He thought of the very first time he had met her in Gristhorpe’s office, shortly after he had first arrived in Eastvale, how he had been struck by her sharp intelligence and her quick sense of humor, as well as her natural beauty, the flaming-red hair, full lips and green eyes with their attractive laugh lines.

Jenny Fuller had been thirty-one then; she was nearly thirty-eight now. The lines had etched themselves a little deeper, and they weren’t so easy to associate with laughter anymore. His first impression had been that she was a knockout. He felt exactly the same today. They had come close to an affair, but Banks had backed off, unwilling to commit himself to infidelity. He had been different then, more confident, more certain of what his life was all about and where it was going. Life had been simpler for him then, or perhaps he had approached it on more absolute terms. It had seemed simple, at least: he loved Sandra and believed she loved him; therefore, he didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that, no matter how tempting. They had just moved up from London, where Banks felt he was quickly burning out, to a less hectic region, partly to save their marriage. And it had worked, up to a point. Seven years.

Against all odds, Banks and Jenny had remained friends. Jenny had become friends with Sandra, too, though Banks got the impression they had drifted apart over the past two or three years.

“Come on, Jenny,” he said. “This sudden return wasn’t on the agenda. I thought you’d become a California beach bunny for good.”

“Beach bunny?” Jenny laughed. “I guess I just didn’t quite make the grade, did I?”

“What do you mean?”

She sighed, looked away, tried to form some words, sighed again, then laughed. There were tears in her eyes. She seemed a lot more twitchy than he remembered, always moving her hands. “It’s all washed up, Alan. That’s what I’ve been meaning to say.”

“What’s all washed up?”

“All of it. The job. Randy. My life.” She cocked her head. “I never did have much luck with men, did I? I should have listened to you years ago.”

There was no arguing with that. Banks remembered one or two of Jenny’s disasters that he had been around to mop up after.

Jenny pushed her plate aside, scampi and chips unfinished, and took a long swig of Campari and soda. Her glass was almost empty; Banks still had the best part of his pint left. He didn’t want any more. “Another?” he asked.

“Am I becoming an alcoholic, too? No, don’t answer that. I’ll get it myself.” Before he could stop her, she stood up and headed for the ladies’ loo.

Banks finished his plaice and chips and looked at the back cover of The Shadow of Death on the table beside him. “A masterpiece.” “Top-rate work.” “A must read.” The critics obviously loved Vivian Elmsley. Or were the brief quotes cunningly edited from less flattering sentences? “Whereas Dostoevsky wrote a masterpiece, Vivian Elmsley can be said to have written only a potboiler of the lowest kind.” Or “Had this book shown even the slightest sign of literary talent or creative imagination, I would not have hesitated to declare it a must read and a piece of top-rate work, but as it possesses neither of these qualities, I have to say it’s a dud.”

When Jenny came back, she had repaired what little damage the tears had caused to her makeup. She had also picked up another Campari and soda.

“You know,” she said, “I’ve been imagining sitting here and talking this over with you like this all the way over on the plane. Picturing how it would be, just you and me here in the Queen’s Arms, like old times. I don’t know why I found it so difficult. I think I might still be jetlagged.”

“Take it easy,” said Banks. “Just tell me what you want to, at your own pace.”

She smiled and patted his arm. “Thanks. You’re sweet.” She snatched a cigarette from his packet and lit up.

“You don’t smoke,” Banks said.

“I do now.” Jenny blew out a long plume. “I’ve just about had it up to here with those nico-Nazis out there. You can’t smoke anywhere. And to think California was a real hotbed of protest and innovation in the sixties. It’s like a fucking kindergarten run by fascists now.”

He hadn’t heard Jenny swear before. Something else new. Smoking, drinking, swearing. He noticed that she wasn’t inhaling, and she stubbed the cigarette out halfway through. “As I’m sure you’ve gathered already,” she went on, “Randy, my main man, my paramour, my significant other, my reason for staying out there as long as I did, is no longer a part of my life. The little shit.”

“What happened?”

“Graduate students. Or, to put it more bluntly, blond twenty-something bimbos with their brains between their legs.”

“I’m sorry, Jenny.”

She waved her hand. “I should have seen it coming. Anyone else would have. Anyway, soon as I found out about what he was up to, there wasn’t much to keep me there. After I confronted him with the evidence, my dear Randy made damn sure I wasn’t going to be offered another year’s visiting lectureship.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Well, thank God they’re not all like that. I’ll be going back to my old lecturing job at York. Start next month. If that doesn’t work out, I’ll hang up my shingle next door to the cop shop and go into private practice. I’m quite the expert on deviants and criminal psychology, should you happen to have such a creature as a serial killer lurking in the general vicinity. I’ve even been on training courses with the FBI profilers.”

“I’ve heard that’s all a load of bollocks,” said Banks. “But I’m impressed. Sorry we don’t have anything at the moment.”

“I know – don’t call us… Story of my life.”

“I don’t think you’ll have any problem staying in work, Jenny, but if there’s ever anything I can do…”

“Thanks. You’re a pal.” She patted his hand.

“I do want to ask your advice on something.”

“Go ahead. I’m finished blubbering and moaning. And I didn’t even ask about you. I haven’t seen you since Sandra left. How are you doing?”

“I’m doing fine, thanks.”

“Seeing anyone?”

Banks paused a moment. “Sort of.”

“Serious?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

“So it is serious. How about Sandra?”

“Do you mean is she seeing anyone? Yes, she is.”

“Oh.”

“It’s okay. I’m fine, Jenny.”

“If you say so. What was it you wanted to ask me?”

“It’s about Matthew Shackleton. Gwen’s – possibly Vivian Elmsley’s – brother. Apparently he was captured by the Japanese and spent a few years in one of their prison camps. By all accounts, he was pretty disturbed when he came home. Ended up committing suicide five years after the war. Thing is, all I can come up with in terms of psychiatric diagnoses are such vague terms as ‘shell shock.’”

“I thought that went out with the First World War?”

“Apparently not, they just changed the name to ‘battle fatigue’ or ‘combat fatigue.’ I was wondering what sort of diagnosis you’d come up with today.”

“That’s good one, Alan.” Jenny pointed her thumb at her chest. “You want me, a psychologist, to come up with a psychiatric diagnosis of a dead man’s mental problems? I like that, I really do. That takes the biscuit.”

Banks grinned. “Oh, don’t be such a nitpicker, Jenny.”

“This had better be between you and me.”

“Cross my heart.”

Jenny toyed with her beer mat, ripping off little pieces of damp cardboard. “Well,” she said, “I’m only guessing, you understand, but if your man had indeed been a prisoner of war under such terrible conditions, then he was probably suffering from some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder.”

Banks took his notebook from his inside pocket and jotted a few words down.

“Don’t you dare quote me on this,” Jenny warned him. “I told you, it’s strictly between you and me.”