“No,” said Ray. “And you can sneer all you like. I’m getting fed up of this. Look, why don’t you go get your search warrant and call in your bully boys. Either that or get the fuck off our property.”

Banks said nothing.

“I mean it,” Ray went on. “I’m calling your bluff. Either bring in the bluebottles or bugger off.”

Banks thought for a moment as he engaged Ray in a staring match. He decided that there was nothing more to be learned here. Besides, he was getting hungry. “All right, Ray,” he said. “We’ve finished with you for the time being. Jim?”

“What? Oh, sorry.” Sergeant Hatchley managed to knock over a half-full mug of tea on the counter. Banks turned and watched as the dark stain spread around the bottom few pamphlets left on the counter and began to rise up as the paper absorbed it. Then, with Hatchley behind him, he opened the door and they headed out to the car. The drizzle had stopped now and a brisk wind had sprung up, allowing the occasional shaft of sunlight to slant through puffy gray clouds.

“We didn’t have to leave, sir,” Hatchley said as they got in the car. “We could have leaned on them a bit more.”

“I know that. We can always go back if we need to, but I don’t think we’ll find any answers there.”

“Think they had anything to do with Jason’s death?”

“I don’t know yet. I can’t honestly see why they would.”

“Me neither. What next?”

Banks lit a cigarette and slid the window down a couple of inches. “We’ll have a word with Neville Motcombe this afternoon,” he said, “but before that, how do you fancy lunch with Ken Blackstone? There was something young Adolf said back there that gave me an idea.”

When Susan got to the Hope and Anchor, just around the corner on York Road, Gavin was already looking over the menu, a full pint beside him. Susan waved, stopped at the bar for her usual St. Clement’s and went over to join him. She put the copy of Classic CD that she’d bought at the newsagent’s on the bench beside her.

“What brings you to town, then?” she asked.

“I had a couple of boxes of stuff to deliver to your records officer. It’s not all computers, you know.”

The place was fairly quiet, and soon they had both ordered the lasagna-and-chips special. Gavin raised his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” Susan smiled at him. A little over six foot, and only a couple of years older than her, Gavin was a good-looking fellow with a strong chin, soulful eyes and a mop of shaggy chestnut hair. He played fullback for the police rugby team.

“So,” Gavin said, “you are the sergeant when a call is received that there is a small nuclear device in the Swainsdale Centre. A validated code word has been given, it is a busy time of day, and you have twenty minutes to hand over every packet of Rice Krispies in Eastvale at a designated spot. What do you do?”

Susan laughed. “Get in my car and drive like hell out of there.”

“Sorry, DC Gay, you fail.”

It was a running joke between them. They had met just after doing their boards, and since then they had been coming up with progressively more absurd versions of the scenarios they had been given to solve.

“What’s that?” Gavin asked, pointing at the magazine.

“Just a music magazine.”

“I can see that. Bring it along in case the conversation gets boring, did you?”

“Idiot.” Susan grinned. “I picked it up on the way. I thought I might have to wait for you.”

Gavin picked up the magazine. “Classical music? With a free compact disc? Cecilia Bartoli. Sir Simon Rattle. I say. Alan Bennett plays are one thing, but I didn’t know you were such a culture vulture.”

Susan snatched the magazine back. “It’s something I picked up from DCI Banks,” she said. “I get to hear a lot of classical stuff traveling in the car with him and I thought… well, some of it’s really interesting. This is just an easy way of finding out more about it, that’s all. You get snippets of things on the disc, and if I like them, sometimes I’ll go and buy the whole thing.”

“Ah, the ubiquitous DCI Banks. I should have known his hand would be in this somewhere. And where might golden boy be today?”

“He’s gone to Leeds. And I told you not to call him that.”

“Leeds? Again? Know what I think?” Gavin leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. “I think he’s got a fancy woman down there. That’s what I think.”

“Don’t be absurd. He’s married.”

Gavin laughed. “Well I’ve never known that to stop a bloke before. What about this violinist you told me about? Is Banks bonking her?”

“You’re disgusting. Her name’s Pamela Jeffreys, and she’s a violist, not a violinist. For your information, DCI Banks is a decent bloke. He’s got an absolutely gorgeous wife. She runs the art gallery at the community center. I’m certain he’s faithful to her. He wouldn’t do anything like that.”

Gavin held his hand up. “All right, all right. I know when I’m beaten. If you say so. He’s a saint.”

“I didn’t say that, either,” Susan said through gritted teeth. Then she glared at him.

Their food came, and they both tucked in. Susan concentrated on her lasagna and tried to ignore the chips. Not entirely successfully.

“I’ll tell you one thing, though,” Gavin said, “your Banks is definitely not a saint in Chief Constable Riddle’s books.”

“Jimmy Riddle’s a pillock.”

“That’s as may be. But he’s also Chief Constable Pillock, and your golden boy has been pissing him off mightily of late. Just a friendly word of warning, that’s all.”

“Are you talking about those Asian kids we brought in?”

Gavin nodded. “Could be something to do with them, yes. That and near causing a race riot.”

“A race riot? In Eastvale?” She laughed. “It was a storm in a teacup, Gavin. I was there. And we’d good reason to detain those three kids. They’re still not off the hook, you know. The lab found something suspicious on George Mahmood’s shoe. They’re still working on it.”

“Probably dog shit. I think you’ll need a lot more than that to convince the CC.”

“They think it might be blood. Anyway, you know as well as I do that Jimmy Riddle only ordered their release because of political pressure.”

“Don’t underestimate political pressure, Susan. It can be a powerful motivator. Especially in a person’s career. Even so, you’re probably right about his reasons.” Gavin pushed his empty plate aside. “To be honest, I can’t say I’ve ever heard the CC have a good word to say for darkies in private. But the public face is another matter. Sure they only got off because they’re colored. This time. And because Mustapha Camel, or whatever his name is, is some big wallah in the Muslim community. But there’s a large section of the public – especially some of the more liberal members of the press – who say they were only arrested in the first place because they were colored. Take your pick. You can’t win. Anyway, you might just want to warn DCI Banks that the CC is on the warpath.”

Susan laughed. “What’s new? I think he already knows that.” She glanced at her watch.

“Maybe that’s why he’s gone to Leeds?”

“DCI Banks isn’t scared of Jimmy Riddle.”

“Well, maybe he should be.”

Susan wasn’t certain from his expression whether Gavin was being serious or not. It was often difficult to tell with him. “I’ve got to go,” she said, standing up.

“You can’t. You haven’t finished your chips.”

“They’re fattening.”

“But I’ve not had my full half hour yet.”

“Isn’t life unfair,” Susan said, smiling as she pecked him on the cheek and turned to leave.

“Saturday?” he called out after her.

“Maybe,” she said.