“Don’t you know it’s rude to talk on the phone at the dinner table?”

“What’s your business with the Kerrigans?”

“It’s none of yours, but as you already know, they own a fair bit of the Hollyfield Estate, and that’s going to be an essential part of the new Elmet Centre and housing complex. We have interests in common. It makes sense to work together.”

“What about The Vaults?”

“Hardly my scene. Some demented DJ and a night of trance or drill music? And, by the way, I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. What have you been saying to Frankie?”

“Nothing much. We interviewed him briefly, after we talked to you last time. That’s all. Why?”

“Poisoned him against me, more like. He’s quit on me.”

“Quit?”

“Yes. I’m going to have to find another driver now. It’s a bloody inconvenience.”

“I’d apologize if I thought I were responsible,” said Banks. “What reason did he give?”

“He didn’t. Just said it was time to retire. Simple as that. I wouldn’t mind but he’s only about fifty. Got a good few years left in him yet.”

“Early retirement? Maybe that’s all it was about?”

“Maybe.” But he didn’t sound as if he believed it.

Banks stood up. “How about showing me around the palace now I’m here?”

“What, now?”

“No time like the present. Who knows if, or when, I’ll be back again.”

Blaydon gazed at Banks, seeming to consider his words for a moment. Banks wondered whether he was trying to remember if there was any evidence of drugs or drug use. Finally, he said, “OK. Why not? Follow me.”

Banks followed. Apart from one of the bedrooms being used by a threesome in the throes of sexual passion, nothing interesting appeared to be going on in the rest of the house. But the place was definitely palatial. Blaydon could, if he wanted, accommodate a whole center-full of asylum seekers and still have room to spare. It seemed amazing to Banks that one man had this all to himself. He sometimes felt that his own cottage was too big for him, and he should move to a flat if he wasn’t planning on getting married or living with someone, which he wasn’t. But this was true excess. No doubt, along with Roberts and Frankie, there were other servants to keep the place clean, and perhaps even to cook for Blaydon and his guests. A Michelin-star chef, perhaps? McGuigan himself? Banks doubted it.

Finally, they came to the pool at the back. Not exactly Olympic-size, but not far off, complete with a two-level diving board. It was all indoors, under glass or thick Perspex, which gave it the appearance of an outdoor pool, and on a day like today, with blue skies and sunshine, it looked perfect, rippling like a pool in a Hockney painting.