At the back of Eastvale bus station, past the noise of revving engines and the stink of diesel fumes, a pair of heavy glass doors led past the small newsagent’s booth to an escalator that rarely worked.

At the top of the staircase, a shop-lined corridor ended in an open, glass-roofed area with a central fountain surrounded by a few small, tatty trees in wooden planters. The Swainsdale Center.

Several other corridors, leading from other street entrances, also converged like spokes at the hub. There were shops all around-HMV, Boots, W.H. Smith, Curry’s, Dixon’s-but at six-thirty that Wednesday evening, none of them were open. Only the small coffee shop was doing any business at all-if you could call two cups of tea and a Penguin biscuit in the last two hours “business.”

The teenagers hung out around the fountain, usually leaning against the trees or sitting on the benches that had been put up for little old ladies to rest their feet. No little old ladies dared go near them now.

A number of pennies gleamed at the bottom of the pool into which the fountain ran. God knew why people felt they had to chuck coins in water, Banks thought. But the small pool was mostly full of floating cigarette ends, cellophane, Mars bar wrappers, beer tins, plastic bags containing traces of solvent, and the occasional used condom.

Banks experienced a brief flash of anger as he approached, imagining Tracy standing there as one of this motley crowd, smoking, drinking beer, pushing one another playfully, raising their voices in occasional obscenities or sudden whoops, and generally behaving as teenagers do.

Then he reminded himself, as he constantly had to do these days, that he hadn’t been much different himself at their age, and that as often as not, beneath the braggadocio and the rough exteriors, most of them were pretty decent kids at heart.

Except John Spinks.

According to Tracy, Spinks was a hero of sorts among the group because of his oft-recounted but never-detected criminal exploits. She thought he made most of them up, but even she had to admit that he occasionally shared his ill-gotten gains with the others in the form of cigarettes and beer. As he didn’t work and couldn’t have got very much from the dole, he clearly had to supplement his income through criminal activities. And he never seemed short of a few quid for a new leather jacket.

He lived with his mum on the East Side Estate, a decaying monument to the sixties’ social optimism, but he never talked much about his home life.

He had boasted of going to an “Acid House” party in Manchester once, Tracy said, and claimed he took Ecstasy there. He had also tried glue-sniffing, but thought it was kids’ stuff and it gave you spots. He was proud of his clear complexion.

Spinks, standing a head taller than the rest, was immediately recognizable from Tracy’s description. His light-brown hair was short at the back and sides, and long on top, with one long lock half-covering the left side of his face. He wore jeans, trainers with the laces untied and a mid-length flak jacket.

When Banks and Hatchley approached, showed their warrant cards and asked for a private little chat, he didn’t run, curse them or protest, but simply shrugged and said, “Sure,” then he gave his mates a sideways grin as he went.

They went into the coffee shop, took a table, and Hatchley fetched three coffees and a couple of chocolate biscuits. The owner’s face lit up; it was more business than she’d done in ages.

In a way, Tracy was right; Spinks did resemble someone from “Neighbors.” Clean cut, with that smooth complexion, he had full lips, perhaps a shade too red for a boy, brown eyes that could probably melt a young girl’s heart, and straight, white teeth, the front ones stained only slightly by tobacco. He accepted the cigarette Banks offered and broke off the filter before smoking it.

“You Tracy Banks’s dad, then?” he said.

“That’s right.”

“She said her father were a copper. Nice bit of stuff, Tracy is. I’ve had my eyes on her for a while. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her for a few weeks. What’s she up to, these days?”

Banks smiled. It hadn’t taken long to get past the good looks to the slimy, vain and cocky little creep underneath. Now he knew he wouldn’t feel bad, no matter what he had to do to get Spinks to talk.

When Banks didn’t answer, Spinks faltered only slightly before saying, “Why don’t you ask her to drop by one evening? She knows where I am. We could have a really good time. Know what I mean?”

“One more remark like that,” Hatchley cut in, “and you’ll be mopping blood from your face for the rest of our little chat.”

“Threats now, is it?” He shrugged. “What’s it matter, anyway? I’ve already had the little bitch and she’s not-”

The woman behind the counter looked over just after Spinks’s face bounced off the table, and she hurried over with a cloth to stem the flow of blood from his nose.

“That’s police brutality,” Spinks protested, his words muffled by the cool, wet cloth. “Broke my fucking nose. Did you see that?”

“Me?” said the woman. “Didn’t see nothing. And there’s no call for that sort of language in here. You can keep the cloth.” Then she scurried back behind the counter.

“Funny,” said Banks, “I was looking the other way, too.” He leaned forward. “Now listen you little arse-wipe, let’s start again. Only this time, I ask the questions and you answer them. Okay?”

Spinks muttered a curse through the rag.

“Okay?” Banks asked again.

Spinks took the cloth away. The flow of blood seemed to have abated, and he only dabbed at it sulkily now and then throughout the interview. “You’ve broken my tooth,” he whined. “That’ll cost money. I was only joking, anyway, about your-”

“Deborah Harrison,” Banks said. “Name ring a bell?”

Spinks averted his eyes. “Sure. It’s that schoolkid from St. Mary’s got herself killed the other day. All over the news.”

“She didn’t ‘get herself’ killed. Someone murdered her.”

“Whatever.” The lock of hair kept slipping down over Spinks’s eye, and he had developed the habit of twitching his head to flick it back in place. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t kill her.”

“Where were you on Monday around six o’clock?”

“Was that the day it was really foggy?”

“Yes.”

“I was here.” He pointed to the group outside. “Ask anyone. Go on, ask them.”

Banks nodded at Sergeant Hatchley, who went out to talk to the youths.

“Besides,” Spinks went on, “why would I want to kill her?”

“You went out together over the summer and you parted on bad terms. You were angry with her, you wanted revenge.”

He probed his tooth and winced. “That’s a load of old knob-rot, that is. Besides, they wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”

“Who wasn’t?”

“Them. The French tart and that bloody Clayton. They went to enough trouble to stop me from telling anyone, now they go and tell you themselves. Bloody stupid, it is. Doesn’t make sense. Unless they just wanted to drop me in it.” He dabbed at his red nose.

Hatchley came back inside and nodded.

“They telling the truth?” Banks asked.

“Hard to say. Like Jelačić’s mates, they’d probably say black was white if young Lochinvar over here told them to.”

Banks studied Spinks, who showed no emotion, but kept dabbing at his nose and probing his tooth with his tongue. “What did Michael Clayton do to stop you from talking?” he asked.

Spinks looked down into the bloodstained rag. “Imagine how it would sound if some newspaper got hold of the story that an East Side Estate yobbo like me had been sticking it to Sir Geoffrey Harrison’s daughter.”

“That’s why. I asked you what.”

“Gave me some money.”

“Who did?”

“Clayton.”

“Michael Clayton gave you money to stay away from Deborah?”