Daniel had put out a couple of folding chairs in the garden. When the weather was nice, he liked to sit and watch the river as he composed his sermon. There was also a beautiful view of St. Mary’s Hill, the fine old houses above the gentle slope of grass and trees. Here I am, Rebecca thought, sitting in the garden with a possible murderer on a warm June afternoon.

“I still don’t understand why you’re here,” she said.

“I told you. I want-I need-a friend. Or friends. Everywhere I go people turn their backs. I’m lonely and I’m scared. I heard somewhere about what your husband’s been going through. But you have obviously stood by him however hard it’s been. I’ve got nobody.”

Rebecca almost laughed out loud at the irony of it. Instead she said, “Yes. It has been hard. But the court found you innocent. You’re free now.”

Owen sniffed. “Not innocent. Just not guilty as charged. It’s a different thing. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m not really free. Everyone believes I’m guilty.”

“Are you?”

“Will you believe me if I promise to answer truthfully?”

Rebecca felt her heart speed up. It was such a simple question, but it seemed to her that so much depended on it. Not just Owen Pierce, here and now, but her whole moral reality, her sense of trust and, even, her faith itself. She became aware of Pierce looking at her and realized that she had probably been holding her breath. Finally, she let it out and took the leap.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll believe you.”

Pierce looked her in the eye. “No,” he said. “No, I didn’t do it.”

Somehow, Rebecca felt great relief. “What can we do for you?” she asked.

Almost as if he didn’t believe his good fortune, Pierce remained speechless for a while. His eyes filled with tears and Rebecca felt, for a moment, like taking his hand. But she didn’t.

Finally, in a cracking voice, he said, “I need help. I have to put my life back together again and I can’t do it alone.” As he spoke, he regained his composure and wiped the tears away briskly. “It may seem cold, calculated,” he said, “but it isn’t. When I found out who you were, I remembered you from court and I was drawn to you because I thought you’d understand, you know, about being thought guilty when you’re innocent, about all the hypocrisy they talk about truth and justice. I’m sure your husband didn’t do what he’s been accused of. No more than I did.”

“But I thought you would be angry with us. My husband gave evidence against you.”

Owen shook his head. “All he did was tell the truth. It didn’t make any difference to the case. It was me on the bridge. I never denied that. And it must have been terrible for you finding the body. No, I hold nothing against you or your husband. Look, I have no friends, Mrs. Charters. Everyone’s deserted me. I have no close family. Even strangers treat me like some sort of monster if they recognize me. I need support, public support. I need it to be seen that decent, intelligent people don’t think I’m a monster. I need you on my side. You and your husband.”

“You might have come to the wrong place,” Rebecca said. “You wouldn’t want to join a losing cause. Remember, my husband is still under suspicion.”

“Yes, but he has carried on in the face of it all. And I know you believe in him. You’ve stuck by him. So have a lot of other members of the congregation, I’m sure. Don’t you see, Mrs. Charters, we’re both victims, your husband and I?”

Rebecca thought for a moment, remembering the hypocrisy of some parishioners. “All right, then,” she said. “I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll talk to my husband.”

“Thank you,” breathed Owen.

“But will you do one thing for me?”

“Of course.”

“Will you come to church tomorrow morning? I’m not trying to convert you or anything, but it would be good if you could be seen there. The people who still come to St. Mary’s have, for the most part, stuck up for Daniel and believed in his innocence, as you say. If we take you into the congregation, they might do the same for you. I know it might sound hypocritical, the way people judge by appearances, but they do, you know, and perhaps if…Why are you laughing?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Charters, I really am. I just can’t help it. Of course I’ll come to church. Believe me, it seems a very small price to pay.”

It was just after two o’clock in the morning and Banks kept waking up from disturbing dreams. He and Sandra had been out to a folk night in the Dog and Gun, in Helmthorpe, with some old friends, Harriet Slade and her husband, David. The star of the evening was Penny Cartwright, a local singer who had given up fame and fortune to settle back in Helmthorpe a few years ago. Banks had first met her while investigating the murder of Harold Steadman, a local historian, and he had seen her once or twice in the intervening years. They chatted amicably enough when they met, but there was always a tension between them, and Banks was glad when the chit-chat was over.

Her singing was something to be relished, though. Alto, husky on the low notes but pure and clear in the higher range, her voice also carried the controlled emotion of a survivor. She sang a mix of traditional and contemporary-from Anon to Zimmerman-and her version of the latter’s “I Dreamed I Saw St. Augustine” had made Banks’s spine tingle and his eyes prickle with tears.

But now, after a little too much port and Stilton back at Harriet and David’s, Banks was suffering the consequences. He had often thought that the blue bits in Stilton, being mold, had mild hallucinogenic properties and actually gave rise to restless dreams. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t yet found a scientist to agree with him; he was sure of it. Because every time he ate Stilton, it happened.

These weren’t satisfying dreams, the kind you need to make you feel you’ve had a good night’s sleep, but abrupt and disturbing transformations just below the threshold of consciousness: computer games turned into reality; cars crashed through monitor screens; and the ghost of a young woman walked through a foggy graveyard. In one, he had terminal cancer and couldn’t remember what his children looked like. All the while, voices whispered about demon lovers, and crows picked bodies clean to the bone.

Thus Banks was not altogether upset when the phone rang. Puzzled, but relieved in a way to be rescued from the pit of dreams. At the same time, apprehension gripped his chest when he turned over and picked up the receiver. Sandra stirred beside him and he tried to keep his voice down.

“Sir?”

“Yes,” Banks mumbled. It was a woman’s voice.

“This is DC Gay, sir. I’m calling from the station.”

“What are you doing there? What’s happened?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but it looks like there’s been another one.”

“Another what?”

“Another girl disappeared, sir. Name’s Ellen Gilchrist. She went to a school dance at Eastvale Comprehensive tonight and never arrived home. Her mum and dad are climbing up the walls.”

Banks sat up and swung his legs from under the covers. Sandra turned over. “Where are they?” he asked.

“They’re here, sir, at the station. I couldn’t keep them away. I said we’re doing all we can, but…”

“Have you called her friends, boyfriends?”

“Yes, sir. That’s all been done. Everyone her mum and dad and her friends from the dance could think of. We’ve woken up half the town already. As far as I can gather, she left the dance alone just after eleven o’clock. Had a headache. Her parents only live on the Leaview Estate, so it’s not more than a quarter of a mile down King Street. They got worried when she hadn’t turned up by midnight, her curfew. Called us at twelve-thirty. Sir?”

“Yes?”

“They said normally they’d have given her till one, more likely, then give her a good talking to and pack her off to bed. But they said they’d heard about that killer who got off. Owen Pierce. That’s why they called us so soon.”