So Emily Riddle wanted to thank him. Should he go? Yes, he thought, reaching for the bottle of Laphroaig; hell, yes, he would go.

The Black Bull was a young people’s pub at night, with live music and a steady supply of illegal drugs, mostly Ecstasy and crystal meth. It had been targeted by the Eastvale police’s “Operation Pubwatch” on more than one occasion, never without a few arrests being made. At lunchtime, though, it had a totally different character, and most of the customers worked in the various offices and shops along York Road. The only music issued quietly from the jukebox, and the only drugs being consumed were nicotine and alcohol, with perhaps a little caffeine for those who preferred tea or coffee with their pie and chips.

When Banks arrived spot on one o’clock, Emily was nowhere in sight. He bought himself a pint and found a table near the window. The road outside was busy, and the traffic splashed up dirty water from the roadside puddles.

As he was studying the blackboard and trying to decide between Bar BQ Chicken and Thai Red Curry, Emily breezed in, out of breath, the way Jenny Fuller always seemed to do, as if it had been a great effort getting there only fifteen minutes late. She plonked her bulging handbag on the chair beside Banks, gave him an impish grin and made for the bar. When she came back she was carrying one of those strange cocktails that young drinkers, especially female, seem to think are really interesting: in this case, Kahlua and Coke. She must have charmed the landlord into believing she was old enough to drink, Banks thought, though in all honesty she did look well over eighteen. She had a cigarette in her mouth almost before she sat down, a maneuver Banks was surprised she could make, given that her slightly flared blue jeans looked painted on. Still, it was a testament to Emily’s natural style that she didn’t look in the least bit tarty, and she had chosen to wear no makeup at all. Not that she needed any. Once she had lit her cigarette and had taken a sip of her drink, she shucked her mid-length jacket to reveal a black silk blouse. After she had tidied her hair, she seemed ready to talk, but she kept on fidgeting.

There were moments when Banks looked at her and saw a sophisticated young woman looking back, wise enough in the ways of the world to exploit them for her own ends. Other times, he saw the gauche, nervous teenager, unable to look an adult in the eye. She was still too close to her childhood to recognize its value. When you were Emily’s age, Banks remembered, all you wanted to do was enter that magical world of privilege and freedom you saw all around you – adulthood. Hence the smoking, the drinking, the sex. You didn’t realize until much, much later – too late, some might say – that the privileges and freedoms you coveted came with a very high price tag indeed.

“Have you decided yet?” she asked.

“Decided what?”

“What you’re having for lunch. It’s my treat. I told you on the phone.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know. Daddy probably paid you well already for bringing me home. But I want to.”

“I’ll have the Thai Red Curry, then.” Banks didn’t usually go for more exotic food in pubs, but the Bull had a good lunchtime reputation. “And he didn’t pay me anything.”

She raised a neatly plucked eyebrow.

“Just so you know.”

Emily paused, then said, “All right.” She gestured for the woman delivering food at the next table to come over and started to give her order. The woman frowned, told her to go and order it herself at the bar, then stalked off.

“Get her,” said Emily, pulling a face. Kid again.

Banks scraped his chair against the stone floor. “I’ll go.” He didn’t want her to have to go through the agony of getting up and sitting down again; wearing those jeans, she might rupture her spleen or her bladder.

“No.” She jumped to her feet with surprising agility. “I told you I’d get it.”

Banks watched her walk to the bar, taller than ever in her platform heels, and noticed all the men’s eyes were on her body. There wasn’t one of them who wouldn’t do anything for her. Or to her. The women, however, turned up their noses in distaste and cast disapproving frowns in Banks’s direction. What the hell, Banks asked himself, was he doing sitting in a pub with the chief constable’s daughter, who was definitely breaking one law by drinking under age – even if you could hardly call Kahlua and Coke a real drink – and God knows how many other laws simply by the way she looked? It was fortunate that none of the men could be arrested for their fantasies. Not yet.

“Done.” Emily sat again and plucked her cigarette out of the ashtray. “At least they’ll bring it to the bloody table. You don’t have to get up and fetch it yourself. Honestly, the service industry in this country.”

Banks wondered how many other countries she had experienced and realized it was probably more than his own daughter had. Chief constables were always getting junkets to America, Belgium, South Africa or Peru. He wondered if the service in Peru was better than that in Yorkshire. Probably.

“What are you having?” he asked.

“Me? Nothing. I don’t eat lunch.”

“Nor dinner, either, by the looks of you.”

“Now, now. Remember, you didn’t disapprove of ‘the looks of me’ too much in that hotel room.”

So she did remember. Banks felt himself blush, and it got all the worse when he saw Emily was laughing at him. “Look-” he said, but she waved him down.

“Don’t worry. I haven’t told Daddy.” She pouted and wiggled her shoulders. “Besides, it’s the waiflike look. Most older men like it. Don’t you?”

“What about boys your own age?”

She snorted. “They’re so immature. Oh, they’re all right for dancing and buying you drinks and stuff, but that’s about all. All most of them can talk about is football and sex.” She licked her cherry lips. “I prefer older men.”

Banks swallowed. He could see where that came from: a father who was never there, someone she desperately wanted to love and be loved by. “Like Barry Clough?” he said.

A shadow crossed her fine porcelain features. “That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about,” she said. Then her face brightened into a smile. “But first I really do want to thank you. I mean it. I know I wasn’t very nice at the time, but I appreciate what you did, taking care of me like that. I was really fucked up. Big-time.”

“Do you remember much about it?”

“In the hotel room? Yes. Until I fell asleep. You were the perfect gentleman. And the next morning you went and bought me a tracksuit. A pink one. It was ugly, but that was sweet of you. I’m sorry I wasn’t very friendly on the way home, but I was really down.”

“Thai curry?”

The woman held out a dish of steaming curry. Banks admitted to ownership, and she set it down, narrowly avoiding spilling it on the table, gave Emily a hard glare and walked off.

“What is her problem?” Emily said. “I mean, really! The stupid cow.”

“She doesn’t like you,” said Banks. “She doesn’t like the way you treated her, and I’d guess she doesn’t like your looks much, either.”

“What the fuck do I care if she likes my looks?”

“You asked. I’m simply telling you.”

“Anyway, what’s she supposed to be here for if not to serve people food? It’s not as if she’s not getting paid or anything.”

“Look,” said Banks. “I’m not going to argue. It’s not her job to take orders, and you’ve got a pretty snotty attitude, when it comes right down to it.” Banks dipped into his curry. It was good and hot.

Emily glared at him for a few seconds, sulking, then started fidgeting with the large ring on her right index finger. “Stupid old bitch,” she muttered.

Banks ignored her and tucked in, easing the heat with an occasional swig of beer. He finished the pint quicker than he had intended to and, before he could stop her, Emily had jumped to her feet and bought him another one. It was the barmaid who served her this time, not the landlord, and Banks noticed them talking, Emily taking something out of her handbag and showing it to her.