Sergeant Hatchley knocked with his hamlike fist; the door rattled in its frame, but no one answered. He tried the handle, but the place was locked. In the silence after the knocking, Banks thought he heard a sound inside.

“What do we do?” Hatchley asked.

“Knock again.”

Hatchley did so. Harder this time.

It did the trick. A voice from behind the door shouted, “What do you want?”

“Police,” said Banks. “Open up.”

They heard someone remove a chain and turn a key in a lock, then the door opened.

For some reason, the new occupants hadn’t removed the bell that hung on its pliant arc of metal at the back of the door, and it jangled as Banks and Hatchley walked in. The sound reminded Banks of childhood errands to his local corner shop, the way he used to watch, hypnotized, as Mrs. Bray turned the handle on the machine and the bacon swung back and forth in the slicer, making a whooshing sound every time the whirling wheel blade carved off a slice; he remembered the smoky smell of the cured meat in the air, mingled with fresh bread and apples.

What he smelled when he walked in now soon put such nostalgia out of his mind – burned carbon from the photocopier and laser printer, recent paint, smoke and fresh-cut paper.

The place didn’t even resemble a shop anymore. What must have been the counter was covered with stacks of paper – more copies of the flyer, by the looks of it – and a computer hummed on a desk beside a telephone. On the walls were a framed poster of Adolf Hitler in full spate, addressing one of the Nuremberg rallies, by the look of it, and a large image of a swastika made out of burning arrows.

A short young man with lank black hair, antique National Health glasses and a spotty face shut the door behind them. “Always happy to help the local police,” he said with a stupid grin. “We’re on the same side, we are.”

“Fuck off, sonny,” said Banks. “What’s your name?”

The young man blinked at the insult and stepped back a pace. “There’s no need-”

“Name?” Banks repeated as he and Hatchley advanced, backing the young man up against the counter.

The kid held his hands up. “All right, all right. Don’t hit me. It’s Des. Des Parker.”

“We’re just going to have a little look around, Des, if that’s all right with you,” Banks said.

Des frowned. “Don’t you need a search warrant? I mean, I know my rights.”

Banks stopped and raised his eyebrows. He looked at Hatchley. “Hear that, Jim? Des here knows his rights.”

“Aye,” said Hatchley, walking toward the telephone and picking up the receiver. “Shall I do the honors, sir?”

Des looked puzzled. “What honors? What’s he doing?”

“Getting a search warrant,” Banks explained. “In about half an hour we’ll have fifty flatfoots going over the place with a fine-tooth comb. Sergeant Hatchley and I will stay here with you until they arrive. Maybe you’d like to inform the building’s owner – if it’s not you – while we wait. He might want to be here to make sure his rights aren’t violated.”

Des gulped. “Mr. Motcombe… He wouldn’t like that.”

“So what?”

“What’s going on, Des? Who the fuck is this? Is there a problem?”

The new speaker came out of the back room, zipping up his fly, accompanied by the sound of a toilet flushing. This one looked a few years older than Des Parker and at least fifty brain cells brighter. Tall and skinny, he was wearing a black T-shirt, jeans and red braces, and his dyed-blond hair was cut very close to his skull. He also wore a diamond stud in one ear and spoke with a strong Geordie accent. Definitely not the lad who’d been in the Jubilee with Jason Fox last Saturday.

“No problem at all,” Banks said, showing his warrant card again. “We’d just like a quick shufti around, if that’s all right with you. And you are?”

The newcomer smiled. “Of course. We’ve got nothing to hide. I’m Ray. Ray Knott.”

“But, Ray!” Des Parker protested. “Mr. Motcombe… We can’t just let-”

“Shut it, Des, there’s a good lad,” said Ray with another smile. “As I said, we’ve nothing to hide.” He turned to Banks. “Sorry about my mate,” he said, pointing to his temple. “He’s none too bright, isn’t Des. Few bricks short of load.”

Banks picked up a copy of the flyer. “What’s this, then, Ray? The Albion League? A new football league, perhaps? Out to rival the Premier, are you?”

“Very funny,” said Ray. But he wasn’t laughing.

“Tell us about Jason Fox,” Banks prompted.

“Jason? What about him? He’s dead. Kicked to death by Pakis. You lot let them go.”

Hatchley, still poking around, brushed against the huge stack of pamphlets on the counter. They fell to the floor, scattering all over the place. Ray and Des said nothing.

“Sorry,” said Hatchley. “Clumsy of me.”

Banks marveled at him. Full of contradictions and surprises was Jim Hatchley. While he’d pin photos of half-naked women on his corkboard – at least he did before Susan moved in – he hated pornographers; and while he’d join in with lads laughing at racist jokes, and was certainly a casual bigot himself, he didn’t like neo-Nazis, either. Of course, none of it seemed like a contradiction to him. The way he put it, he wasn’t prejudiced, he hated everyone.

“We’re not sure who killed him yet,” said Banks. “Where were the two of you at that time?”

Ray laughed. “You can’t be serious. Us? Kill Jason? No way. He was one of us.”

“So it won’t do you any harm to tell me where you were, would it?”

“I were at home,” Des said.

“By yourself?”

“No. I live with me mum.”

“And I’m sure she’s really proud of you, Des. Address?”

Des, stuttering, told him.

“What about you, Ray?”

Ray folded his arms and leaned against the counter, one leg crossed over the other, big grin on his face. “Drinking in my local.”

“Which is?”

“The Oakwood. Up Gipton way.”

“Witnesses?”

Ray grinned. “Six or seven at least. Local darts championship. I won.”

“Congratulations. What about Sunday morning?”

“Sleeping it off. Why?”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

Banks made some notes, then said, “There was no contact address on your flyer. You’re not a secret society, are you?”

“No. But we have to be careful. We have a position we want to get across, and we know it’s not popular with a lot of people. So we don’t exactly go around shouting about our existence to everyone.”

“I’ll bet you don’t.”

“Not everyone understands.”

“I’m sure they don’t. How does a person join, then?”

“Why? You interested?”

“Just answer the fucking question.”

“All right. All right. No need to get shirty. Just my little joke. We recruit people.”

“Where?”

Ray shrugged. “Wherever we can find them. It’s no secret. Schools, youth clubs, football matches, rock concerts, the Internet. We vet them pretty thoroughly, too, of course, if they express any interest.”

“Tell me, Ray, what are your duties?” Banks asked, pacing around the small room as he talked. “How high up the totem pole are you?”

Ray grinned. “Me? Not very high. Mostly, I hand out pamphlets. And I’ll be doing some of the writing now Jason’s dead.”

“Propaganda? Was that his job?”

“One of them.”

“The Goebbels of the group, eh?”

“Come again?”

“Never mind, Ray. Before your time. Anything else?”

“I do some training.”

“What sort of training?”

“Country weekends. You know, survival skills – camping, hiking, physical fitness, that sort of thing.”

“Real Duke of Edinburgh’s Award stuff?”

“If you like.”

“Weapons?”

Ray folded his arms. “Now, you know that would be illegal.”

“Right. How silly of me to ask. Anyway, Ray, back to Jason Fox. How well did you know him?”

“Not very.”

“You mean the two of you didn’t share your ideas on immigration policy and sing the occasional verse of the ‘Horst Wessel’ song together after a couple of jars?”