“I’m as fond of Verdi as the next man,” said Banks, showing his warrant card, “but don’t you think it’s a bit too loud?”

“Oh, don’t tell me old farmer Jones has complained about the music again. He says it curdles his cows’ milk. Philistine!”

“I’m not here about the noise, Mr. Ford. Might I come in and have a word?”

“Now I’m curious,” said Ford, leading the way inside. His house was clean but looked lived-in, with little piles of sheet music here and there, a violin resting on a low table, and the massive stereo system dominating the living room. “A policeman who knows his Verdi.”

“I’m no expert,” Banks said, “but I’ve recently bought a new recording, so I’ve listened to it a few times lately.”

“Ah, yes. Renée Fleming and the Kirov. Very nice, but I must admit I’m still rather attached to the von Otter and Gardiner. Anyway, I can’t imagine you’ve come here to discuss old Joe Green with me. What can I do for you?” Ford was birdlike in many ways, especially in his sudden, jerky movements, but when he sat down in the overstuffed armchair he fell still, fingers linked in his lap. He wasn’t relaxed, though. Banks could sense the man’s tension and unease, and he wondered what its cause was. Maybe he just didn’t like being questioned by the police.

“It’s about Luke Armitage,” said Banks. “I understand you knew him?”

“Ah, poor Luke. A remarkably talented boy. Such a great loss.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Around the end of term.”

“Are you sure you haven’t seen him since?”

“I’ve barely left the cottage since then, except to drive into Lyndgarth for groceries. Alone with my music after a term of teaching those philistines. What bliss!”

“I gather Luke Armitage wasn’t a philistine, though?”

“Far from it.”

“You were giving him violin lessons, am I right?”

“Yes.”

“Here or at school?”

“At school. Tuesday evenings. We have a reasonably well-equipped music room there. Mind you, we ought to be grateful for anything these days. They’ll spend a fortune on sports equipment, but when it comes to music…”

“Did Luke ever talk to you about anything that was on his mind?”

“He didn’t talk a lot. Mostly he concentrated on his playing. He had remarkable powers of concentration, unlike so many of today’s youth. He wasn’t much of a one for small talk. We did chat about music, argued once or twice about pop music, which I gathered he was rather fond of.”

“Never about anything else?”

“Like what?”

“Anything that might have been bothering him, worrying him, anyone he might have been afraid of. That sort of thing.”

“I’m afraid not. Luke was a very private person, and I’m not the prying kind. Truth be told, I’m not very good at helping people with their emotional problems.” He ran his hand over his smooth head and smiled. “That’s why I prefer to live alone.”

“Not married?”

“Was. Many moons ago.”