Then Motcombe tossed back the rest of his orange juice. Unlike the others, Craig had noticed, he never drank alcohol or smoked. People got up and moved around the room, some of them heading down to the bar to buy more pints. The last Craig saw of Motcombe, he was walking out of the room with two Bradford cell leaders, an arm draped over each one’s shoulders, deep in quiet conversation.

Liked his private meetings, did Nev, keeping the left hand and the right hand separate. Whatever he was talking to them about or asking them to do, you could bet it would have nothing to do with what he and Craig had been talking about over the past few weeks.

Craig tossed his cigarette out of the window into the rainy night, took a deep breath and went over to mourn Jason’s death with Ray from Leeds and Dogface Russell from Hors-forth.

It was late when Banks got home that evening, after stopping off at the station on his way from Lyndgarth, and he was tired.

Sandra was sitting at a table at the back of the living room sorting through some transparencies, holding them up to the desk light, scrutinizing each one in turn, her long blond hair tucked behind her ears.

“Drink?” Banks asked.

She didn’t look up. “No, thanks.”

Fine. Banks went to the cocktail cabinet and poured himself a finger of Laphroaig, thought about it for a moment, then added another finger. He picked up the evening paper from the coffee table and sat on the settee.

“Hard day?” he asked.

“Not bad,” Sandra said, without looking away from the transparency she was holding. “Busy.”

Banks looked at the paper for a few minutes without taking anything in, then went over to the stereo. He chose a CD of arias by Angela Gheorghiu. A few seconds into the first one, Sandra looked over and raised a dark eyebrow. “Must you?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Do we really have to listen to this?”

“What harm is it doing?”

Sandra sighed and turned back to her transparency.

“Really,” Banks pressed on. “I want to know. What harm is it doing? Is it too loud?”

“No, it’s not too loud.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Sandra dropped the transparency on the table a little harder than necessary. “It’s bloody opera, is the problem. You know it gets on my nerves sometimes.”

It was true that Sandra had once taken a magnet to one of his Götterdämmerung tapes. But that was Wagner, an acquired taste at the best of times. Who could possibly object to Angela Gheorghiu singing Verdi? Sandra had even been with him to see La Traviata last month, and she said she enjoyed it.

“I didn’t think you found it that offensive,” Banks said, walking back to the stereo.

“No, leave it,” Sandra said. “You’ve put it on. You’ve made your point. Just leave it.”

“What point?”

“What point? You know what point.”

“No, I don’t. Enlighten me.”

Sandra snorted. “Opera. Bloody opera. The most important thing on your agenda. In your life, for all I know.”

Banks sat down and reached for his Scotch. “Oh, we’re back to that again, are we?”

“Yes, we’re back to that again.”

“Well, go on, then.”

“Go on, what?”

“Get it off your chest.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’d like me to get it off my chest. Let the little lady yell at you for a couple of minutes so you can tell your mates what a bloody fishwife she is. Pretend to listen, be all contrite, then just carry on as if nothing had happened.”

“It’s not like that,” Banks protested. “If you’ve got a problem, tell me. Let’s talk about it.”

Sandra picked up another transparency and pushed a few loose strands of hair back behind her ears. “I don’t want to talk about it. There’s nothing to talk about.”

Angela Gheorghiu had moved onto the “Aubade” from Chérubin now, but its beauty was lost on Banks.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize it was that important to you.”

Sandra glanced sideways at him. “That’s just it, isn’t it?” she said.

“What is?”

“You never do. You never do consider how important something might be to me. It’s always your needs that come first. Like bloody opera. You never bother asking me what I might want to listen to, do you? You just go straight to your bloody opera without even thinking.”

Banks stood up again. “Look, I said I’m sorry. Okay? I’ll take it off if it bothers you so much.”

“I told you to leave it. It doesn’t matter now. It’s too late.”

“Too late for what?”

“Oh, Alan, give it a rest. Can’t you see I’ve got work to do?” She gestured at the transparencies spread out across the table.

“Fine,” said Banks. “Fine. You’re pissed off, but you don’t want to talk about it. You hate opera, but you want me to leave it on. I’m the one who never considers your needs or feelings, but right now you’ve got work to do. Well, just bloody fine.”

Banks tossed back the rest of his Laphroaig, grabbed his coat from the hall stand and slammed the front door behind him.

Banks was first to arrive at Tuesday morning’s CID meeting in the “Boardroom” of Eastvale Divisional Police HQ, shortly followed by DC Susan Gay, Superintendent Gristhorpe and, finally, Sergeant Hatchley.

Having been warned by Susan, Banks was dreading that Jimmy Riddle himself would show up. Riddle was a notorious early riser, and the thirty miles or so of country roads from Regional HQ to Eastvale at such an hour would mean nothing to him. Especially if it gave him an opportunity to cause Banks grief.

Banks knew he would have to face the CC before long – Gristhorpe said he had already received his bollocking for letting his DCI too far off the leash – but he just didn’t want it first thing in the morning, never his favorite time of day. Especially after he’d gone down to the Queen’s Arms after his argument with Sandra the previous evening and had a jar too many. He hadn’t handled that situation well, he knew. He hadn’t been at all reasonable. He had lived with Sandra long enough to know that when she lashed out like that – which was rare – it meant she had something important on her mind. And he hadn’t bothered to find out what it was. Instead, he had stormed out like a petulant teenager.

As it happened, Jimmy Riddle hadn’t turned up by the time coffee and biscuits were served. That probably meant he wouldn’t come, Banks thought with relief; usually Riddle liked to be first there, sparkling and spotless, to get a jump on everyone.

“Right,” said Gristhorpe. “What have we got so far? Alan, have you talked to the lab?”

Banks nodded. “Nothing yet. They’re still trying, but they haven’t found anything on the shoes or clothes we sent over for analysis. There’s a lot of mud on George Mahmood’s shoes, consistent with walking over the rec in the rain, and some sort of substance that looks a bit suspicious. But the lad was wearing trainers, for Christ’s sake. Hardly what you’d choose if you were intending to kick someone’s head in.”

“But we don’t know that he was intending to do anything, do we?” Gristhorpe pointed out.

“True. Still, it’d be difficult to kick someone to death wearing trainers. Dr. Glendenning specified heavy boots. Or Doc Martens, something like that.”

“Wouldn’t the rain have washed any traces of blood away?” Susan asked.

“Lab says not. If there’s enough of it, which there was, and if it gets in the stitching and seeps between the sole and upper, they say it’s damn near impossible to get rid of.”

Susan nodded.

“Vic Manson’s working on fingerprints, too,” Banks said to Gristhorpe, “but he doesn’t hold out a lot of hope.”

“Fingerprints from where?”