“A little, ma’am,” said Winsome. “At least the local memory tag on his license plate number indicates the car was registered in London.”

“It’s not hired?”

“No. We finally got a look inside with the help of the garage. Unfortunately, there was nothing inside to indicate who he was, either.”

“So someone really wanted to throw sand in our eyes.”

“Well, ma’am, it’s a fairly new car, and he might not have been the kind of person who lives out of it, but it certainly looks that way. Whoever did it must have known he could only have slowed the investigation down, though.” Winsome looked at Banks, who nodded for her to go on. “Which probably means that he wanted to give himself a bit of time to get far enough away and arrange an alibi.”

“Interesting theory, DC Jackman,” said Gervaise. “But that’s all it is, isn’t it, a theory?”

“Yes, ma’am. For the moment.”

“And we need facts.”

That was pretty much self-evident in any investigation, Banks thought. Of course you wanted facts, but until you got them you played around with theories, you used what you did have, then you applied a bit of imagination, and as often as not you came up with an approximation of the truth, which was what he thought Winsome was doing. So Ms. Gervaise wanted to establish herself as a just-the-facts, no-fancy-theories kind of superintendent. Well, so be it. The squad would soon learn to keep their theories to themselves, but Banks hoped her attitude wouldn’t completely crush their creativity, and wouldn’t stop them from confiding their theories in him. It was all very well to come in with an attitude, but it was another thing if that attitude destroyed the delicate balance that had already been achieved over time.

They were drastically short of DCs, having recently lost Gavin Rickerd, their best office manager, to the new neighborhood policing initiative, where he was working with community support officers and specials to tackle the antisocial behavior that was becoming increasingly the norm all over the country, especially on a Saturday night in Eastvale. Gavin hadn’t been replaced yet, and in his absence the job this time had gone to one of the uniformed constables, hardly the ideal choice, but the best they could do right now.

Banks wanted Winsome Jackman and Kev Templeton doing what they did best – tracking down information and following leads – and when it came to that, Detective Sergeant Hatchley had always been a bit slow and lazy. His physical presence used to help intimidate the odd suspect or two, but these days the ex-rugby player’s muscle had gone mostly to fat, and the police weren’t allowed to intimidate villains anymore. Villains’ Rights had put paid to that, or so it sometimes seemed, especially since a burglar had fallen off the roof of a warehouse he had broken into last summer, then sued the owner for damages and won.

“I’m trying to get in touch with the DVLA in Swansea,” Winsome said, “but it’s Saturday. They’re closed and I can’t seem to track down my contact.”

“Keep trying,” said Superintendent Gervaise. “Is there anything else?”

Winsome consulted her notes. “DS Templeton and I interviewed the people in the Cross Keys and took statements. Nothing new there. And when the lights came on we made a quick check of their outer clothing for signs of blood. There were none.”

“What’s your take on this?” Gervaise asked Banks.

“I don’t have enough facts yet to form an opinion,” Banks said.

The irony wasn’t lost on Superintendent Gervaise, who pursed her lips. She looked as if she had just bitten into a particularly vinegary pickle. Banks noticed Annie look away and smile to herself, pen against her lips, shaking her head slowly.

“I understand you entered a licensed premises during the early stages of the investigation yesterday evening,” Gervaise said.

“That’s right.” Banks wondered who had been talking, and why.

“I suppose you know there are regulations governing drinking whilst on duty?”

“With all due respect,” Banks said, “I didn’t go there for a drink. I went to question possible witnesses.”

“But you did have a drink?”

“While I was there, yes. I find it puts people at ease. They see you as more like they are, not as the enemy.”

“Duly noted,” said Gervaise dryly. “And did you find any cooperative witnesses?”

“Nobody seemed to know very much about the victim,” Banks said. “He was renting a cottage, not a local.”

“On holiday at this time of year?”

“That’s what I wondered about.”

“Find out what he was doing there. That might help us get to the bottom of this.”

Quite the one for dishing out obvious orders, was Superintendent Gervaise, Banks thought. He’d had bosses like that before: State the obvious, the things your team would do anyway, without even being asked, and take the credit for the results. “Of course,” he said. “We’re working on it. One of the staff might know a bit more than she’s letting on.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Her manner, body language.”

“All right. Question her. Bring her in, if necessary.”

Banks could tell by Superintendent Gervaise’s clipped tone and the way her hand strayed to her short layered locks that she was getting bored with the meeting and anxious to get away, no doubt to send out a memo on drinking while on duty, or the ten most obvious courses to pursue during a murder inquiry.

“If that’s all for now, ladies and gentlemen,” she went on, stuffing her papers into her briefcase, “then I suggest we all get down to work.”

To a chorus of muttered “Yes, ma’ams” she left the room, heels clicking against the hardwood floor. Only after she’d gone did Banks realize that he had forgotten to tell her about the figures in the book.

Monday, 8th September, 1969

Janet was watching The News at Ten when Chadwick got home that evening, and Reginald Bosanquet was talking about ITA’s exciting new UHF color transmissions from the Crystal Palace transmitter, which was all very well, Chadwick thought, if you happened to own a color TV. He didn’t. Not on a DI’s pay of a little over two thousand pounds per year. Janet walked toward him.

“Hard day?” she asked.

Chadwick nodded, kissed her and sat down in his favorite armchair.

“Drink?”

“A small whiskey would go down nicely. Yvonne not home yet?” He glanced at the clock. Twenty past ten.

“Not yet.”

“Know where she is?”

Janet turned from pouring the whiskey. “Out with friends was all she said.”

“She shouldn’t go out so often on school nights. She knows that.”

Janet handed him the drink. “She’s sixteen. We can’t expect her to do everything the way we’d like it. Things are different these days. Teenagers have a lot more freedom.”

“Freedom? As long as she’s under this roof we’ve a right to expect some degree of honesty and respect from her, haven’t we?” Chadwick argued. “The next thing you know she’ll be dropping out and running off to live in a hippie commune. Freedom.”

“Oh, give it a rest, Stan. She’s going through a stage, that’s all.” Janet softened her tone. “She’ll get over it. Weren’t you just a little bit rebellious when you were sixteen?”

Chadwick tried to remember. He didn’t think so. It was 1937 when he was sixteen, before “teenagers” had been invented, when youth was simply an unfortunate period one had to pass through on the route from childhood to maturity. Another world. George VI was crowned king that year, Neville Chamberlain became prime minister and looked likely to get along well with Hitler, and the Spanish Civil War was at its bloodiest. But Chadwick had paid only scant attention to world affairs. He was at grammar school then, on a scholarship, playing rugby with the first fifteen, and all set for a university career that was interrupted by the war and somehow never got resurrected.