A harsh sound came from one of the armchairs, and Banks saw Daniel Charters bend forward, cup his head in his hands and start to cry like a child. Rebecca jumped up and went over to him, putting her arm around his shoulder.

“He doesn’t even like women,” Metcalfe went on. “You can’t possibly-”

Banks picked up Charters’s raincoat, grasped Metcalfe by the back of the collar and shoved him towards the front door. Even though Metcalfe was a few inches taller than Banks, he didn’t put up much of a struggle, just muttered something about police brutality.

Once outside, Banks shut the door behind them, guided Metcalfe down the path and tossed him out of the gate onto the river path. “On your bike,” he said.

Still muttering, Metcalfe walked towards the school. Banks glanced back as he closed the gate and saw Rebecca and Daniel framed in the window. Rebecca was cradling her husband’s head against her breast, like a baby’s, stroking his hair. Her mouth was opening and closing, as if she were uttering soothing words.

Banks had unfinished business at the vicarage-they weren’t off the hook yet-but it could wait. He looked up into the dark sky, as if searching for enlightenment, but felt only the cool raindrops on his face. He sneezed. Then he pulled his collar up and set off along the river path for the Kendal Road bridge.

Owen Pierce had just opened a bottle of wine and taken the heated remains of last week’s beef stew out of the oven when the doorbell rang.

Muttering a curse, he put his stew back in the oven to keep warm and trotted to the front door. At the end of the hall, he could make out two figures through the frosted glass: one tall and heavy-set, one shorter and slim.

When he opened the door, he first thought they were Jehovah’s Witnesses or Mormons-who else came to the door in pairs, wearing suits? But these two didn’t quite look the part. True, one of them did look like a bible salesman-sticking-out ears, glasses, not a hair out of place, freshly scrubbed look-but the other looked more like a thug.

“Mr. Pierce? Mr. Owen Pierce?” asked the bible salesman.

“Yes, that’s me. Look, I was just about to eat my dinner. What is it? What do you want? If you’re selling-”

“We’re police officers, sir,” the man went on. “My name is Detective Inspector Stott and this is Detective Sergeant Hatchley. Mind if we come in?” They flashed their warrant cards and Owen stood back to let them in.

As soon as they got into the living-room, the big one started poking around.

“Nice place you’ve got,” Stott said, while his partner prowled the room, picking up vases and looking inside them, opening drawers an inch or two, inspecting books.

“Look, what is this?” Owen said. “Is he supposed to be going through my things like that? There are no drugs here, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“Oh, don’t mind Sergeant Hatchley. He’s just like that. Insatiable curiosity.”

“Don’t you need a search warrant or something?”

“Well, Owen” said Stott, “the way it works is like this. We could go to a magistrate, and we could apply for a warrant to search your premises, but it takes a lot of time. Sergeant Hatchley would have to stay here with you while I took care of the formalities. I think this way is much better all round. Anyway, you’ve nothing to hide, have you?”

“No, no, it’s not that. It’s just…”

“Well,” said Stott with a smile. “That’s all right, then, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so.”

“Mind if I sit down?”

“Be my guest.”

Stott sat in the chair by the fake coals and Owen sat opposite him on the sofa. A mug of half-finished coffee stood between them on the glass-topped table beside a couple of unpaid bills and the latest Radio Times.

“Look,” Owen said, “I’m afraid you’ve got me at a disadvantage here. What’s it all about?”

“Just routine inquiries, sir. That’s a nasty scratch on your face. Mind telling me where you got it?”

Owen put his hand up to his cheek. “I’ve no idea,” he said. “I woke up this morning and there it was.”

“Were you in the St. Mary’s area of Eastvale yesterday evening?”

“Let me think…Yes, yes, I believe I was.” He glanced at Hatchley, who seemed fascinated by the print of Renoir’s Bathers over the fireplace.

“Why?”

“What? Sorry.”

“Look, just ignore Sergeant Hatchley for the moment,” Stott said. “Look at me. I asked you why you were in St. Mary’s.”

Owen shrugged. “No particular reason. I was just walking.”

“Walking? On a miserable night like that?”

“Well, if you let the weather dictate it, you wouldn’t get much walking done in Yorkshire, would you?”

“Even so. St. Mary’s is quite a distance from here.”

“No more than three miles each way. And it’s a very pleasant walk along the river. Even in the fog.”

Hatchley fished a copy of Playboy out of the magazine rack and held it up for Stott to see. Stott frowned and reached over for it. The cover showed a shapely blonde in skimpy pink lace panties, bordered in black, a flimsy slip, stockings and suspender belt. She was on her knees on a sofa, and her round behind faced the viewer. Her face was also turned towards the camera: glossy red lips, eyes an impossible shade of green, unfocused, as if she had just woken from a deep sleep. One thin strap had slipped over her upper right arm.

“I bought it because of one of the stories I wanted to read,” Owen said, immediately feeling himself turn red. It wasn’t so much that he had been caught with something warped and perverted, but with something sub-literary, something beneath his intelligence and dignity. “It’s not illegal, you know. You can buy it at any newsagent’s. It’s not pornography.”

“That’s a matter of opinion, sir, isn’t it?” said Stott. He handed the magazine back to Hatchley as if he were dropping something in a rubbish bin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.

“And there’s a video tape full of what sounds like sexy stuff to me, sir, judging by the titles,” said Hatchley. “One of them’s called School’s Out. And you should have a butcher’s at some of the poses in these here so-called art books.”

“I’m an amateur photographer,” Owen said. “It’s my hobby. For Christ’s sake, what do you expect? Is that what all this is about? Pornography? Because if it is-”

Stott waved his hand. “No,” he said. “It’s of no matter, really. It might be relevant. We’ll have to see. Do you live here by yourself, Mr. Pierce?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“I’m a lecturer at Eastvale College. English.”

“Ever been married?”

“No.”

“Girlfriends?”

“Some.”

“But not to live with?”

“No.”

“Videos and magazines enough to satisfy you, eh?”

“Now just a min-”

Stott held up his hand. “Sorry,” he said. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Tasteless of me. Out of line.”

Why couldn’t Owen quite believe the apology? He sensed very strongly that Stott had made the remark on purpose to nettle him. He hoped he had passed the test, even though he couldn’t be sure what the question was. Feeling more like Kafka’s Joseph K. every minute, he shifted in his chair. “Why do you want to know all this?” he asked again. “You said you were going to tell me what it’s all about.”

“Did I? Well, first, would you mind if we had a quick look around the rest of the place? It might save us coming back.”

“Go ahead,” Owen said, and accompanied them as they did the rounds. It wasn’t a thorough search, and Owen felt that by granting them permission he had probably saved himself a lot of trouble. He had seen on television the way search teams messed up places. They gave the bedrooms, one of which was completely empty, a cursory glance, poked about in his clothing drawers and wardrobe. In the study, Stott admired the aquarium of tropical fish and, of course, Hatchley rummaged through some of Owen’s photo files and found the black-and-white nude studies of Michelle. He showed them to Stott, who frowned.