“Daniel?” She turned to face him.

“What?”

“I…I don’t…Today. I-”

The front doorbell rang.

“Damn!” Rebecca banged her fist on the table. “Who could that be?”

“I’ll go and see.” Daniel went off to answer it.

Rebecca grasped the edge of the table. She could feel the room spinning around her, and it wasn’t the booze this time.

“Becky!” The note of concern in his voice brought her back “Are you all right?”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. Not so bad. “I’m fine. Sorry. I just came over a bit funny, that’s all.” When she opened her eyes, she saw Daniel standing next to the detective who had visited them last night.

He was smaller than you’d expect for a policeman, she noticed, compact, lean and wiry, with an aura of pent-up strength. His closely cropped black hair showed just a little gray at the temples, and his blue eyes danced and sparkled with energy. There was a little crescent scar beside his right eye.

“Detective Chief Inspector Banks is back,” Daniel said. “He wants to ask us some more questions.”

Rebecca nodded, took off her apron and followed them through to the living-room. She left the glass of wine on the kitchen table. Another postponement. Maybe she could drink herself through yet another night of guilt and misery.

“I’m sorry to intrude again,” Banks said when they had all sat down. He sneezed, took out a large handkerchief and blew his nose. “Sorry. I seem to be catching a cold. Look, I’ll come straight to the point. I can see you were busy getting dinner ready. I was just wondering if maybe you’d decided to tell me the truth about last night?”

For a moment, Rebecca was stunned by the matter-of-fact way Banks spoke. “The truth?” she echoed.

“Yes. You’re a poor liar, Mrs. Charters. And you can take that as a compliment.” He glanced towards Daniel. “When I asked your husband where he had been at the time you said you heard a cry, you jumped in a bit too quickly and answered for him.”

“I did?”

“Yes. Then he felt duty-bound to lie to cover for you. It’s all very admirable in some ways, but it won’t do. Not when there’s a sixteen-year-old girl lying dead in Eastvale mortuary.”

Rebecca felt completely tongue-tied. What the hell was going on? Her mind whirled, searching for things to say, but before she could say anything a voice far calmer than her own cut in.

“Chief Inspector,” Daniel Charters said. “I’m afraid that’s my fault. I should have corrected Rebecca rather than let the deceit stand. Believe me, there was no need for a lie. I have nothing to hide.”

Banks nodded. He seemed to be waiting for something else.

Daniel sighed and went on. “Yes, I was out at the time my wife heard the cry, but I can assure you that my whereabouts had absolutely nothing at all to do with the poor girl’s murder.”

“Where were you?” Banks asked.

Rebecca noticed Daniel’s lips tighten for a moment as he tensed in thought. “I’d rather not say.”

“It would help us a lot if we could verify your story.”

Daniel shook his head. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to prove my alibi, even if I told you.”

“You could let us try.”

He smiled sadly. “It’s a kind offer, but-”

The doorbell rang again.

“I’ll go,” said Rebecca.

“Whoever it is,” Daniel told her, “get rid of them.”

Leaving them in silence, Rebecca went to open the front door. Patrick Metcalfe was standing there. He looked as if he had been walking around in the rain without a raincoat for hours.

“Oh, my God,” Rebecca cried, trying to shut the door against his shoulder. “Please, go away. Can’t you see you’ve caused enough trouble already?”

“Let me in, Rebecca. I want to come in. I must come in. I want to talk to both of you. You must listen to me.”

He kept pushing at the door and Rebecca wasn’t strong enough to hold him back. Suddenly, Banks’s calm voice behind her said, “Why don’t you let him in, Mrs. Charters? Whoever he is. The more the merrier.”

Even Barry Stott was almost ready to call it a day by six-thirty. The drizzle that, at one time, had looked like ending, had turned into a much harder downpour as darkness fell, and now both he and Sergeant Hatchley were soaked to the skin. Even the best raincoat and shoes, which Stott’s were, could only take so much without springing leaks. If only Jelačić had broken down and confessed instead of stubbornly protesting his innocence, the way Banks said he had, how much easier life would have been.

They were showing the police artist’s impression, based on Alf’s description-and what a lengthy and frustrating experience getting that done had been-along the rather twee row of shops set back from Kendal Road opposite the school. The newsagent hadn’t seen anyone, the grocer was closed and the hairdresser gave a lengthy opinion as to the sorry state of the suspect’s locks, but said she was closed on Mondays, and no, she hadn’t noticed anyone strange hanging around on any other days.

The teashop was also closed, the way most Yorkshire teashops close at teatime, but the Peking Moon, the Chinese restaurant next door, had just opened. It was, as Hatchley explained, a rather pricey, up-market sort of Chinese restaurant, not the kind of place that yobbos go for a quick chop suey after a skinful of ale on a Friday night.

“I wonder why they don’t change the name,” Sergeant Hatchley said as they approached the door. “Isn’t Peking called Beijing now? A real Chinaman wouldn’t have a clue where he was if he saw this.”

Stott turned to Hatchley before he pushed the door open. “I know what you’re thinking, Sergeant. And you can forget it. We’re not staying here for dinner. Definitely not. Got it?”

Hatchley looked hurt. “Furthest thing from my mind, sir. I don’t even like Chinese food. It’s got no sticking power. I’m always hungry again ten minutes after I’ve eaten it.”

“Right. Just as long as we understand each other…”

The bell at the top of the door jingled as they went in. Like many Chinese restaurants, its decor was simple and relaxing, with a series of ancient Chinese landscapes-tiny human figures dwarfed by evergreen-covered mountains-on the walls, and plain red tablecloths. Soft, tinkling music played in the background. So soft that Stott couldn’t even figure out whether it was pop or classical. Or Chinese. Not that he cared much for music.

A waiter in a white jacket walked towards them. “Jim, me old mate. What can I do you for?” he asked in a cockney accent you could cut with a knife, despite the oriental eyes and complexion.

“DI Stott,” Hatchley introduced them, “This is Well Hung Low.” He laughed, and the waiter laughed with him.

Stott seethed inside, his rage, as it always did, crystallizing quickly from fire to ice.

“Just a joke, sir,” Hatchley went on. “His name’s Joe Sung. Deserted the bright lights of Whitechapel for the greener pastures of Eastvale. Joe wanted to be a copper once, too, sir, but I managed to persuade him he was better off where he was. His father owns this place. It’s a little gold-mine.”

“Perhaps you should reconsider,” Stott said with a smile, shaking Joe’s hand. “We need more…a more ethnically diverse police force. Especially in Yorkshire.”

“Aye,” said Hatchley. “I told him he wouldn’t know what was worse, the prejudice or the patronizing.”

Joe laughed.

Again, Stott felt his anger boil up and freeze. Oafs like Hatchley symbolized all that was wrong in today’s police force. His type’s days were numbered. “I wonder if we might ask you a few questions?” he said to Joe Sung.

“Fire away, mate.” Joe gestured to the empty restaurant. “See how busy we are. Here, take the weight off.” He beckoned them to join him at one of the tables.

“Remember what I said, Sergeant,” Stott hissed in Hatchley ’s ear as they followed. “This isn’t another meal break.”