Banks raised his eyebrows. “What’s this, Ken? Have you been tipping them off when their brothel’s going to be raided?”

Blackstone laughed. “Not exactly.”

“There’s an address in Rawdon I’d like you to check, too, if it’s not too much trouble. Jason Fox lived there. As far as we know, he hasn’t been employed this past couple of years, so we’d like to know how he could afford it.”

“Will do,” said Blackstone. He looked at his watch. “Look, I should get back to the station. I can make a couple of phone calls, get working on it pretty much straightaway.”

“We should be moving along, too,” said Banks, looking at Hatchley, who started swigging the last of his ale in expectation of an imminent departure. “We’re going to pay Mr. Motcombe a visit. And there’s another thing, Ken.”

Blackstone raised his eyebrows.

“We still haven’t been able to track down the lad Jason Fox was drinking with the night he was killed. If the Albion League, or Neville Motcombe himself, does actually own the Holbeck building, or the Rawdon house, do you think you could check and see if he owns any other property in the city? Who knows, it might lead us to Jason’s mystery pal.”

“Who may or may not know something?”

Banks smiled and nudged Hatchley. “Ever the optimist, our Ken, isn’t he, Jim?”

Hatchley laughed. “West Yorkshire does that to you.”

“Can do,” said Blackstone, standing up. “I’ll call you soon as I get anything.”

“Appreciate it,” said Banks. “I owe you one.”

“I’ll remember that if you ever transfer here.”

After lunch, Susan’s Wednesday afternoon was becoming every bit as frustrating as Tuesday’s had been. She had telephoned the service provider that gave Internet and Web access to Fox Wood Designs, but she couldn’t get a name and address out of them over the phone. A court order would see to that, of course, but what grounds had she to seek one? A vague hunch that it might lead her to someone who might know something about a mysterious death?

Every once in a while she left her computer terminal, stretched, and paced around the flat for a while. She put on the disc that came with her magazine, and arias followed solo piano pieces, which in turn followed symphonic movements, from Monteverdi to Maxwell Davies. It was all very confusing.

Like Banks, she wondered about George Mahmood and his mates. Had they done it? They certainly could have. And maybe not many people would blame them. The reporters had been around the station in droves, of course, and there was sure to be an article on police racism in the weekly Eastvale Gazette, due out on Friday.

Susan turned back to her desk. Still working on the assumption that if “Fox” was Jason Fox, then “Wood” might turn out to be a real person, too, she phoned directory assistance and discovered, as she suspected, that in Leeds alone there were pages of “Woods.”

Well, she supposed, she could try them all. And what would she say? Ask each one if he knew Jason Fox? If this Wood person didn’t want the police to know he knew Jason, he would hardly be likely to tell her over the telephone, would he?

There had to be an easier way. Tax records? Business registries? Maybe FoxWood Designs was incorporated, or had registered their design as a trademark.

Suddenly she realized there might be an even easier way than that. Subterfuge.

She hurried back to the computer, where she typed away for a few minutes, then sat back to survey her handiwork. Not bad. She made one or two small changes, correcting a typo here and an awkward phrase there. When she had finished, the message read:

TO: FoxWood Designs

FROM: Gayline Fashions

I have just started my own fashion-design business and I’m looking for ways to find a wider audience for my products. I noticed your work recently on a Web page and was very impressed by what I saw. I realized that the Web is an ideal way to achieve my aims and from what I saw I realized your company would be more than capable of handling the graphics necessary for the sort of page I have in mind. I would really like to talk to you about this as soon as possible. Do you think you could supply me with your address so that I could come around and discuss the possibility of our working together? I would much appreciate the opportunity to get myself established on the World Wide Web without delay.

Susan Gay.

Sole Proprietor: Gayline Fashions.

Susan read it over. It wasn’t perfect – English had never been her strong point at school – but it would do.

She saved the message and logged in again. Then, when all the preliminaries were done with, she took a deep breath, pressed enter, and sent her message bouncing around the world’s computer systems to the E-mail address she had taken from the bottom of the Fox Wood Designs page.

Before Banks and Hatchley even had time to ring Mot-combe’s doorbell, they saw the figure approaching through the frosted glass.

“Mr. Motcombe?” said Banks, showing his identification.

“That’s me,” said Motcombe. “I’m surprised it took you so long. Please. Come in.”

They followed him through to the living room.

“You’ve been expecting us?” Banks asked.

“Ever since Jason’s tragic demise.”

“But you didn’t bother to call us?”

Motcombe smiled. “Why should I have? I don’t know anything that can help you. But that doesn’t keep you away from me, does it? Sit down. Please.”

Hatchley sat in one of the deep armchairs and took out his notebook. Banks walked over to the window at the far end of the room. The house was perched on a hillside; the back window looked over toward the village of Tong, not much more than a mile away, past Park Wood. The smoking chimneys of Bradford stood to the right and Leeds sprawled to the left.

“Yes, it’s impressive, isn’t it?” Banks heard Motcombe say behind him. “It’s one of the things that helps me remember what we’re fighting for. That all isn’t lost.” Motcombe was standing so close that Banks could smell peppermint toothpaste on his breath.

Banks turned and walked past him, glancing around at the rest of the room. The furniture looked solid and well-crafted – a table, chairs, sideboard and a glass-fronted cabinet, all dark, shiny wood. While there were no posters of Hitler or swastikas on the bright floral wallpaper, inside the cabinet was obviously Motcombe’s collection of Nazi memorabilia: armband, bayonet, German officer’s cap – all bearing the swastika – a series of dog-eared photographs of Hitler, and what was probably a wartime edition of Mein Kampf, again with the swastika on the front.

“Hitler was an inspiration, don’t you think?” Motcombe said. “He made mistakes, perhaps, but he had the right ideas, the right intentions. We should have joined forces with him instead of sending our forces against him. Then we would have a strong, united Europe as a bulwark against the corruption and impurity of the rest of the world, instead of the moth-eaten ragbag we do have.”

Banks looked at him. He supposed Motcombe was imposing enough. Tall and gaunt, wearing a black polo-neck jumper tucked into matching black trousers with sharp creases, and a broad belt with a plain, square silver buckle, he had closely cropped black hair – shorter even than Banks’s own – a sharp nose, and lobeless ears flat against his skull. His eyes were brown, and there was a gleam in them like the winter sun in a frozen mud puddle. A constant sly smile twitched at the corners of his thin, dry lips, as if he knew something no one else did, and as if that knowledge made him somehow superior. He reminded Banks of a younger Norman Tebbit.