“There’s more,” Vic Manson said.

Banks raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“We still don’t know who did The Crown and Anchor break-in, and the prints don’t help us with that, but the lad who was arrested for dealing got a suspended sentence, and he’s still in the Eastvale area. Name of Cleary. Tyler Cleary.”

“Got an address?”

“Can’t say for sure if he’s still there.”

“It’s a start. Gerry?”

“I’ll find him and talk to him, guv.”

“There’s something else that might interest you,” Manson said.

“Yes?”

“I remember when we went in through the back, the evening the two lads found Howard Stokes . . .”

“Right,” said Banks.

“Well, DC Masterson mentioned something about a boy who’d been seen hanging around the house before, and that he rode a red bicycle.”

“That’s right,” Gerry said. “That’s what Margery Cunningham told me, at any rate. The fair-haired lad rode around on a red bicycle. Most likely delivering drugs, filling the orders.”

“Well, there’s a pile of rubbish in the backyard,” Manson said, “and if I remember rightly, one of the items half-buried in it is a red bicycle frame. It’s a long shot. It might not be the one, but . . .”

“Christ,” said Annie. “I went in through the front the other night, and I had no reason to search the backyard. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry,” said Banks. “Well spotted, Vic.”

Manson grinned. “It’s over in the lab right now. There’s a chance we’ll be able to get some dabs. Blondie might be in the system.”

“Absolutely. And Gerry, maybe you can keep digging around Elmet Hill and Hollyfield, now that we know Samir was in the Stokes house for sure, however briefly.”

“Right, guv,” said Gerry.

Banks stood up. “One more thing. Annie, will you put someone on tracking all the CCTV available around the hill and Hollyfield areas for last Sunday evening? Get them on it ASAP, and gently remind them there’s overtime in the budget. I doubt there’ll be much of value, but now we know where to look and what to look for, we might find something interesting.”

WHEN ZELDA woke early the following morning, she had a splitting headache, and the bright sun shining through her hotel window didn’t help at all. She had forgotten to close the curtains. With an effort, she pushed herself out of bed and closed them. She found some paracetamol in her bag and swallowed three with a glass of water. Then she lay down again. She couldn’t go back to sleep, she knew that; she could only hope that the headache would fade and that she would stop feeling sorry for herself. If she was going to get any further in her endeavor, she was going to have to focus. Her reaction last night had been instinctive, she knew; the memories that rushed back on her seeing Goran Tadić had been a visceral tsunami. And so she had run. She hadn’t been able to help herself. Accept it. Failure. That was nothing new to her. But get over it. Get a grip.