“Jason Fox lived next door, at number seven, right?”

“Yes. That’s what I was telling you.”

“Okay. And you read in the paper that Jason was killed in Eastvale on Saturday night?”

“Saw it on telly, actually. How else would I know? Soon as I heard it was him you could have knocked me over with a feather.”

“How did you know it wasn’t some other Jason Fox?”

“Well, it’s not that common a name, is it, and even if the sketch they showed on the news wasn’t very good, I could still recognize him from it.”

The kettle boiled and Liza Williams excused herself to make tea. She came back with a tray, a pot and two mugs.

“Why didn’t you call the police?” Banks asked.

She frowned. “Police? But why should I? Did I do something wrong?”

“No. I’m not accusing you of anything. Just curious.”

“Well, I never thought. Why would I? I didn’t really know anything about Jason. Anyway, I was really very sorry to hear about what happened, but it didn’t have anything to do with me, did it? It’s none of my business. I mean, I’ve never even been to Eastvale.”

“But didn’t you think the police might want to have a look around the house where Jason lived, maybe ask you a few questions about him?”

“Well… I… I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry. I just assumed if the police wanted to ask me anything, they’d have asked me when they were round earlier. I thought you’d done what you had to do. I don’t know what happens to people’s houses after-”

“Just a minute,” said Banks, sitting on the edge of his seat. “Did you say the police have already been around?”

“Yes. Plainclothes. Didn’t you know?”

“Obviously not, or I wouldn’t be asking you all these questions.” Liza Williams didn’t look or sound like a stupid woman. What could she be thinking of? “When was this?”

“Sunday morning. Before I’d even heard what happened. Why? Is something wrong?”

“No. No. It’s all right.” Banks scratched the scar beside his right eye. Liza poured the tea, meeting his eyes as she did so and splashing a little tea on the tray. She handed Banks a steaming mugful. “Did they talk to you?” he asked.

“No. They just went into Jason’s house. Two of them. They seemed to have a key, seemed to know what they were doing.”

“How did you know they were police?”

“I didn’t. I just assumed, the way they seemed so purposeful. Then, later that night, when I saw about Jason on the telly… It seemed to make sense.”

“What time was this, when they came?”

“Must have been about ten o’clock. Jamie had just come back from the newsagent’s with the papers. We don’t have them delivered bec-”

Banks tuned her out. At first he had considered the possibility, however remote, that West Yorkshire had been playing left hand to North Yorkshire’s right. But Susan Gay hadn’t even discovered Jason Fox’s identity until lunchtime on Sunday, and the Foxes hadn’t officially identified him until after that. So who had known who the victim was before the police did? And how had they found out?

Banks blew on his tea, took a sip, then leaned forward again. “This is very important, Mrs. Williams,” he said. “Can you tell me anything about these men?”

Steven Fox clearly wasn’t expecting Susan, and his face showed surprise and suspicion when she turned up in his office at the building society.

“Time for a word?” she asked, smiling.

He looked at his watch. “I suppose so. It’s almost lunchtime anyway.”

“My treat,” said Susan. She sighed inwardly, realizing she’d have to forgo the Himalaya.

Steven Fox put on his raincoat, and they walked along York Road to the El Toro coffee bar on the opposite side of the market square from the police station. The El Toro, with its dim lighting, castanet-clicking Muzak, bullfight posters and smell of espresso, wasn’t renowned for its food, but the sandwiches were decent enough: Susan treated herself to prawn and tomato and Steven Fox settled for ham and cheese.

Once they had taken a bite or two and sipped some coffee, Susan began: “Would you be surprised to hear that Jason was no longer working where you told us he was?”

Steven Fox paused and rubbed his glasses, steamed up by the coffee. “To be honest,” he said, “nothing much would surprise me about Jason. He was a law unto himself.”

“His mother was surprised.”

“Maybe she had more illusions.”

That might explain, Susan thought, why Steven Fox had seemed quicker to accept that Jason might have met a violent end than Josie had been.

“And you?” she asked.

“Jason was a peculiar lad. We never had a very close relationship. I don’t know why.”

“Did you know anything about his affiliation with the Albion League?”

“Not until yesterday, no.” Steven Fox shook his head slowly. “When Jason left home,” he said, “that was it. We never really knew what he was up to after then. Still, I don’t suppose it’s the kind of thing you do tell your parents, is it? I mean, can you imagine your son sitting down at the dinner table one night and saying, ‘Guess what, Mum, Dad. I joined a neo-Nazi party today’?”

“Not unless he thought you shared his views.”

Steven banged his coffee cup down on the saucer, spilling some. “Now, hold on a minute, that’s quite an allegation. I resent that. I’m not a racist.”

Susan held her hand up. “I’m not alleging anything, Mr. Fox. I simply want to know.”

“Well, he didn’t get it from me or his mother.”

“Do you have any ideas as to where he did get it from?”

“Well, that kind of thing… Do you really think it’s as simple as… you know, just picking up or imitating someone’s mannerisms or figures of speech?”

“No, I don’t. But he had to start somewhere. What about this promotion business?”

“Josie told you about that?”

“Maureen, actually.”

Steven Fox shrugged. “Back in Halifax, I lost out on a promotion to a fellow from Bengal. Nice chap, but… It was that, what do you call it…?”

“Positive discrimination?”

“Aye, only giving jobs to immigrants and women. Sorry. But I had more experience. And I’d put in more years. Anyway, it gave us some hard times, not enough money coming in, that sort of thing. I think Jason took it more to heart than I did, maybe because he already had some problems of his own at school. There were a lot of Asians there, recent immigrants for the most part, some of them with poor language skills, and Jason got into trouble once for suggesting to a teacher that they were holding back the rest and ought to be put together in a special class.”

“How long ago was that?”

“In his last year there. Just before we moved.”

“Didn’t that concern you?”

“Well, it… I mean, in a way, I suppose, he was right, wasn’t he? Maybe he should have put it more diplomatically. Lord knows, as I said, I’m no racist, but it seems to me that if you keep on catering to the demands of foreign cultures and other religions over your own, then you do sort of… weaken… your own, don’t you? For crying out loud, they don’t even sing a hymn and say the Lord’s Prayer at morning assembly anymore.”

Susan moved on quickly. “Do you know the people who run the shop on Gallows View? The Mahmoods?”

“I know who you mean – I’ve nipped in there for a tin of soup from time to time – but I can’t say I know them.”

“Remember about a month ago when someone chucked a brick though their window?”

“I read about it in the local paper. Why?”

“Was Jason up that weekend?”

“Oh, come on,” said Steven. “Surely you can’t imagine he’d do something like that?”

“Why not?”

“He wasn’t a hooligan.”

“But he was a racist.”

“Still… anyway, I don’t remember if he was here or not. And aren’t you supposed to be looking for his killers?”

“Every little bit helps, Mr. Fox. He wasn’t living at the address you gave us in Leeds. Did you know that?”