasteful pubs hidden away in the residential streets. Either that or they drove out to the country clubs.

There were about six people in the lounge bar. Stott noted with distaste that the room smelled of smoke and beer. This certainly wasn’t his kind of pub, if there were such a place. He far preferred churches. Pubs, as far as Stott was concerned, were simply breeding grounds for trouble.

Pubs were where fights started-and he had a couple of scars from his beat days to prove that-they were where crooked deals took place, dodgy goods traded hands, places where drugs were openly sold, where prostitutes plied their filthy trade, spreading disease and misery. Close all the pubs and you’d force the criminals into the open, right into the waiting arms of the police. At least that was what DI Barry Stott thought as he turned up his nose in the Nag’s Head that lunch-time.

Sergeant Hatchley, on the other hand, looked quite at home. He rubbed his ham-like hands together and said, “Ah, this is better. Nowt like a bit of pub grub to take away the chill, don’t you think, sir?”

“Let’s make it quick, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir. Alf! Over here, mate. Let’s have a bit of service. A person could die of thirst.”

If there were a landlord Hatchley didn’t know by name in all of the Eastvale-nay, all of Swainsdale-Stott would have been surprised.

When Alf finally turned up, Stott waited while he and Hatchley exchanged a few pleasantries, then ordered a ham and cheese sandwich and a cup of tea. Alf raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

“I’ll have one of those bloody great big Yorkshire puddings full of roast beef, peas and gravy,” said Hatchley. “And a pint of bitter, of course.”

This seemed to please Alf more.

Pint in hand, Hatchley marched over to a table by the window. Through the streaked glass, they could see the rain-darkened trees in the park and the walls of St. Mary’s church across the intersection, square tower poking out above the trees.

The drizzle hadn’t kept the ghouls away. Here and there along the six-foot stone wall, people would jump up every now and then and hold themselves up by the fingertips for a glimpse into the graveyard.

A group of about ten people stood by the Kendal Road entrance. Journalists. One of them, a woman, stood talking into a microphone and looking into a video camera wrapped in a black plastic bag to protect it from the rain. Someone else held a bright light over her head. Yorkshire Television, Stott thought. Or BBC North. And newspaper reporters. Pretty soon they’d be doing re-enactments for “Crimewatch.” Banks was right; the vultures had come.