Zelda nodded and glanced toward the woman, who remained still.

“That’s Deborah,” Danvers said. “Deborah Fletcher. She’s with me,” he added with a proprietorial smile. Deborah’s stiff, pasted-on expression didn’t change. Zelda’s overwhelming impression of her was one of thinness—thin face, thin lips, skinny waist and skinny legs. The slash of bright red lipstick didn’t help, nor did the navy pencil skirt.

“What is this all about?” Zelda asked.

“I’m afraid we ask the questions, dearie,” said Danvers. “First of all, may I ask what you’re doing here?”

Patronizing bastard, she thought. Whatever this is, I’m not going to make it easy for you. “I work here.”

“In what capacity?”

“I’m sure it’s in your file.” Zelda gestured toward the folder on the desk in front of him.

Making a show of it, he opened the file and ran his finger down the list. Finally, he closed it, clasped his hands on the desk and studied Zelda. “You must be Nelia Melnic,” he said. Deliberately pronouncing her last name with an “itch,” in the Serbian fashion. She thought of correcting him but decided it wasn’t worth it. “And your job?”

“Not in your files?”

“I’m sure it’s in there somewhere. But you could save us all a lot of time and trouble if you’d simply answer my questions.”

“I’m a super-recognizer,” Zelda said. “I remember faces. Every face I’ve ever seen. In fact, I never forget them.”

“That must be useful.”

“To you, perhaps.” Zelda shrugged. “To me, it’s both a blessing and a curse. Now, what are you doing here? Where is Mr. Hawkins?”

Danvers scratched the side of his nose. “Quite . . . er . . .” He glanced toward Deborah Fletcher.

“Trevor Hawkins is dead,” she said. “Suspicious circumstances. We’re questioning everyone who works here.”

BANKS BLEW gently on the milky brown surface of the tea, watched the ripples and felt the warmth they gave off, then took a sip. It was hot and sweet, and perhaps a bit too weak for Banks’s liking, but it came as a treat after the soaking and the grim sight of the boy’s body.

Edith Grunwell’s living room was an exercise in cleanliness, neatness and economy. Though she had a small cabinet filled with delicate porcelain figurines and a large gilt-framed painting of Fountains Abbey in all its historic and romantic glory over the fireplace, there was nothing excessive about the room, nothing out of place, nothing that jarred with the simplicity of the rose-patterned wallpaper, crocheted antimacassars and beige wall-to-wall carpeting. The armchairs were comfortable, but not so much so as to encourage lingering. Mingled scents of rosemary and thyme came from the potpourri on the windowsill.

Mrs. Grunwell herself was thin and birdlike in her movements. The deep-set watery eyes in her wrinkled face looked as if they had seen too much this morning already, and she dabbed at them with a cotton handkerchief. “I’m sorry,” she said to Banks. “You must forgive me. I’m not squeamish, I’ve seen dead bodies, but it was such a shock, something like that happening so close by. The poor boy.”