Zelda smiled. “Right.” She grabbed her bag and followed him out, drink in her other hand. As far as she could tell, nobody paid attention to them leaving. Both bar and grill were noisy and crowded now, and the lights were dim.

IT WAS mid-evening, and Banks was listening to Nico’s The End and thinking about Samir when he heard his doorbell ring. He wasn’t expecting anyone, so he moved cautiously to the front door and looked through the sitting room window. There was an unfamiliar car out front. He hadn’t heard it pull up because he’d been in the conservatory at the back of the house. It was hard to make out exactly who was standing there, just from his profile in the twilight, but Banks had an inkling that turned out to be right when he opened the door and saw Detective Chief Superintendent Richard “Dirty Dick” Burgess on his doorstep, large as life.

“Banksy,” Burgess said, stretching out his hand.

Banks shook. He had given up trying to get Burgess to stop calling him Banksy. The harder he tried, the more the bastard did it. “What the hell do you want at this time of night?” he asked.

“Well, that’s a fine northern welcome,” Burgess said, stepping into the room. “I thought you lot were supposed to be friendly. It’s all right. Don’t worry. I’m not after a home, or even a bed for the night. Got a young lady here, have you?”

“There’s nobody here but me.”

“Sad, Banksy, sad. And I used to envy you your good luck in that department. Especially that lovely young Italian bint you had a few years ago. Well, the two of us can have a nice uninterrupted drink and natter about old times, can’t we?”

Banks led the way through to the conservatory, where he had been watching the rose and lilac traces of sunset in the sky through the dip in the hills between Tetchley Fell and the Pennines.

“Lovely,” said Burgess, rubbing his hands together. “Nice view. I don’t believe I’ve been in the inner sanctum before.”

Banks realized that was true. In all the years they had known each other, neither had been in the other’s home.

“What’s this music?” Burgess asked.

“Nico,” Banks told him.

“Hmm. If the dead could sing . . . Give me a shake if I fall asleep. Anything to drink?”

Banks used his remote to turn off the music halfway through “Secret Side,” one of his favorites. Annoyed as he was at the interruption, he had to admit that Burgess had a point; there was something definitely otherworldly about Nico’s songs and voice. “What do you fancy?”

“Got any lager?”

“I might have a can or two of Stella left.”

“Stella? Aren’t we posh? OK. That’ll do fine, I suppose.”