Kerrigan got to his feet again. “Pardon my manners. You just took me by surprise. Would you like a drink? Drop of single malt, perhaps?”

Banks saw the bottle of Scapa on the cocktail cabinet. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said.

Kerrigan poured them both a healthy measure and sat down again. Banks took a sip and sighed. “Lovely stuff,” he said. “I’ll get to the point. I’m sure you’ve heard about the murder we had here a few days ago.”

“That young lad found in the bin? Terrible business. I sometimes wonder what this town is coming to.”

“And the suspicious death of Howard Stokes.”

“Come again. I haven’t heard about that one.”

“It wasn’t as big a headline. Old junkie. Died of an overdose.”

Kerrigan shrugged. “Must happen all the time.”

“Thing is, he died in one of your houses.”

“He did? Which one?”

“Hollyfield Lane. Number twenty-six.”

“But that whole area’s condemned. It’s been scheduled for redevelopment.”

“Yes, I know,” said Banks. “But I’m sure you know too that there are still one or two people hanging on there, waiting for rehousing.”

“Well, that’s terrible,” said Kerrigan. “But I don’t see what it’s got to do with me. I’m not the bloody rent collector. Not anymore. Anyone who’s left isn’t paying a penny. That’s the deal. Surely you can’t hold me responsible for the actions of my tenants?”

“Not at all,” said Banks. “I simply wondered if you knew about it.”

“Well, no, I didn’t.”

Banks fished photos of Samir and Stokes from his briefcase and held them out to Kerrigan. “Recognize either of these faces?”

Kerrigan studied the photos one at a time and passed them back. “No, sorry.”

It was hard to tell with habitual liars like Kerrigan, but Banks got a feeling he wasn’t lying this time. “You were dining at Le Coq d’Or on Sunday evening with Connor Clive Blaydon, weren’t you?”

“Yes. We had some business to discuss.”

“The Elmet Centre?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. That was our main area of interest. But I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“Who is the Albanian?”

“Who?”

“The Albanian. I understand your brother referred to an Albanian at some point during the evening.”

Kerrigan frowned. His skin looked like pink plastic. “I didn’t hear anything like that.”

“He had some bruising on his face. A cut.”

“Oh, that. Minor disagreement at a business meeting. That’s Tommy all over. You might remember, he’s a bit of a hothead.”

“An Elmet Centre meeting?”

“I don’t recollect the exact circumstances. You’d have to ask him.”

“And he’s out of town.”

“Yes.”

“Was it the Albanian he disagreed with? Gashi.”