“How often did Luke call by?” she asked.

“About once a month. Or whenever he was out of something to read.”

“He had the money. Why didn’t he go to Waterstone’s and buy them new?”

“Don’t ask me. We got chatting the first time he dropped in—”

“When was that?”

“Maybe eighteen months or so ago. Anyway, as I say, we got chatting and he came back.” He looked around at the stained ceilings, flaking plaster and tottering piles of books and smiled at Annie, showing crooked teeth. “I suppose there must have been something he liked about the place.”

“Must be the service,” Annie said.

Wells laughed. “I can tell you one thing. He liked those old Penguin Modern Classics. The old ones with the gray spines, not these modern pale-green things. Real paperbacks, not your trade size. And you can’t buy those at Waterstone’s. Same with the old Pan covers.”

Something moved in the back of the shop and a pile of books fell over. Annie thought she glimpsed a tabby cat slinking away into the deeper shadows.

Wells sighed. “Familiar’s gone and done it again.”

“Familiar?”

“My cat. No bookshop’s complete without a cat. After witch’s familiar. See?”

“I suppose so. Did Luke ever come in here with anyone else?”

“No.”

Annie took her copy of the artist’s impression out and set it on the table in front of him. “What about her?”

Wells leaned forward, put his glasses on again and examined the sketch. “It looks like her,” he said. “I told you I never forget a face.”

“But you told me Luke never came in with anyone else,” Annie said, feeling a tingle of excitement rise up her spine.

Wells looked at her. “Who said she was with him? No, she came in with another bloke, same sort of clothing and body-piercing.”

“Who are they?”

“I don’t know. They must have been a bit short of money, though.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because they came in with an armful of brand-new books to sell. Stolen, I thought. Plain as day. Stolen books. I don’t have any truck with that sort of thing, so I sent them packing.”

Chapter 11

Before he cut into Luke Armitage’s flesh, Dr. Glendenning made a thorough examination of the body’s exterior. Banks watched as the doctor examined and measured the head wound. Luke’s skin was white and showed some wrinkling from exposure to the water, and there was a slight discoloration around the neck.

“Back of the skull splintered into the cerebellum,” the doctor said.

“Enough to kill him?”

“At a guess.” Glendenning bent over and squinted at the wound. “And it would have bled quite a bit, if that’s any use.”

“Could be,” said Banks. “Blood’s a lot harder to clean up than most people think. What about the weapon?”

“Looks like some sort of round-edged object,” the doctor said. “Smooth-sided.”

“Like what?”

“Well, it’s not got a very large circumference, so I’d rule out something like a baseball bat. I can’t see any traces—wood splinters or anything—so it could have been metal or ceramic. Hard, anyway.”