“Was he intelligent?”

“He wasn’t stupid.”

“And do you know where Mr. Welles is today?”

“I neither know nor care,” said Dalby, “just so long as he never shows his face back here again.”

“Have you never considered the effect that doing this sort of work can have on ­people? Alcoholism, cruelty. You’re creating these monsters yourself. Don’t you think it desensitizes ­people, creates the kind of person you say you had to fire?”

“I’m not a psychologist, miss. I’m a simple abattoir worker. Maybe you’re right. Maybe that does happen in some cases. As I said, this kind of work isn’t for everyone. If they’re not damaged to start with, maybe it damages them. All I can say, though, is that most of the workers are decent human beings doing an honest day’s work, and the bad apples are few and far between. In that, it’s no different than any other line of work.”

“But why do ­people do it?”

“Somebody has to. You have to eat. It’s a job, a decent wage.”

“Is there no other way?”

“If there were,” said Dalby, “believe me, we’d be using it. But as long as ­people want to buy their nice cuts of meat all nicely wrapped in cling wrap at the supermarkets, or laid out in neat juicy rows in the butcher’s window, this’ll go on.” He pointed his finger at her as he talked. “You can think what you like about us, but we do try to be humane, and we don’t countenance behavior like Welles’s. The other guy, the Swede, maybe you can feel sorry for him. He couldn’t cope, and it messed him up. I suppose it’s our version of shell shock or battle fatigue, whatever the shrinks call it now.”

“PTSD. Post–traumatic stress disorder.”

“Whatever. Like I said, it’s not for everyone.” Dalby stood up slowly. “Now, I’ve got work to do. Have you got what you came for?”

Annie swallowed and looked at Doug, who put away his notebook. “I think so,” she said. “There may be a few more questions later, if any of this leads anywhere.”

“I’ll be here. Just ask for me.”

As they walked down the stairs, Annie knew that she should go and examine the metal cabinet the guns were kept in, but she couldn’t face it. She didn’t think it would be fair to send Doug, either. If it came to it, she realized, they could send someone over to examine it, but it was two years since the gun had been stolen, and they weren’t likely to find anything of interest there now. She felt guilty for shirking her duty, even though she could easily rationalize her actions, but she held her breath, and her tears, all the way to the car, and only when she was inside with the engine running, reversing out of the abattoir yard, did she let out the stale air and breathe in again. But she kept the tears to herself.

IT WAS a pleasant winter afternoon in London, with temperatures just into double figures, so Banks decided to walk from Kings Cross to Havers’s office. It was a long time since he had visited the area behind and to the west of Kings Cross–St. Pancras, and he knew little about it. It was hard to categorize, he thought as he walked and looked around him, but as Joanna had pointed out, it was a bit dodgy. There were offices, houses, flats, garages and so on, but it lacked any coherent identity, at least any that was obvious to the casual visitor.

At one point he passed what was clearly a drug house. A tall, burly man with a shaved head blocked the reinforced metal door, hands clasped firmly over his bollocks, and beside him a hunched weaselly young fellow had his mobile glued to his ear. Banks was certain the Met must know about them, and they were probably under surveillance at that very moment. There seemed to be so much watching and so little catching and convicting these days. Montague Havers was obviously another case in point. Whatever it was he did, nobody stopped him; the police just watched. There was always the chance of a bigger Mr. Big around the next corner. And so it went on. What did you have to do these days to convince the CPS you had enough evidence for an arrest?

Banks’s mobile rang just after he had passed the drug house. He saw the burly man cast a baleful glance in his direction as he answered. Did he look so obviously like a copper? He had never thought so.

“Banks here.”

“Sir, it’s me. DC Masterson.”

“Ah, Gerry. What can I do for you?”

“Can you talk, sir? I mean, listen. I think I can do something for you.”

“I’m on my way to have a chat with Montague Havers.”

“Then I’m just in time.”

Banks turned a corner and leaned against a brick wall. “Go on.”

“I’ve found out a ­couple of things that might interest you, sir.”

“What?”

“First off, there’s an old murder with a bolt gun, eighteen months ago in East London. A man called Jan Wolitz. Polish. The investigating officers thought he was connected with a ­people-­trafficking outfit and suspected he’d been taking more than his cut from them, not to mention helping himself to some of the girls’ favors. Young girls mostly. Prostitution. Nobody ever arrested for it and no suspects named, as far as I can gather. The police did, however, find prints at the scene that didn’t belong to the victim. They led nowhere. Not in the system. He wasn’t cut into pieces or anything. Just dead.”

“Can you get the prints sent up and check them against whatever Vic got from the hangar?”

“As we speak.” Banks could hear the smile in Gerry’s voice.

“You’re too good for this world, Gerry.”

“So they tell me, sir.”

“Where was the body found?”

“Abandoned warehouse on the Thames. I mean, it’s probably gilding the lily calling it East London. More like west Essex.”

“Who owned the property?”

“Don’t know yet, sir, but I can see why it might be useful to know. I’ll get onto that as well.”

“Any hint of a connection between this Jan Wolitz and anyone we know? Spencer, Montague Havers, Tanner, Lane?”

“No, sir, but DI Cabbot and Doug are running down a lead on a stolen bolt pistol. It was lifted about two years ago from Stirwall’s Abattoir. But he’s the one I wanted to talk to you about, sir. Montague Havers. Or Malcolm Hackett, as was.”

“What about him?”

“He worked for the same stockbrokers as John Beddoes in the mid eighties. They were City boys together between the Big Bang and Black Monday. Both the same age, in their mid twenties at the time. There was a cocaine charge against Hackett back then, but it went nowhere. Small amount. Slap on the wrist. The point is, according to what I could find out from someone who also worked there at the time, the two of them were pretty thick. Socialized together and all that. Made oodles of money. When the bubble burst, Hackett went into international investment banking and Beddoes became a merchant banker before he moved to the farm.”

“Well done. That’s an interesting connection, Gerry,” said Banks. “And your timing’s impeccable. How are things back at the ranch?”

“Ticking along nicely. DS Jackman’s still chasing down Caleb Ross’s collection route.”

“All well with Alex and Ian?”

“Everything’s fine, sir. We’ve got surveillance on them. Nothing to report.”

“Any news on Tanner?” They had had to let Ronald Tanner go when his twenty-­four hours were up early that morning.

“He’s still at home. We’re keeping an eye on him. AC Gervaise is with the CPS as I speak, working on possible charges. I did a bit of research into his known associates and there’s a bloke called Carl Utley looks good for the driver. Muttonchops, usually wears a flat hat. He used to be a long-­distance lorry driver but he got fired when he was suspected of being involved in the disappearance of some expensive loads. Nothing proven, but enough to lose him his job. He drifted into nightclub work and that’s when he met Tanner. They’re good mates.”

“Excellent. Follow it up. See if you can have this Utley picked up. No further sign of Michael Lane?”