“The same thing puzzled me. Martin Armitage said the call from Luke came through on his mobile, so I’m assuming it was the kidnapper’s call he was talking about.”

“But why wouldn’t he just use the regular land line?”

“Armitage said he and Robin were supposed to go out to dinner that night, so Luke didn’t think they’d be home.”

“He believed they would still go out to dinner, even after he’d disappeared? And he told his kidnapper this?”

“I know it sounds odd, sir. And in my judgment, Martin Armitage is the last person Luke would call.”

“Ah, I see. Signs of family tension?”

“All under the surface, but definitely there, I’d say. Luke’s very much his mother’s son, and his biological father’s, perhaps. He’s creative, artistic, a loner, a dreamer. Martin Armitage is a man of action, a sportsman, bit of a macho tough guy.”

“Go carefully, then, Annie. You don’t want to disturb a nest of vipers.”

“There might be no choice if I want honest answers to my questions.”

“Then tread softly and carry a big stick.”

“I’ll do that.”

“And don’t give up on the kid. It’s early days yet.”

“Yes, sir,” Annie said, though she wasn’t at all certain about that.

The old street looked much the same as it had when Banks lived there with his parents between 1962 and 1969—from “Love Me Do” to Woodstock—except that everything—the brickwork, the doors, the slate roofs—was just that little bit shabbier, and small satellite dishes had replaced the forest of old television aerials on just about all the houses, including his parents’. That made sense. He couldn’t imagine his father living without Sky Sports.

Back in the early sixties, the estate was new, and Banks’s mother had been thrilled to move from their little back-to-back terrace house with the outside toilet to the new house with “all mod cons,” as they used to say. As far as Banks was concerned, the best “mod cons” were the indoor WC, a real bathroom to replace the tin tub they had had to fill from a kettle every Friday, and a room of his own. In the old house, he had shared with his brother Roy, five years younger, and like all siblings, they fought more than anything else.

The house stood near the western edge of the estate, close to the arterial road, across from an abandoned factory and a row of shops, including the newsagent’s. Banks paused for a moment and took in the weathered terraced houses—rows of five, each with a little garden, wooden gate, low wall and privet hedge. Some people had made small improvements, he noticed, and one house had an enclosed porch. The owners must have bought the place when the Conservatives sold off council houses for peanuts in the eighties. Maybe there was even a conservatory around the back, Banks thought, though it would be folly to add an extension made almost entirely of glass on an estate like this.

A knot of kids stood smoking and shoving one another in the middle of the street, some Asian, some white, clocking Banks out of the corners of their eyes. Locals were always suspicious of newcomers, and the kids had no idea who he was, that he had grown up here, too. Some of them were wearing low-slung baggy jeans and hoodies. Mangy dogs wandered up and down the street, barking at everything and nothing, shitting on the pavements, and loud rock music blasted out of an open window several houses east.