“Well,” she said, “I must say you had me all intrigued on the telephone. I’m sorry if I-”

“My fault entirely. I wasn’t being clear. I hope you don’t take me for the kind of man who goes chasing his brother’s fiancée?”

She gave a brief, tight little smile that indicated to Banks that perhaps all was not as it should be in the fiancée department, but he let it go for the time being. She would get to it in her own time, if she wanted.

“Anyway,” he went on, “it’s Roy I want to talk to you about.”

“What about him?”

“Do you have any idea where he is?”

“What do you mean?”

Banks explained about the phone call, Roy’s absence and that the door had been left unlocked.

“That’s not like him,” she said, frowning. “None of it is. I can see why you’d be worried. Anyway, to answer your question, no, I don’t know where he is. Do you think you should go to the police? I mean, I know you are the police, but…”

“I know what you mean,” said Banks. “No, I don’t think so. Not yet, at any rate. I don’t think they’d be very interested. Roy’s a grown-up. There could still be a simple explanation. Do you know any of his friends?”

“Not really. There was another couple we used to go out with occasionally, Rupert and Natalie, but I don’t think Roy has a lot of close friends.”

Banks didn’t miss the “used to,” but he let it go for the moment. There was a Rupert in Roy’s mobile phone book. Banks would ring him eventually, along with the rest of the names. “Do you know a burly man with curly gray or fair hair?” he asked. “He drives a big, light-colored car, an expensive model?”

Corinne thought for a moment, then she said, “No. Sorry. Rupert drives a slate-gray Beemer and Natalie’s got a little Beetle runaround.” She turned up her nose. “A yellow one.”

“When did you last see Roy?”

“A week last Thursday.” She fingered the cross. “Look, I might as well tell you, things haven’t been going all that well for us lately.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Any particular reason?”

“I think he’s been seeing someone else.” She gave a little shrug. “It doesn’t matter, really. I mean, it’s not as if it was serious. We’ve only been going out about a year. We’re not living together or anything.”

“But I thought you were supposed to be engaged?”

“I think that was part of the problem, really. I mean, I’d brought it up, and Roy’s impulsive. Neither of us is ready for marriage yet. We called it off, went back to the way we were. That was when the trouble started. I don’t suppose you can take a big step back like that and expect a relationship to continue the way it was, can you?”

So the engagement had been postponed, or demoted to going steady, and the relationship had cooled, like Banks and Michelle’s. Little brother up to his usual tricks. At least Corinne was to be spared the indignity of being wife number four. “Even so,” Banks said, “it must still hurt. I’m sorry. Have you any idea who he’s seeing?”

“No. I don’t even know if I’m right for sure. It’s just a feeling. You know, little things.”

Well, Banks thought, there were a few possible names and numbers in Roy’s mobile phone book and call list. “How recently?” he asked.

“Just these past few weeks.”

“And before that?”

“Things were fine. At least I thought they were.”

“Was there anything bothering him when you saw him last?”

“Nothing that I could see. He seemed much the same as ever. Except…”

“Yes?”

“Well, as I said, little things, things a woman notices. Forgetfulness, distance, distraction. That wasn’t like him.”

“But he wasn’t depressed or worried about anything?”

“Not that you’d know. I just thought he had someone else on his mind and he’d rather be with her.”

“What about drugs?” Banks asked.

“What about them?”

“Come off it. Don’t tell me you and Roy never snorted a line, smoked a spliff.”

“So what if we did?”

“Apart from its being illegal, which we’ll ignore for the moment, when you get into the drug world you get to meet some nasty people. Did Roy owe his dealer money, for example?”

“Look, it wasn’t much. Just recreational. A gram on the weekends, that sort of thing. Nothing more than he can easily afford.”

“All right,” said Banks. “How much do you know about his business dealings?”

“A fair bit.”

“You’re his accountant, right?”

“Roy takes care of his own books.”

“Oh. I thought that was how you met?”

“Well, yes,” said Corinne. “He got audited and a friend recommended me to him.” She twirled her Celtic cross. “Most of my clients are in the entertainment business – writers, musicians, artists – nobody really big-league, but a few decent, steady earners. Roy was a bit different, to say the least, but I needed the money. And before you ask, everything was aboveboard.” She narrowed her eyes. “Roy once told me he was sure you thought he was a crook.”

“I don’t think he’s a crook,” Banks said, not being entirely truthful. “I think maybe he stretches the law a bit, finds the odd loophole, that’s all. Plenty of businessmen do. What I’m wondering, though, is whether he had any reason to run off. Was his business in trouble? Had he lost a lot of money, made some errors in judgment?”

“No. Roy’s books were good enough for me and the tax man.”

“Look, I’ve seen his house,” said Banks. “The Porsche, the plasma TV, the gadgets. Roy obviously makes quite a lot of money somehow. You said he makes it legitimately. Have you any idea how?”

“He’s a financier. He still plays the stock market to some extent, but mostly he finances business ventures.”

“What kinds?”

“All kinds. Lately he’s been specializing in technology and private health care.”

“Here?”

“All over the place. Sometimes he gets involved in French or German operations. He has connections in Brussels, the EU, and in Zurich and Geneva. He also spends a lot of time and energy in America. He loves New York. Roy’s no fool. He knows better than to put all his eggs in one basket. That’s one reason he’s been so successful.” She paused. “You don’t know your brother at all, do you?” Before Banks could answer, she went on, “He’s a remarkable man in many ways, a financier who can quote Kierkegaard or Schopenhauer at dinner. But he never forgets where he came from. The crushing poverty. He dragged himself out of it, made something of himself, and it’s what drives him. He never wants to end up like that again.”

What kind of a line had Roy been spinning Corinne? Banks wondered. Their childhood hadn’t been that bad. Admittedly, she had only seen the relatively decent house his parents lived in now, and not the back-to-back terrace behind the brickworks where they had lived until Banks was eleven and Roy six. But even then, “crushing poverty” was pushing it a bit. They had always been fed and clothed and never lacked for love. Banks’s father had always been in work until the eighties. What did it matter that the toilet had been outside, down the street, and the whole family had had to share a tin bathtub that they filled with kettles of water boiled on the gas cooker? They were no different from thousands of other working-class families in the fifties and sixties.

“It’s true we were never very close,” Banks admitted, slapping a fly from the knee of his trousers. “What can I say? It just happens that way sometimes. We haven’t got that much in common.”

“Oh, I know all about that,” said Corinne. “I can’t stand my younger sister. She’s a snob and a misery-guts.”

“I don’t hate Roy. I just don’t know him very well, and I’m worried he’s in some sort of trouble.” Banks remembered the CD he had found in Roy’s Blue Lamps jewel case and slipped it out of his pocket. “I found this at Roy’s,” he said. “I wonder if you could help me with it?”

“Of course.”

It didn’t take Corinne long to put the CD in her computer and bring up the list of contents. The icons were JPEGs: 1232 of them in all. Some were merely numbered, others had names like Natasha, Kiki and Kayla. Corinne opened her image viewer and set a slide show going.