“Banks,” he said. “What a surprise! You’ve caught me quite unexpectedly. But then I suppose that’s your intention, isn’t it? Anyway, do come in. There’s a bit of a party still going on, I think, but it shouldn’t interrupt our business. Whatever that may be.”

Banks followed him across the cavernous hallway. “Party?” he said. “It’s almost noon on Sunday.”

“Is it? I believe we started on Saturday afternoon, but you know how hard it is to get rid of guests sometimes. One can’t simply ask them to leave. Anyway, don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud. Is there ever a bad time for a party?”

On their way to Blaydon’s office, a teenage girl in a pair of stiletto heels, and nothing else, walked past them. She looked a bit lost, so Blaydon pointed and said, “The pool’s that way, Steffi, love.”

She wobbled off. “Granddaughter?” said Banks.

Blaydon laughed. “Niece, I think. But not mine, thank God.”

“Have you ever come across a Croatian called Tadić?” Banks asked as they entered the office, which was in much the same state as it had been the last time he visited. “Petar Tadić?”

“I can’t say as I have. What business is he in?”

Banks nodded toward the departing girl’s behind. “Supplying young girls like her.”

The corner of Blaydon’s mouth twitched in a semblance of a smile. “Then I’d have to say no. Honestly, I have no idea where she came from. I suppose I must have invited her.”

“Unless she came with one of your guests.”

“There’s always that.”

They settled down in the office, and Banks studied Blaydon. He seemed fairly fresh and youthful, considering he’d been throwing a party since the previous afternoon. Perhaps he had slept, or perhaps it was down to the white powder Banks guessed was around somewhere. But he wasn’t interested in that. If he wanted, he could call in the drugs squad and get a search warrant, but that wasn’t his intention, either. “There’ve been some developments since we last talked,” he said. “I wanted to sound you out on a few things.”

“Oh? Such as?”

“For a start, we’ve identified the dead boy as Samir Boulad, a migrant from Syria. We’ve also been able to link him with a house on Hollyfield Lane, where we found the body of an old junkie called Howard Stokes. The house is owned by Tommy and Timmy Kerrigan.”

“Fascinating,” said Blaydon. “But what’s that—”

“We think the boy was working as a cuckoo in Stokes’s house, selling drugs in the Eastvale area.”

“I’m sorry, you’ve lost me. A ‘cuckoo’? Is that slang for something?”

“You’ve heard of county lines?”

“Read about them in the papers. Whatever will these blokes come up with next?”