“I suppose I can tell you. I shouldn’t, but given the circumstances…” He got up, pulled out a file from one of the cabinets against his wall, and told Banks the address. Then he sat down again.

“Do you know where Jason went after he left here?” Banks asked.

Wayne shook his head. “Not a clue. He never got in touch again, and I can’t say I was exactly eager to seek him out.”

“So when he left here he disappeared from your life?”

“Yes.”

“Did he have any close friends here?”

“Not really. I wasn’t even particularly close to him myself. He was a bit of a loner. Never talked about his outside interests, family, girlfriends, that sort of thing. He had no patience with the usual office chitchat. Except football. He loved to talk about football. Mad about it. On a Monday morning he’d talk about the weekend games for so long, it was sometimes hard to get him working at all.”

“People listened, then? The same ones who were sickened by his racism?”

Wayne spread his hands. “What can I say? There’s nothing like an enthusiasm for sports to make a person seem more human. And we seem able to overlook an awful lot in our sports heroes, don’t we? I mean, look at Gazza. The bugger beats up his wife and he’s still a national hero.”

“What about enemies?”

Wayne raised his eyebrows. “Probably just about every immigrant in the country. At least the ones who knew what he was.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“What was he like as a person? How would you describe him?”

Wayne put a pencil against his lips and thought for a moment, then he said, “Jason was one of those people who can frighten you with their intensity. I mean, mostly he was withdrawn, quiet, in his own world. On first impressions, he seemed rather shy, but when he did come out, whether to talk about a football game or comment on some political article in the paper, then he became very passionate, very fervent. He had charisma. You could imagine him speaking to groups, swaying their opinions.”

“A budding Hitler, then? Interesting.” Banks closed his notebook and stood up. He could think of nothing more to ask. “Thanks for your time,” he said, holding out his hand. “I might want to talk to you about this again.”

Wayne shook hands and nodded. “I’ll be here.”

And Banks walked through the busy office, back out into the bleak factory yard, the oil smell, the machinery noise, overflowing skips, the rainbowed puddles. Just as he got to the car, his mobile beeped.

“No, Gavin, I can’t possibly go out for a drink with you tonight. We’re very busy.”

“The boy wonder got you working overtime, then?”

“I wish you wouldn’t call him that.”

Susan heard Gavin chuckle over the line. “Who’s he got pegged for this one, then? Our local MP? Leader of the hunt?” He laughed again.

Susan felt herself flush. “That’s not very funny.” She hated it when Gavin made fun of Banks.

“How about Saturday? We can go-”

“Maybe,” Susan said. “Maybe Saturday. I’ll have to see. Got to go now, Gavin. Work to do.”

“Okay. See you Saturday.”

“I said maybe. Just a minute… what’s that?” Susan could hear sounds of shouting and scuffling, and they seemed to be coming from downstairs. “Got to go, Gavin,” she said. “I’ll ring you back.”

“Susan, what’s-”

Susan dropped the receiver on its cradle and walked to the top of the stairs. The scene below was utter chaos. Every Asian in Eastvale – all nine or ten of them – seemed to be pushing through the front doors: George Mahmood’s parents, Ibrahim Nazur, owner of the Himalaya, and a handful of students from Eastvale College. A number of uniformed officers were holding them back, but they wanted to see the detectives, and Susan was the only CID officer in the station.

“Would you please not all shout at once!” Susan yelled from halfway down the stairs.

“What are you going to do about our children?” asked an angry Charles Mahmood. “You can’t just lock them up for nothing. This is racism, pure and simple. We’re British citizens, you know.”

“Please believe me, Mr. Mahmood,” said Susan, advancing down the stairs. “We’re only keeping them until we get-”

“No!” yelled Ibrahim Nazur. “It’s not fair. One law for whites and another law for us.”

That met a chorus of agreement and they surged forward again.

Suddenly, the front doors opened and a loud voice bellowed, “What in God’s name is going on here?” It had enough authority to command silence. Then Susan saw over the crowd the shiny, bald head of Chief Constable Jeremiah “Jimmy” Riddle, and for the first time ever, she was grateful for the sight.

“Sergeant Rowe,” she heard Riddle say, “would you please order your officers to remove these people from the police station? Tell them if they’ll kindly wait outside we’ll have some news for them in just a few minutes.” Then Riddle made his way through the silent crowd, cutting a swath rather like Moses parting the Red Sea.

Behind him, Sergeant Rowe muttered, “Yes, sir,” and ordered three constables to usher the group out onto the street. They went without putting up a fight.

“That’s better,” said Riddle, approaching Susan. “It’s DC Gay, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where’s DCI Banks?”

“ Leeds, sir. Pursuing inquiries.”

“‘Pursuing inquiries,’ is he? Shopping, more bloody like. That Classical Record Shop of his. Anyone else here?”

“No, sir. Just me.”

Riddle jerked his head. “Right, you. Upstairs.”

Susan turned and started walking up the stairs, feeling, she imagined, somewhat like a prisoner being sent down by the judge.

It could hardly be a worse time to piss off Jimmy Riddle.

Susan had passed the first parts of her sergeant’s exam, the written, almost a year ago. But police promotion is a long-drawn-out process. The last stage consisted of an appearance before the promotion board – presided over by an assistant chief constable and a chief superintendent from Regional HQ.

That was six months ago now, but Susan still broke into a cold sweat every time she remembered the day of her board.

She had spent weeks reading up on policy, national guidelines and equal opportunities, but none of it prepared her for what lay behind the door. Of course, they kept her waiting in the corridor for about half an hour, just to make her extra nervous, then the chief superintendent came out, shook her hand and led her in. She could have sworn there was a smirk on his face.

First they asked her a few personal questions to get some idea of her overall bearing, confidence and articulateness. She thought she managed to answer clearly, without mumbling or stuttering, except when they asked what her parents thought of her choice of career. She was sure that she flushed, but rather than flounder around trying to explain, she simply paused to collect herself and said, “They didn’t approve, sir.”

Next came the scenarios. And her interviewers added complications, changed circumstances and generally did everything they could to confuse her or get her to change her mind.

“One of the men on your shift is regularly late in the morning,” the ACC began, “putting extra pressure on his mates. What do you do?”

“Have a private word with him, sir, ask him why he’s being late all the time.”

The ACC nodded. “His mother’s dying and she needs expensive care. He can’t afford it on a copper’s salary, so he’s playing in a jazz band until the wee hours to make a bit extra.”

“Then I’d tell him he needs permission to work outside the force and advise him to get help and support from our Welfare Department, sir.”

“He thanks you for your concern, but he keeps on playing with the band and turning up late.”

“Then I’d think some disciplinary action would be in order, sir.”

The ACC raised his eyebrows. “Really? But his mother is dying of cancer. He needs the extra income. Surely this is a reasonable way of earning it? After all, it’s not as if he’s taking bribes or engaging in other criminal acts.”