“That’s what I said.”

“How much?”

“Hundred quid.”

“So you admit to blackmailing Lady Harrison?”

“Nothing of the sort. Look, if you sell a story to the papers, they pay you for it, don’t they? So why shouldn’t you get paid if you don’t sell the papers a story?”

“Your logic is impeccable, John. I can see you didn’t waste your time in school.”

Spinks laughed. “School? Hardly ever there, was I?”

“Was Deborah there when you went to ask for money?”

“Nah. Just the two of them. Clayton and the old bag.” He put on a posh accent. “It was Deborah’s day for riding, don’t you know. Dressage. Got a horse out Middleham way. Always did like hot flesh throbbing between her legs, did Deborah.”

“So the two of them had a talk with you?”

“That’s right.”

“And after Lady Harrison had gone upstairs, Michael Clayton hit you and gave you a hundred pounds.”

“Like I said, we came to an arrangement. Then her ladyship came back and said if she ever heard I’d been talking about her daughter, she would tell Sir Geoffrey and he’d probably have me killed.”

“You blackmailed her and she threatened you with murder?”

“Yeah. Get away with anything, those rich fuckers. Just like the pigs.”

“You’ve been listening to too many Jefferson Airplane records, John. They don’t call us pigs now.”

“Once a pig, always a pig. And it’s compact discs now, not records. Jefferson Airplane, indeed. You’re showing your age.”

“Oh, spare us the witty repartee. Did you see Deborah again after that?”

“No.”

“Did you ever have anything to do with St. Mary’s Church, with Daniel Charters and his wife, or with Ive Jelačić?”

“Church? Me? You must be fucking joking.”

“Did Deborah ever mention an important secret she had?”

“What secret?”

“You’re not being very co-operative, Johnny.”

“I don’t know anything about no secret. And my name’s John. What you gonna do? Arrest me?”

Banks took a sip of coffee. “I don’t know yet. If you didn’t kill Deborah, who do you think did?”

“Some psycho.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“I saw it on telly. That’s what they said.”

“You believe everything you hear on telly?”

“Well if it wasn’t a psycho, who was it?”

Banks sighed and lit another cigarette. This time he didn’t offer Spinks one. “That’s what I’m asking you.” He snapped his fingers. “Come on, wake up, John boy.”

Spinks dabbed at his nose; it had stopped bleeding now. “How should I know?”

“You knew her. You spent time with her. Did she have any enemies? Did she ever talk to you about her life?”

“What? No. Mostly we just fucked, if you want to know the truth. Apart from that, she was boring. Always on about horses and school. And always bloody picking on things I said and the way I said them.”

“Well, she was an educated woman, John. I realize it would have been hard for you to keep up with her intellectually.”

“Like I said, she was only good for one thing.”

“I understand you once stole a car and took Deborah for a joyride?”

“I…Now, hang on just a minute. I don’t know who’s been spreading vicious rumors about me, but I never stole no car. Can’t even drive, can I?” He took a pouch of Drum from his flak-jacket pocket and rolled a cigarette.

“What about drugs?”

“Never touch them. Stay clean. That’s my motto.”

“I’ll bet if we had a look through his pockets,” said Sergeant Hatchley, “we’d probably find enough to lock him up for.”

Banks stared at Spinks for a moment, as if considering the idea. He saw something shift in the boy’s eyes. Guilt. Fear.

“No,” he said, standing up. “He’s not worth the paperwork. We’ll leave him be for the moment. But,” he went on, “we’ll probably be back, so don’t wander too far. I want you to know you’re looking good for this, John. You’ve got quite a temper, so we hear, and you had every reason to hold a grudge against the victim. And one more thing.”

Spinks raised his eyebrows. Banks leaned forward, rested his hands on the table and lowered his voice. “If I ever catch you within a mile of my daughter, you’ll think that bloody nose Sergeant Hatchley gave you was a friendly pat on the back.”

At home later that evening, after dinner, when Tracy had gone up to her room to do her homework, Banks and Sandra found a couple of hours to themselves at last. With Elgar’s first symphony playing quietly on the stereo, Banks poured himself a small Laphroaig and Sandra a Drambuie with ice. He wouldn’t smoke tonight, not at home, he decided, even though the peaty bite of the Islay almost screamed out for an accompaniment of nicotine.

First, Banks told Sandra about John Spinks and his visit to Sylvie Harrison.

“I thought the chief constable ruled the family off-limits,” she said.

“He did.” Banks shrugged. “Actually, I just escaped by the skin of my teeth. Sir Geoffrey came in and caught me talking to her. A word in Jimmy Riddle’s ear and my name would be mud. Luckily, Lady Harrison didn’t want him to know we’d been talking about Deborah’s boyfriend, so she told him I’d just dropped by to give them a progress report. He was more annoyed that she’d been smoking than he was about my presence.”

“This Spinks,” Sandra said. “He sounds like a bad character. Do you think Tracy had anything to do with him?”

Banks shook his head. “He was part of the crowd, that’s all. She’s got more sense than that.”

“Deborah Harrison obviously didn’t have.”

“We all make mistakes.” Banks stood up and walked towards the hall.

“Oh, go on,” Sandra said with a smile. “Have a cigarette if you want one. It’s been a tough day at the gallery. I might even join you.” Sandra had stopped smoking some years ago, but she seemed able to cheat occasionally without falling back into the habit. Banks envied her that.

As it turned out, Banks hadn’t been going for his cigarettes but for the photograph that Stott and Hatchley had got from Owen Pierce. Still, not being one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he weakened and brought the Silk Cut from his overcoat pocket.

Once they had both lit up and the Elgar was moving into the adagio, Banks slid the photograph out of the envelope and passed it to Sandra.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Very pretty. But not your type, surely. Her breasts are too small for your taste.”

“That’s not what I meant. And I’ve got nothing against small breasts.”

Sandra dug her elbow in his side and smiled. “I’m teasing.”

“You think I didn’t know that? Seriously, though, what do you think? Professionally.”

Sandra frowned. “It’s not her, is it? Not the girl who was killed?”

“No. Do you see a resemblance, though?”

Sandra shifted sideways and held the photo under the shaded lamp. “Yes, a bit. The newspaper photo wasn’t very good, mind you. And teenage girls are still, in some ways, unformed. If they’ve got similar hair color and style, and they’re about the same height and shape, you can construe a likeness easily enough.”

“Apparently she’s not a teenager. She was twenty-two when that was taken.”

Sandra raised her dark eyebrows. “Would we could all look so many years younger than we are.”

“What do you think of the style?”

“As a photograph, it’s good. Very good in fact. It’s an excellent composition. The pose looks natural and the lighting is superb. See how it brings out that hollow below the breasts and the ever-so slight swell of her tummy? You can even see where the light catches the tiny hairs on her skin. And it has a mood, too, a unity. There’s a sort of secret smile on her face. A bit Mona Lisa-ish. A strong rapport with the photographer.”

“Do you think she knew him?”

Sandra studied the photograph for a few seconds in silence, Elgar playing softly in the background. “They were lovers,” she said finally. “I’ll bet you a pound to a penny they were lovers.”