She would have no choice, she realized as the train pulled up and she reached for her briefcase. Graham Marshall’s memorial service would be taking place in a matter of days, and she had promised to call and let him know about it.

It was almost dark when Banks turned into the laneway that ran in front of his small cottage, and he was tired. Annie had left by the time he got back to headquarters after finishing his beer, so he stuck around for an hour or so picking away at the pile of paperwork, then decided to call it a day. Whatever it was she was after, she’d tell him after the weekend.

Memories of Luke’s postmortem hovered unpleasantly close to the surface of his consciousness, the way past cases also haunted him. Over the past few months, he had dreamed more than once of Emily Riddle and of the partially buried bodies he had seen in a cellar in Leeds, toes poking through the dirt. Was he going to have to add Luke Armitage to his list of nightmare images now? Was there never any end to it?

Someone had parked a car, an ancient clapped-out Fiesta, by the looks of it, in front of the cottage. Unable to get past the obstacle, Banks parked behind it and took out his house keys. There was no one inside the car, so it wasn’t a pair of lovers seeking seclusion. Maybe someone had dumped it there, he thought, with a flash of irritation. The dirt lane was little more than a cul-de-sac. It dwindled to a riverside footpath when it reached the woods about twenty feet beyond Banks’s cottage, and there was no way for a car to get through. Not everyone knew that, of course, and sometimes cars turned down it by mistake. He ought to consider putting up a sign, he thought, though he had always thought it obvious enough that the track was a private drive.

Then he noticed that the living room light was on and the curtains closed. He knew he hadn’t left the light on that morning. It could be burglars, he thought, moving carefully, though if it was, they were very incompetent ones, not only parking in a cul-de-sac, but not even bothering to turn their car around for a quick getaway. Still, he’d known far stupider criminals, like the would-be bank robber who had filled out the withdrawal slip with his real name before writing on the back: “Giv me yor munny, I’ve got a nife” and handing it to the teller. He didn’t get far.

The car was definitely a Fiesta, with rusted wheel arches. It would be lucky to pass its next MOT without major and expensive work, Banks thought as he gave it the once-over and memorized the number plate. This was no burglar. He tried to remember to whom he had given a key. Not Annie, at least not anymore. Certainly not Sandra. And just as he opened the door, it came to him. There was his son Brian stretched out on the sofa, with Tim Buckley playing low on stereo: “I Never Asked to Be Your Mountain.” When he heard Banks come in, he uncoiled his long length, sat up and rubbed his eyes.