“Oh, yes,” she said. “I remember now. In the water.” She closed her eyes and seemed to drift off.

Banks leaned forward and kissed her quickly on the cheek, then said good night and went back downstairs.

“She’s in and out,” he told his father.

Arthur Banks had pulled himself together. “Yes,” he said. “It’s probably those tablets the doctor gave her.” He looked at Banks. “You said before you wished there was something you could do, and there is, you know. I’ve been thinking while you were up with your mother.”

“What’s that, Dad?”

“You’re supposed to be a detective, aren’t you? You can do your job and go back to London and catch the bastard that killed our Roy.”

Banks sat down, picked up his mug of tea and reached for a sandwich. “Yes,” he said. “You’re right. And that’s exactly what I intend to do first thing tomorrow.”

Late on Tuesday morning, after breakfast and a brief meeting with Brooke to review their progress so far, Annie went back to her room, packed her meager belongings and checked out of the hotel. She was looking forward to getting home, digging out some clean clothes and sleeping in her own bed again, if only for one night. She knew she would have to come back, especially as she planned on visiting Dr. Lukas at home in the near future. For the meantime, though, Brooke was leading the Roy Banks investigation, and Annie needed to show her face to the troops back up in Eastvale, talk to Stefan Nowak and Gristhorpe and see how Winsome and Kev Templeton were getting on.

She wondered what Banks was up to as she waited for a taxi. She hadn’t tried to ring him again the previous evening, deciding it was probably best to leave him and his parents in peace. From what she could remember Banks telling her, they had doted on Roy. And even though he and Roy hadn’t been close, she knew he must be distraught. Though she wasn’t unduly worried about him, he had been depressed lately, and something like this could push him over the edge. She would like to talk to him, anyway, to see him, if only to reassure herself and offer her condolences. A taxi pulled up and Annie got in.

“King’s Cross, please,” she told the driver.

“Right you are, madam.”

They had hardly got over Lambeth Bridge when her mobile rang.

“Annie, it’s Dave Brooke here.”

“Dave. What is it?”

“Thought you might be interested. I’ve just got the pathologist’s report on Roy Banks. Can you talk?”

“It’s okay,” said Annie. “I’m in a taxi on my way to the station.” The driver was listening to an interview on BBC London, chuckling to himself, and there was a Plexiglas window between the front and the back.

“Fair enough. Bottom line is the shot to the head killed him outright. It’s a twenty-two-caliber bullet, just like the one that killed Jennifer Clewes.”

“Anything on time of death?”

“He’d been in the water about forty hours. Had to have been to get in the state he was and end up on that patch of shingle, so the tide experts tell me.”

“So it can’t have been the same killers.”

“No. They couldn’t possibly have got back from Yorkshire in time.” Brooke paused. “DCI Banks isn’t going to like hearing this, but it also appears that his brother was tortured before he was shot.”

“Tortured?”

“Yes. There’s evidence of serious bruising to the body and cigarette burns on the arms and soles of the feet. Some of the fingernails have been pulled out, too.”

“Jesus,” said Annie. “Someone wanted something from him?”

“Or wanted to know how much he knew, or had given away.”

“Either way, you’re right. Alan won’t like that at all. The press-”

“They’re not going to find out.”

“Are you sure?”

“Not from us. We’re keeping this to ourselves. All the press will be told is that he was shot. That will be enough for them. I can see the gun-crime editorials right now.”

“True enough,” said Annie. “They’re already having a field day with the Jennifer Clewes shooting. Anything else?”

“Just a couple of things,” said Brooke. “Remember the digital photo that came through on Roy Banks’s mobile?”

“Yes. Alan mentioned it to me.”

“As we suspected, it came from a stolen phone. Technical support didn’t have much trouble enhancing the image. They’ve got all sorts of fancy software that can filter and stretch and make predictions based on pixel statistics. The upshot is, though, that it doesn’t tell us a hell of a lot. We still can’t be absolutely certain whether the man in the chair is Roy Banks. They did manage to get something from the wall in the background.”

“What?”

“It looks as if there were two rows of letters, or words, stenciled on the rough brick. The first ends in NGS and the second in IFE. We’ve no idea how long the lines were or how many words. We’re getting a list of all abandoned factories in the Greater London area, and the experts are working on identifying some of the rusted machines. It might help figure out what sort of a factory it was. If the tide experts can come up with a general idea of where Roy Banks might have been dropped in the river, we should be able to put it all together and pinpoint where the murder took place.”

“That sounds promising,” said Annie. “Any leads on who might have wanted Roy Banks dead?”

“We’ve turned up a couple of iffy names from his business correspondence. Oliver Drummond and William Gilmore. Ever heard of them?”

“No,” said Annie.

“Well, they’re definitely in our bad books. The first one’s been involved in a couple of frauds and we think the second’s been running a chop shop. High-end. Mostly Jags and Beemers for rich Russians and Arabs. Never managed to track it down, though, and Gilmore always seems to turn out squeaky-clean. We’ve managed to get him on a few minor charges, which is why he’s on our books, but nothing big.”

“What about the men in the photograph DCI Banks gave you?”

Brooke paused. “Gareth Lambert,” he said. “He’s got no form. The other one we don’t know.”

“Doesn’t it seem important, though? Roy Banks did think it necessary to take and then hide the photo. Maybe blackmail was involved?”

“Give us time, Annie,” Brooke snapped. “You know damn well how it is with manpower and budgets. And half the bloody team’s on holiday right now. We’ll get there, eventually.”

“Okay, Dave. Hold your horses. I was only trying to be helpful.”

“I’m sorry, I know. Only we’re stretched to the limit.”

“I understand. Best of luck, then, and thanks for bringing me up-to-date. I’ll see what’s happening up north and probably be back in a day or so. Keep in touch?”

“Absolutely. Oh, by the way, our artist’s finished with Seaton now. The impression doesn’t look bad. Want a copy?”

“Thanks. It might be useful.”

“I’ll get it faxed to you.”

The traffic slowed to a crawl as the taxi got closer to the chaotic and seemingly endless construction of the Channel Tunnel Rail Link around King’s Cross. Annie didn’t have a lot of time and worried she might miss her train, but the driver found a gap in the traffic and pulled up at the side with fifteen minutes to spare. Annie paid him, picked up a couple of magazines for the journey at W.H. Smith’s, then checked the platform number on the board and headed out to the train. The station was bustling with people and it smelled of warm engines, diesel oil and smoke. Annie found her coach and seat, popped her small bag on the rack and sat down to make herself comfortable.

About three minutes before the train was due to set off, a decidedly nervous announcement came over the PA system. “Would all passengers calmly leave the train and exit the station.”

Everyone sat there for a moment, stunned, wondering if they’d heard correctly. Then it came again, not sounding calm at all: “Would all passengers calmly leave the train and exit the station.”