“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because he was using the photo to blackmail you, and you asked Carlo Fiorino to take care of him. You paid Fiorino well for his various services, so he obliged.”

“This is absurd. You have no evidence for any of this.”

“We’ve got the photograph,” Banks said.

“As I said before, photographs can be faked.”

“They can be authenticated, too,” Banks said.

Mandeville stared at them, assessing the damage. Finally, he stood up, put his hands on the table, palms down, and leaned forward. “Well,” he said, “that’s quite a story the two of you have concocted. It’s a pity that none of it will stand up in court, or anywhere else, for that matter.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Michelle said. “But you still have to admit that it doesn’t look good. Some mud’s bound to stick.”

“I’m not without influence, you know.”

“Is that a threat?”

“I don’t stoop to threats.”

“No, you get someone else to do that for you.”

“What do you intend to do now?”

“Whatever I can to make sure you pay for what you did. For a start, we’ll have a nice chat with Mr. Janson.”

Mandeville walked over and leaned against the fireplace, smiling. “Derek won’t tell you anything.”

“You never know. We’re not without influence, either, especially with ex-cons. Then there’s Geoff Talbot’s notebook. Jet Harris didn’t bother to remove that from the archives. No reason to. There was no investigation.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Names,” said Banks. “Talbot made a note of the names of the people he talked to when he came up here. I’m sure if we dig around a bit, we’ll find one or two people who remember the old days: partygoers, perhaps, or club patrons.”

Mandeville’s face darkened and he went back to sit at the table. “I’m warning you,” he said. “If you attempt to spread these vicious lies about me, I’ll have your jobs.”

But Michelle was already out of the room, striding toward the front door.

Banks took the opportunity of a few seconds alone with Mandeville to lean in close, smile and lower his voice. “And if DI Hart so much as trips on a banana skin, I’ll be right back here to rip out your spine and shove it down your throat. Your lordship.”

He couldn’t swear to it, but judging by the change in Mandeville’s expression, he thought he had got his point across.

It was already the evening of a long day, and the shadows were lengthening when Lauren Anderson led Annie into the book-lined living room. Classical music was playing, a violin concerto of some sort, but Annie didn’t recognize it. Banks would have done, she thought. Lauren was barefoot, wearing ice-blue jeans and a white sleeveless top. Her shoulders were pale and freckled, like her face. Her mane of auburn hair was fastened behind her head by a leather barrette. “What do you want?” she asked. “Have you caught them?”