“This,” said Motcombe, “is Detective Chief Inspector Banks and Detective Sergeant Hatchley.”

“And now we’ve got that out of the way,” said Banks, “maybe you’d care to tell us who you are?”

“This is Rupert,” said Motcombe. “Rupert Francis. Come in, Rupert. Don’t be shy.”

Rupert came in. He was wearing a khaki apron, the kind Banks had to wear for woodwork classes at school. His hair was cut short, but that was where his resemblance to Jason’s mystery friend ended. In his mid- to late twenties, Banks guessed, Rupert was at least six feet tall, and thin rather than stocky. Also, there was no sign of an earring and, as far as Banks could make out, no hole to hang one from.

“I’m a carpenter, a cabinetmaker,” said Motcombe. “Though it’s more in the form of a hobby than a true occupation, I’m afraid. Anyway, I’ve converted the cellar into a workshop and Rupert helps me out every now and then. He’s very good. I think the traditional values of the craftsman are very important indeed in our society, don’t you?”

Rupert smiled and nodded at Banks and Hatchley. “Pleased to meet you,” he said. “What’s it about?”

“It’s about Jason Fox,” said Banks. “Didn’t happen to know him, did you?”

“Vaguely. I mean, I saw him around. We weren’t mates or anything.”

“Saw him around here?”

“Down the office. Holbeck. On the computer.”

Banks slipped the drawing from his briefcase again. “Know this lad?”

Rupert shook his head. “Never seen him before. Can I go now? I’m halfway through finishing a surface.”

“Go on,” said Banks, turning to Motcombe again.

“You really must try believing us, Chief Inspector,” he said. “You see-”

Banks stood up. “Are you sure there’s nothing else you can tell us? About Jason? About his problem with George Mahmood?”

“No,” said Motcombe. “I’m sorry, but that just about covers it. I told you when you first came that I couldn’t tell you anything that would help.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say you haven’t helped us, Mr. Motcombe,” said Banks. “I wouldn’t say that at all. Sergeant.”

Hatchley put his notebook away and got to his feet.

“Well,” said Motcombe at the door, “I suppose I’ll see you at the funeral?”

Banks turned. “What funeral?”

Motcombe raised his eyebrows. “Why, Jason’s, of course. Tomorrow.” He smiled. “Don’t the police always attend the funerals of murder victims, just in case the killer turns up?”

“Who said anything about murder?”

“I just assumed.”

“You make a lot of assumptions, Mr. Motcombe. As far as we know, it could have been manslaughter. Why are you going?”

“To show support for a fallen colleague. Fallen in the course of our common struggle. And we hope to gain some media coverage. As you said yourself, why waste a golden opportunity to publicize our ideas? There’ll be a small representative presence at the graveside, and we’ll be preparing a special black-border pamphlet for the event.” He smiled. “Don’t you realize it yet, Chief Inspector? Jason is a martyr.”

“Bollocks,” said Banks, turning to leave. “Jason’s just another dead Nazi, that’s all.”

Motcombe tut-tutted. “Really, Chief Inspector.”

At the door, Banks did his Columbo impersonation. “Just one more question, Mr. Motcombe.”

Motcombe sighed and leaned on the doorpost, folding his arms. “Fire away, then, if you must.”

“Where were you on Sunday morning?”

“Sunday morning? Why?”

“Where were you?”

“Here. At home.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Is there any reason I have to?”

“Just pursuing inquiries.”

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I can’t prove it. I was alone. Sadly, my wife and I separated some years ago.”

“Are you sure you didn’t visit number seven Rudmore Terrace in Rawdon?”

“Of course I’m sure. Why should I?”

“Because that was where Jason Fox lived. We have information that two men went there on Sunday morning and cleaned the place out. I was just wondering if one of them happened to be you.”

“I didn’t go there,” Motcombe repeated. “And even if I had done, I wouldn’t have broken any law.”

“These men had a key, Mr. Motcombe. A key, in all likelihood, taken from Jason Fox’s body.”

“I know nothing about that. I have a key, too, though.” He grinned at Banks. “As a matter of fact, I happen to own the house.”

Well, Banks thought, that was one question answered. Motcombe did own property. “But you didn’t go there on Sunday morning?” he said.

“No.”

“Did you give or lend a key to anyone?”

“No.”

“I think you did. I think you sent some of your lads over there to clean up after Jason’s death. I think he had stuff there you didn’t want the police to find.”

“Interesting theory. Such as what?”

“Files, perhaps, membership lists, notes on upcoming projects. And the computer had been tampered with.”

“Well, even if I did what you say,” said Motcombe, “I’m sure you can understand how I would be well within my rights to go to a house I own to pick up property that, essentially, belongs to me, in my capacity as leader of the Albion League.”

“Oh, I can understand that completely,” Banks said.

Motcombe frowned. “Then what…? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“Well, then,” Banks said slowly. “Let me explain. The thing that bothers me is that whoever went there went before anyone knew that the victim was Jason Fox. Anyone except his killers, of course, that is. Bye for now, Mr. Motcombe. No doubt we’ll be seeing you again soon.”

It was a long time since Frank had worn a suit, and the tie seemed to be choking him. Trust the weather to brighten up for a funeral, too. It was Indian summer again, warm air tinged with that sweet, smoky hint of autumn’s decay, sun shining, hardly a breeze, and here he was in the back of the car next to his daughter Josie, who was dressed all in black, sweat beading on his brow despite the open window.

The drive to Halifax from Lyndgarth, where Steven had picked him up, was a long one. And a bloody ugly one once you got past Skipton, too, Frank thought as they drove through Keighley. Talk about your “dark Satanic mills.”

He had wondered why they couldn’t just bury the lad in Eastvale and have done with it, but Josie explained Steven’s family connections with St. Luke’s Church, where his forebears were buried going back centuries. Bugger yon streak of piss and his forebears, Frank thought, but he kept his mouth shut.

Nobody said very much on the journey. Josie sobbed softly every now and then, putting a white handkerchief to her nose, Steven – who for all his sins was a good driver – kept his eyes on the road, and Maureen sat stiffly, arms folded, beside him, looking out the window.

Frank found himself drifting down memory lane: Jason, aged four or five, down by The Leas one spring afternoon, excited as he caught his first stickleback in a net made of old lace curtain and a thin strip of cane; the two of them stopping for ice cream one hot, still summer day at the small shop in the middle of nowhere, halfway up Fremlington Hill, melting ice cream dripping over his knuckles; an autumn walk down a lane near Richmond, Jason running ahead kicking up piles of autumn leaves, which made a dry soughing sound as he plowed through them; standing freezing in the snow in Ben Rhydding watching the skiers glide down Ilkley Moor.

Whatever Jason had become, Frank thought, he had once been an innocent child, as awestruck by the wonders of man and nature as any other kid. Hang on to that, he told himself, not the twisted, misguided person Jason had become.

They arrived at the funeral home on the outskirts of Halifax with time to spare. Frank stayed outside watching the traffic rush by because he could never stand the rarefied air of funeral homes, or the thought of all those corpses in caskets, makeup on their faces and formaldehyde in their veins. Jason, he suspected, would have needed a lot of cosmetic attention to his face.