“Have you been able to get in touch with DCI Banks?”

“He’s not at home and his mobile’s turned off. I’ve left messages.”

“Well, let’s just hope he gets one of them and rings back. I’d really like to know why a young woman was driving up from London to see him in the middle of the night and ended up with a bullet in her head.”

“He could be anywhere,” Annie said. “He is on holiday, after all.”

“He didn’t tell you where he was going?”

“He doesn’t tell me much these days, sir.”

Gristhorpe frowned and scratched his chin, then he leaned back in his big padded chair and linked his hands behind his head. “How’s he doing?” he asked.

“I’m the last person to ask, sir. We haven’t really talked much since the fire.”

“I thought you two were friends.”

“I like to think we are. But you know Alan. He’s hardly the type to open up when he doesn’t want to. I think perhaps he still blames me for what happened, the fire and all. After all, Phil Keane was my boyfriend. Whatever the reason, he’s been very quiet lately. To be honest, I think it’s partly depression as well.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised. It happens sometimes after illness or an accident. About all you can do is wait till the fog disperses. What about you?”

“Me? I’m fine, sir. Coping.” Annie was aware how tight and unconvincing her voice sounded, but she could do nothing about it. Anyway, she was coping, after a fashion. She certainly wasn’t depressed, just hurt and angry, and perhaps a little distracted.

Gristhorpe held her gaze for just long enough to make her feel uncomfortable. Then he said, “We need to find out why the victim had Alan’s address in her back pocket. And we can’t ask her.”

“There’s a flatmate, sir,” said Annie. “The lads from Lambeth North got bored with hanging around outside and went in for a look. Jennifer Clewes was sharing with a woman called Kate Nesbit. At least there were letters there addressed to a Kate Nesbit and a Jennifer Clewes.”

“Have they talked to this flatmate?”

“She’s not home.”

“Work?”

“On a Saturday? Maybe. Or she might have gone away for the weekend.”

Gristhorpe looked at his watch. “Better get down there, Annie,” he said. “Let your old pal at Kennington know you’re on your way. Find the flatmate and talk to her.”

“Yes, sir.” Annie stood up. “There is one other thing.”

“Yes?”

Annie gestured toward the scrap of paper. “This address. I mean, it is Alan’s address, but it’s not where he’s living now.”

“I noticed that,” said Gristhorpe. “You think it might be significant?”

“Well, sir,” Annie said, hand on the doorknob, “he’s been living at that flat in the old Steadman house for four months now. You’d think everyone who knew him – knew him at all well, at any rate – would know that. I mean, if it was a new girlfriend or something, why give her his old address?”

“You’ve got a point.” Gristhorpe scratched the side of his nose.

“What action do you think we should take?”

“About DCI Banks?”

“Yes.”

Gristhorpe paused. “You say he’s not answering his phones?”

“That’s right; neither his home phone nor his mobile.”

“We need to find him, as soon as we can, but I don’t want to make it official yet. I’ll get Winsome to ring around his family and friends, see if anyone knows where he is.”

“I was thinking of dropping by DCI Banks’s place – both of them – just to have a look around… you know… make sure nothing’s been disturbed.”

“Good idea,” said Gristhorpe. “Are you sure you’re all right on this?”

Annie looked over her shoulder. “Of course I am, sir,” she said. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

Out in the street, Banks tried knocking on a couple of neighbors’ doors, but only one answered, an elderly man who lived in the house opposite.

“I saw you going into Roy’s,” the man said. “I was wondering if I should ring the police.”

Banks took out his warrant card. “I’m Roy’s brother,” he said, “and I am the police.”

The man seemed satisfied and stuck out his hand. “Malcolm Farrow,” he said as Banks shook hands. “Pleased to meet you. Come inside.”

“I don’t want to intrude on your time, but-”

“Think nothing of it. Now I’m retired, every day’s the same to me. Come in, we’ll have a snifter.”

Banks followed him into a living room heavy with dark wood and antiques. Farrow offered brandy, but Banks took only soda. Much too early in the afternoon for spirits.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Banks?” Farrow asked.

“Alan, please. It’s about Roy.”

“What about him? Lovely fellow, that brother of yours, by the way. Couldn’t wish for a better neighbor, you know. Cheerful, considerate. Capital fellow.”

“That’s good to know,” said Banks, judging by the slight slur in his voice and the network of purplish veins around his bulbous nose that Malcolm Farrow had already had a snifter or two. “I was just wondering if you had any idea where he’s gone?”

“You mean he’s not back yet?”

“Apparently not. Did you see him leave?”

“Yes. It was about half past nine last night. I was just putting the cat out when I saw him going out.”

Just after the phone call, Banks realized. “Was he alone?”

“No. There was another man with him. I said hello and Roy returned my greeting. Like I said, you couldn’t wish for a more friendly neighbor.”

“This other man,” said Banks. “Did you get a good look at him?”

“Afraid not. It was getting dark by then, you see, and the street lighting’s not very bright. Besides, to be perfectly honest, I can’t say my eyesight’s quite what it used to be.”

Probably pissed to the gills, too, Banks thought, if today was anything to go by. “Anything at all you can remember?” he said.

“Well, he was a burly sort of fellow with curly hair. Fair or gray. I’m sorry, I didn’t notice any more than that. I only noticed because he was facing me at first for a moment, while Roy had his back turned.”

“Why did Roy have his back turned?”

“He was locking the door. Very security-conscious, Roy is. You have to be these days, don’t you?”

“I suppose so,” said Banks, wondering how the door had come to be unlocked and the burglar alarm unarmed when he got there. “Where did they go?”

“Got in a car and drove off. It was parked outside Roy’s house.”

“What kind of car?”

“I’m not very good with cars. Haven’t driven in years, so I haven’t taken much of an interest. It was light in color, I can tell you that much. And quite big. Looked expensive.”

“And they just drove off?”

“Yes.”

“Had you see the man before?”

“I might have, if it was the same one.”

“Was he a frequent visitor?”

“I wouldn’t say frequent, but I’d seen him a couple of times. Usually after dark, so I’m afraid I can’t do any better with the description.”

“Was either of them carrying anything?”

“Like what?”

“Anything. Suitcase. Cardboard box.”

“Not that I could see.”

That meant that Roy’s computer equipment must have been taken later, by someone with a key. “You didn’t see or hear anyone else call after that, did you?”

“Sorry. My bedroom’s at the back of the house and I still manage to sleep quite soundly, despite my age.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Banks.

“Look, is there something going on? You say Roy’s not come home.”

“It’s probably nothing,” Banks said, not wanting to worry Farrow. He put his tumbler of soda down and stood up. “You know, I’ll bet they went off to some pub or other, had a bit too much. They’re more than likely back at the other bloke’s place right now, still sleeping it off. It is Saturday, after all.” He started moving toward the door.

“I suppose you’re right,” said Farrow, following, “but it’s not like him. Especially as he’d only just got in.”

“Pardon?” said Banks, pausing in the doorway.