Banks shook his head. “No need to run away,” he said. “We know you didn’t do it now. The press will fall all over themselves to support your cause, and they’ll crucify us for getting the wrong man. Police incompetence.”

Owen forced a smile. “Maybe. Eventually. And I can’t say I’ll be sorry. You deserve it. I remember what you’ve put me through. I remember all the terrible things you accused me of only yesterday. Perversion. Cowardice. Not to mention murder. But I can’t see me getting my job or my friends back, can you? And I imagine there’ll be a lot of people around these parts slow to change their minds, no matter what. Shit sticks, Chief Inspector. That’s one thing I’ve learned from all this.”

Banks nodded. “Perhaps. For a while.”

Owen paused at the door. “Look,” he said, “I don’t expect an apology or anything, but could you just tell me again that you believe I’m innocent? Not just not guilty but innocent. Will you say it. I need to hear it.”

“You’re innocent, Owen. It’s true. You’re free to go.”

“Thank you.” Owen turned and started to pull the door shut behind him.

“Owen?” Banks called after him.

Owen felt a little shiver of panic. He turned. “Yes?”

“I am sorry. Good luck to you.”

Owen nodded, shut the door and left the building as fast as he could.

It wasn’t until late Tuesday afternoon that a number of things clicked into place for Banks, and what had been eluding him, niggling him for days, suddenly became clear.

So far, there were no leads on the Ellen Gilchrist murder. Several cars had been spotted on King Street that night-big, small, light, dark, Japanese, French-but no-one had any reason to take down license numbers or detailed descriptions. If the killer had used his own car, Banks reflected, then he may have parked out of sight, just around the corner on one of the sidestreets.

A couple of tourists unable to sleep on a lumpy mattress at a Gratly B amp; B said they heard a car pass shortly after eleven-thirty, which would have been about the right time, but they hadn’t seen anything. So far, no-one in Skield had been disturbed by Saturday night’s events, but that didn’t surprise Banks. If the killer were clever, which he apparently was, then he would have parked off the road, well out of the hamlet itself.

Under Superintendent Gristhorpe’s co-ordination, Susan Gay and Jim Hatchley were still out checking the victim’s friends and acquaintances to see if she could have been killed by someone who knew her, or if anyone knew more than he or she was telling. The more he thought about it, though, the more Banks was convinced that the solution to Ellen Gilchrist’s murder lay in Deborah Harrison’s.

Also, when Banks arrived at the office that morning, he found a telephone message in his pigeon-hole from Rebecca Charters, dated the previous afternoon, asking him to phone her. When he rang Rebecca, she told him about surprising someone in St. Mary’s graveyard the previous afternoon. No, she hadn’t seen who it was, couldn’t even give a description. She laughed at her fears now, apologized for bothering him and said she’d been a bit jumpy lately. Yesterday, she hadn’t hesitated to call, but now she had had time to think about it. Probably just a kid, she decided. Banks wasn’t too sure, but he put it on the back burner for the moment.

Since Stott’s revelation, after the inevitable bollocking from Jimmy Riddle and a reminder that he was close to the end of his allotted week, Banks and Superintendent Gristhorpe had also been engaged in damage control.

So far, they had managed to keep Stott’s illegal surveillance from the press. And Owen Pierce certainly wasn’t interested in blowing the whistle. As far as the media were concerned, Pierce had an unimpeachable alibi. All that had happened was that another innocent person had spent a night in the cells because of police incompetence. Nothing new about that. Eastvale CID came out of it looking only like prize berks, not like a combination of the Gestapo and the KGB.

As for Barry Stott, he hadn’t resigned, but he had taken some of the leave due to him. God knew where he was. Wrestling with his conscience somewhere, Banks guessed. As far as Banks was concerned, though, Stott was overreacting. So, he had let himself get a bit obsessed with Pierce’s guilt. So what? Things like that happened sometimes, and they rarely had dire consequences. After all, Stott had only watched Pierce; he hadn’t beat him up or assassinated him.

Despite the hours of work a murder inquiry consumed, routine work still went on at Eastvale Divisional HQ, and routine papers still found their way to Banks’s desk. On that Tuesday afternoon, when he was distracted by thoughts of Ellen Gilchrist, Deborah Harrison, Barry Stott and Owen Pierce, a proposal requiring every patrol car be fitted with a dashboard computer passed over his desk for perusal after a report on the increase of car theft in North Yorkshire.

Because Banks wasn’t thinking about it, because the words simply floated into that chaotic, intuitive and creative part of his mind rather than engaging his sense of reason and logic, he was struck with that rare feeling of epiphany as a missing piece fell into place. It felt like the simultaneous telescoping and expansion of a chain of unrelated words into one inevitable conclusion: each element rolled firmly into place like the balls with the winning lottery numbers: Car. Computer. Theft. Spinks.

It wasn’t really intuition, but a perfectly logical process, taking a number of facts and relating them in a way that made sense. It only felt like a sudden revelation.

On Friday, when Banks had questioned John Spinks about Michael Clayton and Sylvie Harrison, it had been staring him in the face. But he hadn’t seen it. On Saturday, after his talk with Clayton, he had felt close to something. But he hadn’t known what. Now he did. He still had some dates to check, but as he pushed the proposal aside, he was certain that John Spinks had stolen Michael Clayton’s car and computer in August of last year. Whether that actually meant anything remained to be seen.

Excited by the theory, Banks checked the dates and dashed into Gristhorpe’s office, where he found the superintendent immersed in the statement of Ellen Gilchrist’s best friend. Gristhorpe stretched and rubbed his bushy eyebrows with his fingertips when Banks entered. After he’d done, they looked like birds’ nests.

“Alan. What can I do for you?”

Banks explained about his chain of reasoning. Gristhorpe nodded here and there, and when Banks had finished, put his forefinger to his lips and furrowed his brow.

“So Lady Sylvie Harrison and Michael Clayton found Spinks and Deborah drinking wine in the back garden on August 17, right?” he said.

Banks nodded.

“And Clayton reported his car stolen on August 20. I remember it because when he came to inquire about our progress, he thought he was so important he had to see the top man on the totem pole. About a bloody stolen car. I ask you.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t go directly to Jimmy Riddle.”

“Oh, he did. First off. But Riddle’s in Northallerton and that was too far for Clayton to go every day. So Riddle told him to keep checking with me. I put Barry and Susan on it. Clayton was like a cat on a hot tin roof. Not over the car, though.”

“The computer?”

“Got it in one.”

“Yes. That’s what Susan said,” Banks mused. “When Clayton recognized her that time we went to talk to the Harrisons. I should have realized at the time.”

Gristhorpe smiled indulgently. “I think you can be forgiven that, Alan,” he said. “Wasn’t it about the same time the lead on Pierce came up?”

“Yes. But-”

“Anyway, let’s assume that Spinks stole Clayton’s car on August 20,” Gristhorpe went on. “He did some damage, but not much. It was the missing notebook computer that really had Clayton dancing on hot coals. We know it was a very expensive one, with all the bells and whistles, but Clayton’s a rich man. He could afford a new one easily. It was what was on the computer that he was worried about. As I recollect, it turned up on the market a couple of weeks later, no worse for wear.”