Tracy shifted on the bed and sat cross-legged. She pulled the duvet over her shoulders like a shawl. “You won’t get mad at me, will you, Dad? Promise?”

Banks smiled. “I’ve a feeling I’m not going to like this, but you’ve got my word.”

Tracy took a deep breath, then said, “It was in the summer. A few times I hung around with the crowd at the Swainsdale Center down by the bus station.”

“You hung around with those yobs? Jesus Christ, Tracy, I-”

“See! I knew you’d be mad.”

Banks took a deep breath. “Okay. I’m not mad. Just surprised, that’s all. How could you do that? Those kids are into drugs, vandalism, all sorts of things.”

“Oh, we didn’t do any harm, Daddy. It was just somewhere to go, that’s all. And they’re not so bad, really. I know some of them look pretty weird and frightening, but they’re not really. What did you used to do when you were a kid with nowhere to go?”

Banks would like to have to answered, “Museums, art galleries, long walks, books, classical concerts.” But he couldn’t. Mostly he and his friends had hung around on street corners, on waste ground or in empty schoolyards. Sometimes they had even broken into condemned houses and played there.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll let it pass for now. Carry on.”

“Deborah Harrison was down there shopping one day and one of the girls in the group knew her vaguely from dressage or swimming competitions or something, and they got talking. She came down a couple of days later-dressed down a bit-and started to hang out. I think she was bored with just staying at home and studying so she thought she’d slum it for a while.”

“What about her own friends?”

“I don’t really think she had any. She said most of her schoolfriends were away for the summer. Most of the boarders had gone home, of course, and the day-girls had all jetted off to exotic places like America and the south of France. Why can’t we go to places like that, Dad?”

“You were in France earlier this year.”

She slapped his arm. “I’m only teasing. It wasn’t a serious question.”

“When did Deborah first start joining in with the group?”

“Early August, I think.”

“And how did the others treat her?”

“They’d tease her about being a bit lah-de-dah, sometimes, but she took it well enough. She said somebody had to be, and besides, it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.”

“What did she mean by that?”

“It was just her way of talking about things.”

“Did she ever flaunt her wealth, flash it about?”

“No. Not that I saw.”

“How long did she hang around with the group?”

“About three weeks, on and off.”

“Have you seen her since then?”

Tracy shook her head. “Well, she wouldn’t want to be seen dead with the likes of us now, would she? Not now she’s back at St. Mary’s.” Then she put her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, Dad. I just haven’t got used to the idea that she’s dead yet.”

Banks patted her arm. “That’s all right, love. It takes time. How well did you know her?”

“Not very well, but we chatted once or twice. She wasn’t so bad, you know, when you got to know her a bit. I mean, she wasn’t so snobbish. And she was quite bright.”

“Did you ever talk about school?”

“Sometimes.”

“What did she think of St. Mary’s?”

“She thought it was all right. At least the teachers were pretty good and the classes weren’t too big. She said they had a staff to pupil ratio of one to ten. It must be more like one to five hundred where I go.”

“Did she mention any teachers in particular?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“Patrick Metcalfe. Does that name sound familiar?”

Tracy shook her head. “No.”

“What kind of things did she say about school?”

“Nothing much, really. Just like, ‘You’d be surprised if you knew some of the things that go on there.’ That sort of thing. Very melodramatic.”

“What did you think she meant?”

Tracy looked down and rubbed her hand against her knee. “Well, there’s a lot of girls live in, you know, all together in the dormitories. I thought she meant, like, lesbians and stuff.”

“Did she imply that any of the teachers had any sort of sexual relations with the pupils?”

“No, Dad. Honest, I don’t know. I mean, she never really said anything. Not specific. She just implied. Hinted. But she was like that about everything.”

“Like what?”

“As if she knew more than she let on. And as if we were poor fools who saw only the surface, and she knew what really went on underneath. Like, we all swallowed the illusion, but she knew the underlying truth. I’m not trying to paint her in a bad way. She was really nice, but she just had this sort of tone, like, as if she knew more than everyone else.”

“Did she ever speak about her family?”

“She mentioned her father’s business now and then.”

“What did she say about that?”

“I said once that it must be interesting having a father as famous as Sir Geoffrey Harrison, being knighted and all that.”

So much for having a mere detective for a father, Banks thought, swallowing his pride. “What did she say?”

“The usual. Something like, ‘Oh, you’d be shocked if you knew some of the things I know.’”

“And she didn’t elaborate?”

“No. I just shrugged it off. I thought she meant the bad side of technology, all the war stuff, missiles and bombs and that. We all know Sir Geoffrey Harrison’s companies are involved in things like that. It’s in the papers nearly every day.”

“And she didn’t say any more about it?”

“No.”

“Did she ever mention Father Daniel Charters or Ive Jelačić?”

“The people from St. Mary’s church?”

“Yes.”

“Not to me. If you ask me, she was more interested in boys than anything else.”

“Boys? Anyone in particular.”

“Well, she sort of took up with John Spinks.” Tracy pulled a face. “I mean, of all the boys…”

Banks leaned forward. The bedsprings creaked. “Tell me about John Spinks,” he said.

Eastvale College of Further Education was a hodgepodge of ugly redbrick and concrete buildings on the southern fringe of the town, separated from the last few houses by a stretch of marshy waste ground. There was nothing else much around save for the Featherstone Arms across the road, a couple of industrial estates and a large riding stable, about half a mile away.

The college itself was a bit of a dump, too, Owen thought over his lunch-time pint and soupy lasagna, and he wouldn’t be teaching there if he could get anything better. The problem was, with only a BA from Leeds and an MA from an obscure Canadian university, he couldn’t get anything better. So he was stuck teaching the business, secretarial and agriculture students how to spell and write sentences, skills they didn’t even want to know. It was a long way from the literary ambitions he had nursed not so many years ago.

But he had more immediate problems than his teaching career: he had lied to the police, and they probably suspected as much.

It wasn’t much of a lie, admittedly. Besides, it was none of their business. He had said he never lived with a woman, but he had. With Michelle. For five years. And Michelle was the woman in the black-and-white nude photographs.

So Owen wasn’t exactly surprised when Stott and Hatchley walked into the pub and asked him if he would mind going to the station with them to clear up a few points. Nervous, yes, but not surprised. They said the department head had told them where they were likely to find him, and they had walked straight over.

Nobody spoke during the first part of the journey. Sergeant Hatchley drove the unmarked Rover, and Inspector Stott sat beside him. Owen could see the sharp line of his haircut at the back of his neck and the jug-handle shape of his ears, glasses hooked over them. As they approached the market square, Owen looked out of the window at the drab, shadowy figures hurrying from shop to shop, holding onto their hats.