“Okay.”

Josie answered the front door almost the moment they rang the bell and led the two of them into the living room, where Banks introduced himself.

“What is it now?” Martin Armitage asked, glaring at Annie. Neither he nor his wife looked as if they had had much sleep, and they probably hadn’t.

“A murder investigation,” said Banks. “Or so it seems. And we need your help.”

“I don’t see how we can help any more than we have done already. We cooperated with you, against the kidnapper’s wishes, and look what happened.” He glanced toward Annie again, voice rising. “I hope you realize this is your fault, that Luke’s death is your responsibility. If you hadn’t followed me to the shelter and then come nosing around here, the kidnapper would have picked up the money and Luke would be home safe and sound.”

“Martin,” said Robin Armitage. “We’ve been over this again and again. Don’t make a scene.”

“Don’t make a scene! Good God, woman, this is your son we’re talking about. She as good as killed him.”

“Calm down, Mr. Armitage,” said Banks. Martin Armitage wasn’t quite as tall as Banks had imagined, but he was fit and bursting with energy. Not the kind of man to sit around waiting for results, but one who went out and made the result happen. That was the way he’d played football, too, Banks remembered. Armitage hadn’t been content to hang around the goalmouth waiting for a midfielder to feed him the ball; he had created scoring opportunities himself, and the main criticism leveled at him was that he was greedy for the ball, more apt to shoot and miss than pass to someone in a better scoring position. He had also lacked self-control and attracted a high number of red and yellow cards. Banks remembered once seeing him lash out at a member of the other team who had taken the ball from him fairly in the penalty area. He’d given away a penalty over that, and it lost his side the game.

“This is a difficult enough job as it is,” said Banks, “without you making it worse. I’m sorry for your loss, but it’s no good flinging blame about. We don’t know how or why Luke died yet. We don’t even know where or when. So until we’ve been able to answer some of those basic questions we’re not in a position to jump to conclusions. I suggest you exercise the same restraint.”

“What else would you say?” said Martin. “You always stick together, you lot.”

“Can we get down to business?”

“Yes, of course,” said Robin, sitting on the sofa in jeans and a pale green blouse, long legs crossed, hands folded on her lap. Without makeup and with her famous gold-blond hair tied back in a ponytail, she still looked gorgeous, Banks thought, and the crow’s-feet only enhanced her beauty. She had the classic model’s face—high cheekbones, small nose, pointed chin, perfect proportion, but she also had character and individuality in her features.