‘Who else did you speak to?’

‘Nobody. I stayed in his wee terraced house. It still belongs to us while we contact two of my brothers to sort the estate.’

‘So nobody can confirm you were in Ireland?’

‘No. You tying me now, are you?’

‘Should we?’

‘Get out!’ Colleen Richardson leapt to her feet, her fists clenched to her sides. The cat ran from the room. ‘Get out! Get out!’

‘Going to get gobbled up soon, I expect, Mr Yellich. We can’t survive, can’t compete, can’t offer the breadth of service to compete with the main high street banks. But we’re clinging on with our fingertips, proud to be the last independent bank in England. Over three hundred years of continuous trading. Still owned by the original two founding families, the Sachses and the Lindseys. Used to be called Sachs and Lindsey’s, but in a doff-the-hat to modernization, we changed our name to the Yorkshire and Lancashire Bank, and brought in those infernal machines which still make me believe all our employees spend their day watching television. Ledgers were good enough in my day. Once we had five hundred branches, now we’ve got fifty. Most on this side of the Pennines.’

Benjamin Ffoulkes, the manager of the York branch of the Yorkshire and Lancashire Bank, was a portly man with a handlebar moustache, a yellow waistcoat and a maroon coloured suit. He sat in a swivel chair in front of a huge wooden desk in an office of panelled wood, with velvet curtains, maroon to match his suit, held back from covering the sash windows with tasselled cords, yellow to match his waistcoat. A grandfather clock stood majestically in the corner of the room, ticking softly. Yellich found it had a quarter jack and so chimed every fifteen minutes.

‘We quite enjoy our quaintness, Mr Yellich. We have our computers, as I’ve mentioned, but we have retained our atmosphere. This smells and sounds and looks like a bank of yesteryear, and we have applications for positions from many youngsters who want employment with us because of it. Our cheque books used to be as big as school exercise books but we had to standardize because retailers refused to accept them. One more nail in our coffin. But we enjoy a lot of customer loyalty, this branch particularly; there’s a lot of old money in the Vale of York and that helps us to stay afloat. So a concession here and there is a price we can afford. But you’ve come to discuss the account of the late Mr Williams, of Bramley on Ouse?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Mmm…’

‘A problem?’

‘It’s one of ethics, really.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well, yes, confess that in all my born days I’ve never come across a problem like this. Customer confidentiality is one thing, but if the customer is deceased, as is his wife; and I have not yet had the necessary notices, copy of the death certificate, or notification from his solicitor confirming his next of kin, I don’t know whether I can help. But, if the police seek to apprehend the perpetrator of this dreadful deed, then I feel obliged…you know I do want to help, Mr Yellich, I really do.’

‘It is a double murder.’

‘It’s that that makes me want to help. I confess I felt bowled over when I read of the murders in the Post. And I suppose you could come back with a warrant?’

‘We could.’

‘In a sense that would make it easier for me. The decision would be out of my hands, you see.’

‘Time is of the essence, Mr Ffoulkes. If it makes it easier, we don’t actually believe that money was at the root of this murder, but money has a way of shadowing all of us, our financial affairs are a profile of our lives.’

‘Yes…’ Ffoulkes smiled. ‘I rather like that. Tell you what, young man, I’ll offer a compromise.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘I’m familiar with the account. I’ll answer questions but I won’t allow you access to his file, not without a warrant.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘Well, in the first place, please think of a child’s balloon.’

‘A what?’

‘A child’s balloon, just like those out there in the street, all the street entertainers entertaining the trippers. Good for local business, keep the street full of tourists, that’s what I say. But a balloon, new, smooth, limp. Suddenly it gets inflated, then is allowed to deflate, then it’s limp and wrinkled.’

‘Yes?’

‘That, in a nutshell, is Max Williams’s account. You know the source of all the seed money, all venture capital, all start-up loans in the Vale over the last ten years has been one account.’

‘Max Williams’s.’

‘Yes. In one. He let it flood out, haemorrhage isn’t the word. But before it deflated it had to inflate.’

‘He came into money?’

‘Yes. Suddenly and magnificently. From his brother, I believe.’

‘About how much?’

‘Off the top of my head, it was about six.’

‘Six? Thousand, hundred thousand?’

‘Million. Six million pounds.’

The quarter jack on the grandfather clock chimed, allowing time for Yellich to recover his jaw.

‘He came from nowhere.’ Ffoulkes smiled, and Yellich could tell that he was enjoying his obvious surprise. ‘Just a building society account and a pinkish current account with the Midland or the National Westminster. He walked in with a cheque and almost caused the cashier to faint, asked to open an account. We told him we needed time to follow up references, which we did. No bad news came and so we welcomed him with all the warmth which you can buy with six million pounds. This was some ten years ago.’

‘Which is a lot of warmth, especially ten years ago.’

‘Sat here in this room, drinking my last bottle of vintage claret, spent the time doing my best to persuade him to invest it, or at least put it in a deposit account, but he wanted a current account.’

‘Silly man.’

‘That’s kind of you. Confess, Mr Yellich, I had cause to regret the sacrifice of my last bottle of vintage claret. Very rapidly did I form the opinion that I was in the company of a fool. And you know what they say about a fool and his money?’

Yellich nodded. ‘I do that, sir.’

‘Well, no sooner had the balloon inflated than it began to deflate. It was depressing to watch, but it’s his money…I mean, properly invested that six million pounds would have grossed another six million in those ten years, but all the balloon did was to deflate. All Max Williams was interested in was writing cheques. Settled some money on his children, a miserly sum in proportion…about ten thousand each, spent the rest on himself and did so foolishly. He bought a rambling but rotten eighteenth-century mansion in a parkland, looked the part, and a Rolls Royce to go with it. He achieved the image…the day trippers from Leeds and Sheffield and such places would drive past his house set back from the road and doubtless be reassured that the English gentry is alive and well.’

‘Do you know where the money came from, sir?’

‘I can find out for you.’ Ffoulkes turned in his high-backed wooden swivel chair and reached for a cord which hung from the ceiling and which was flush against the wall behind him.

Yellich heard a bell jangle beyond the door of the office. There was a knock on the door. ‘Come.’ Ffoulkes answered.

A young woman entered the room, looking deferential and nervous, she wore summer clothes, but of an earlier era, with heavy but comfortable-looking shoes.

‘Fiona.’ Ffoulkes spoke in a pleasant but fatherly manner.

‘Yes, Mr Ffoulkes?’

‘Can you look up the Williams account, Max Williams. You know the account I mean, he and his lady wife being recently deceased.’

‘Yes, Mr Ffoulkes.’

‘It was opened about ten years ago on receipt of a cheque payable to Mr Williams, drawn on the account of a firm of solicitors. Can you find out who that firm was?’

‘Certainly, sir.’ Fiona turned smartly and left the room.

Ffoulkes and Yellich sat in silence, broken eventually by Ffoulkes, who asked if Yellich was a married man.