“The broken bottle. According to the postmortem, there were fragments of broken glass embedded in the back of Jason Fox’s skull, and they match the fragments we found near the body. It looks as if he was hit with a bottle and then kicked. Anyway, Vic says the rain has probably buggered up his chances, but he’s busy spraying SuperGlue into aquariums and Lord knows what else.”

“What did you find out yesterday?” Gristhorpe asked.

“Quite a lot.” Banks told them in detail about Jason Fox’s losing his job, his false address in Leeds, and the Albion League. “I also checked out this Milly and her boyfriend,” he went on. “The West Indian woman Jason insulted at work. Seems she’s gone back to live with her family in Barbados.”

“Chalk up one victory to Jason Fox, then,” said Gristhorpe. “Any idea where Jason lived when he wasn’t at his parents’ house?”

Banks smiled and produced an address in Rawdon.

“How did you find out?”

“Telephone directory. It doesn’t seem as if Jason was making any particular secret out of where he lived. He just neglected to let his parents know he’d moved.”

“For eighteen months?”

Banks shrugged. “Jason’s relationship with his parents obviously wasn’t close. There’s a lot they don’t know about him. I’m not entirely sure whether they didn’t want to know, or whether he didn’t want them to. From what I’ve seen so far, the Foxes aren’t a particularly close family.”

“How did he make his living these past two years?” Gristhorpe asked. “Do we know that?”

Banks shook his head. “No. But according to the DSS he wasn’t on the dole. His grandfather mentioned something about him studying computers, too, so that might be something he’s got into. I’ve asked Ken Blackstone to give us a hand down there, checking the local college courses. And we can check tax records, see if he got another job somewhere.”

Gristhorpe nodded. “Know anything about this Albion League?”

Banks’s only experience with neo-Nazis had been with the National Front in the seventies, when he was a young copper on the Met. He had read about the more recent, smaller and tougher groups, like Combat 18 and Blood and Honour, with all their concomitant white-power rock bands and magazines, but he hadn’t actually come across any of them in the line of duty. “Not yet,” he said. “And nobody else around here seems to have heard of them, either. Anyway, I faxed the Yard. They’ve got a special squad dealing with neo-Nazi groups.”

“Let’s keep our fingers crossed. Have you got anything to add, Sergeant Hatchley?”

“The uniformed lads canvassed the whole Market Street area again yesterday,” said Hatchley. “Pubs, cafés, fish-and-chip shops, bed-and-breakfasts, the lot. Some people remember Georgie Mahmood and his two mates in the fish-and-chip shop, all right, but no one saw them heading for the ginnel. And no one remembers seeing Jason and his mate. We’ve managed to get an artist’s impression of the lad who was with Jason, but I wouldn’t expect too much.” Hatchley scratched his nose. “I’m wondering if it was something to do with drugs, sir, the Jubilee being the sort of place it is. A deal gone wrong, maybe?”

“Have we got anything from the Drugs Squad on the victim or suspects?”

Hatchley shook his head. “No, sir. I’ve already checked with records. But still…”

“Well, we’ll bear it in mind, anyway. Anything else?”

“Aye, sir. I had a chat with a couple of Jason’s teammates from Eastvale United. He had a jar with them after the game, right enough, but none of them admit to seeing him Saturday night, and none of them recognize the lad in the artist’s impression.”

“Why hasn’t Jason’s mate come forward?” Gristhorpe mused aloud. “Does he even know what’s happened?”

“It’s possible he doesn’t, sir,” said Hatchley. “If he lives far off, like, doesn’t watch much telly or read the papers.”

Gristhorpe nodded and turned to face everyone. “Either that or he did it. Let’s dig a little deeper into the background here. First off, find out if George Mahmood and Jason Fox really did know each other better than George is letting on. Maybe they’d crossed swords before. Let’s also find out what we can about Asim Nazur and that cousin of his, Kobir… what’s his name…?”

“Mukhtar, sir,” said Susan.

“Right. Someone get in touch with Bradford CID and find out if they’ve got anything on Kobir Mukhtar.”

“I’ve already done that, sir,” said Susan. “There was nothing on the computer, so I put in a request for information while we still had them in custody, just before… before the CC came round yesterday, sir.”

“And?”

“Nothing, sir. Seems clean.”

“All right.” Gristhorpe frowned. “Susan, don’t I recollect something about an incident involving the Mahmoods recently?”

“Yes, sir. About a month ago. Someone stole a brick from the building site by Gallows View and lobbed it through the Mahmoods’ window. They’d covered the shop windows with wire mesh a while back after a previous incident, so the yob responsible chucked this brick through the bedroom window.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“Mrs. Mahmood, sir. She was undressing for bed at the time. The brick missed her head by several inches, but a long sliver of glass broke free and sliced into her upper arm. She was bleeding pretty badly when her husband hurried her to Eastvale General. It took fourteen stitches, and the doctor insisted they call the police.”

“They weren’t going to?”

“They were reluctant, sir,” Susan said. “Her husband said it would only cost them time and trouble, and they didn’t expect any results in return. Apparently, this kind of thing had happened before, when they ran the shop in Bradford, and nobody ever did anything about it.”

“Well, this isn’t bloody Bradford,” said Gristhorpe. “Any leads?”

“They’d had a customer, a teenage girl, earlier in the day who complained about getting the wrong change. When Mrs. Mahmood insisted she was right, the girl swept the newspapers and sweets off the counter and stalked out. We finally tracked her down, but she was in Penrith at the time of the incident. After that, nothing.”

“Could it have been Jason Fox, given his views on immigrants?”

“I suppose so,” Susan said. “It happened about half past ten on a Saturday night, and we know Jason came to Eastvale on weekends. But we didn’t know that then. I mean, we’d no reason to suspect him. And George Mahmood couldn’t have known it was him.”

“Couldn’t he? Maybe he had his suspicions. Maybe he even saw him. But you’re right, we should avoid too much speculation at this point. Perhaps you should have another word with Jason’s family, Susan; see if they’re a bit more forthcoming. After that, you can try the Mahmoods again, then the Nazurs at the Himalaya, see if they can tell you anything else about what happened on Saturday night.” He looked at his watch, then smiled at Susan. “Time it right, lass, and you might be at the Himalaya just around lunchtime.”

Hatchley laughed, and Susan blushed.

“That just about covers it.” Gristhorpe rubbed his bristly chin. “But wherever we go,” he said, “we tread carefully. On eggs. Remember that. Chief Constable Riddle is taking a personal interest in this case.” He cleared his throat. “By the way, he apologized for not being with us this morning.”

Banks overheard Hatchley whisper to Susan Gay, “Breakfast television.”

Gristhorpe ignored them. “What we’ve all got to bear in mind at this point,” he said, “is that while this case looked simple at first, things have changed. It’s got a lot more complicated. And however odious a character Jason Fox is beginning to sound, remember, he didn’t get a chance to fight back. That’s voluntary manslaughter, at the very least, and more than likely it’s murder. Don’t forget, we’ve got all the ingredients of a racial incident here, too: white victim; handy Asian suspects picked up, interrogated and locked in the cells overnight. When you add to that the fact that Jason Fox was a racist, George Mahmood is busy exploring his Muslim roots and Asim Nazur’s dad is a pillar of the community, then you’ve got a powder keg, and I don’t want it going off on my patch, Jimmy Riddle or no Jimmy Riddle. Now let’s get to it.”