DI Ken Blackstone, West Yorkshire CID, was already waiting when Banks and Hatchley arrived at the pub he’d suggested over the telephone, a seedy-looking dive near Kirkgate Market, at the back of the Millgarth police head-quarters.

Most days there was an open-air market near the bus station, behind the huge Edwardian market hall, and today in the drizzle a few lost souls in macs wandered around the covered stalls, fingering samples of fabric and fruit, thumbing through tattered paperback romances and considering the virtues of buying that “genuine antique” brass door knocker.

But no one showed much enthusiasm, not even the vendors, who were usually keen to sing out the praises of their wares and draw customers to their stalls. Today most of them stood to the side, wearing flat caps and waxed jackets, drawing on cigarettes and shuffling from foot to foot.

The pub wasn’t very busy, either. Blackstone had assured them the cook did a decent Yorkshire pudding and gravy, and luckily it turned out to be true. In deference to duty, Banks and Blackstone drank halves. Hatchley, unwilling to miss what was a rare opportunity these days, had a full pint of Tetley’s bitter. A giant jukebox stood in one corner of the lounge bar, but it was silent at the moment, so they didn’t have to shout.

“Well, Alan,” said Blackstone, echoing Gavin Richards’s sentiments, “you’ve been spending so much time down here this past year or two, I’m surprised you’re not thinking of moving.”

Banks smiled. “I won’t say it hasn’t crossed my mind. Oh, not seriously. Well, maybe just a little bit seriously. With both Brian and Tracy gone, the house just seems too big, and much as I love Eastvale… I think Sandra misses big-city life. And I wouldn’t mind being a bit nearer Opera North.” When he mentioned Sandra, he felt a pang. They hadn’t talked since their argument the other night, and Opera North had certainly played its part in that.

Blackstone smiled. “It’s not such a bad place. You could do a lot worse.”

Banks looked at Hatchley, who had done a stint on the West Yorkshire force several years ago. “Jim?”

“He’s right,” Hatchley agreed. “And it might not be a bad career move.” He winked. “It’s a long way from Jimmy Riddle. We’d miss you, of course.”

“Stop it, you’ll make me cry,” Banks said, pretending to reach for a handkerchief.

“All right,” said Hatchley. “We won’t miss you, then.”

“Anyway,” Banks asked, “how’s crime?”

“Much the same as usual,” said Blackstone. “We’ve had a spate of ‘steamings’ lately. Five or six young lads will go into a shop, then, when the shopkeeper’s got his cash register open, they rush into action, create chaos all around while they grab what they want from customers and till alike. Kids for the most part. Fifteen and under, most of them. They’ve also taken to doing building societies and post offices the same way.”

Banks shook his head. “Sounds American to me.”

“You know how it goes, Alan. First America, then London, then the rest of the country. What else…? We’ve had a few too many muggings at cash dispensers, too. And to cap it all, it looks like we’re heading for another drug war in Chapeltown.”

Banks raised his eyebrows.

Blackstone sighed. “Bloke goes by the name of ‘Deevaughan.’ Spelled like the county: Devon. Anyway, Devon came up from London about a month ago and sussed out the scene pretty quickly. Already it looks like we can put down one murder to him.”

“Can’t prove anything, of course?”

“Course not. He was in a pub with twenty mates when it happened. This one’s bad, Alan. Crack, cocaine, the usual stuff, of course. But word also has it he’s a big heroin fan. He spent the last few years in New York and Toronto, and there’s rumors of death follow him around wherever he goes. Still want to move here?”

Banks laughed. “I’ll think about it.”

“Anyway, you didn’t come to talk about my problems. How can I help you this time?”

Banks lit a cigarette. “Know anything about Neville Mot-combe? Runs a white-power group called the Albion League. Lives out Pudsey way. Offices in Holbeck.”

Blackstone shook his head. “I’ve heard of him, but I can’t really say I know much, not off-the-cuff. Bit out of my bailiwick, to be honest.”

“What is? Neo-Nazis or Pudsey?”

Blackstone laughed. “Both, I suppose.” With his thinning sandy hair – still enough left to curl around his ears – wire-rimmed glasses, long, pale face and Cupid’s-bow lips, Blackstone reminded Banks more of an academic than a copper. Except that he was always well-dressed. Today, he wore a dazzling white shirt, its brightness outdone only by his gaudy tie, and a pinstripe suit that looked tailor-made, not off-the-peg, with a silk handkerchief poking out of the top pocket. Banks didn’t even wear a suit and tie unless he had to, and he always kept the top button of his shirt undone. Today he was wearing his favorite suede jacket again, and his tie hung askew.

“How did you come to hear about him?” Banks asked.

Blackstone laughed. “Bit of a joke around the station, actually. Seems he tried to flog a stolen stereo to one of our off-duty PCs at a car-boot sale last year. Luckily for us, it was one of our honest PCs, and he traced it to a Curry’s break-in a couple of months earlier.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Motcombe swore blind he’d bought it at the market and we couldn’t prove otherwise. Got a light rap on the knuckles, and that’s the lot.”

“Did you know about the Albion League?”

“I’ve heard of it, yes. I try at least to stay abreast of possible troublemakers.”

“And you think they’re likely ones?”

Blackstone pursed his lips. “Mmm. I’d say they’ve got potential, yes. We’ve had a few unattributed racial incidents this past year or so. We can’t tie them in to him and his group yet, but I have my suspicions.”

“Anything in particular?”

“Know that big mosque they’re putting up out Bradford way?”

Banks nodded.

“There’s been a few small acts of sabotage. Nothing much. Stolen building materials, spray-painted racist slogans, slashed tires, scratched paintwork. That sort of thing.”

“And you suspect Motcombe’s lot?”

“Well, it’d be surprising if there weren’t some sort of organized group behind it. What really worries me is what level of violence they’re likely to rise to.”

“A bomb? Something like that?”

Blackstone shrugged. “Well, if the IRA can do it… Anyway, it’s just speculation at the moment. Want me to dig around a bit more?”

Banks nodded. “I’d appreciate it, Ken. Right now anything is better than nothing. We’re getting nowhere fast.”

“What about those Asian lads you had in custody?”

“They’re not off my list yet.”

“You said earlier you had an idea,” Sergeant Hatchley prompted Banks.

“Ah, yes.” Banks stubbed out his cigarette and looked at Blackstone. “It’s probably just a minor thing, really. We talked to two of Motcombe’s cronies in Holbeck. Ray Knott and Des Parker.”

Blackstone nodded. “We know Ray Knott,” he said. “Used to be a dab hand at taking and driving away.”

“Used to be?”

Blackstone shrugged.

“Anyway,” Banks went on. “At one point, Knott let slip that the Albion League, or Motcombe himself, actually owned the property. I’m wondering if that’s true or whether it was simply some sort of figure of speech. You know, the way someone might say ‘Get off my property’ even if it’s only rented?”

“And you’d like me to check it out?”

“If you would.”

“May I ask why?”

“Because I’d like to know if money’s involved. If Motcombe owns property and lives in a nice house in Pudsey, maybe there’s some scam involved.”

Blackstone nodded. “Hmmm. Good thinking. I’ll do what I can. As a matter of fact, I’ve got a couple of mates in the town hall, and they owe me a favor or two.”