“I also know a little bit about her background, what a hard time she’s had of it. Though I must say, from the photo, that she—”

“Yes,” said Banks. “She’s a looker all right. Stunner, you might say. But why are you interested? Apart from the obvious.”

“You do me a disservice, Banksy. This isn’t about her looks. I was just making a passing comment, that’s all. No matter what you might think of me, I’m not insensitive. When I think about what she must have suffered over the years it makes me want to throttle someone.”

“So what’s wrong? Has something happened to Zelda?”

“No. No. Nothing like that.”

“So the point of your visit is . . . ? Not that I’m not happy to see you, of course.”

“Naturally. My point? Does it make her want to throttle someone? Not literally, you understand. Or maybe it is literal. I don’t know.”

“She goes down to London every now and then and spends a few days studying photos and videos of suspected sex traffickers and their contacts and gives what information she can to the NCA for their database. That’s all I know about her job. I asked for her help when she said she saw a photo of Phil Keane in London with a Croatian trafficker she recognized. She never told me his name. Classified, I suppose.”

“Probably Petar Tadić,” said Burgess. “He’s a real piece of work. Operating over here now far too often for our liking, and someone we’ve been very interested in lately. Is Keane the bloke who set fire to your house?”

“Yes.”

Burgess whistled through his teeth, then gulped some lager. Banks watched his face. He seemed to be mulling over something that had just occurred to him. “What happened?” Burgess asked finally.

“Nothing,” said Banks. “She drew a blank. That was just before Christmas.”

“What you’ve just told me puts a new complexion on things,” Burgess said. “I need a moment to reshuffle.”

Banks worked on his wine and listened to the silence stretch.

Finally Burgess spoke. “OK,” he said. “This goes no further, understood?”

“Understood,” said Banks.

TADIĆ DIDN’T make a move in the lift, for which Zelda was grateful. The hotel room was small and seemed to be dominated by the bed, but that was London hotels for you. At least it was tidy. Zelda was willing to bet he hadn’t been there since the maid service earlier in the day. As soon as they got in, he hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door, switched on one dim corner lamp, put his drink down on the desk and said, “I must use toilet.”