“There’s a car. A black Mercedes S Series.” She read out the number plate. “It’s Blaydon’s. The one Frankie Wallace was driving on the night Samir was killed.”

“What time?”

“Five past ten.”

“In The Oak’s car park, on the Sunday of the murder?”

“Yes.”

“That’s just across the road from Hollyfield Lane.”

“So what are we going to do about it?”

“I’m not so far away from Frankie Wallace’s house right now. Want to meet there?”

“Give me half an hour.”

“Will do,” said Banks, and set off under the arch of trees.

IT WAS light well before six o’clock. Zelda showered again, dried her hair, dressed and packed what few things she had.

The taxi seemed to float through almost empty backstreets and main thoroughfares to King’s Cross. There were very few commuters or business travelers around, but the place was buzzing with groups of tourists enticed out by the fine weather.

Zelda used her credit card to buy a first-class ticket on the next train that stopped at York. Northallerton was closer, but that was too much to hope for on a Sunday morning without a change. She didn’t have long to wait. The 8:48 would get her there by 11:04.

The first-class carriage wasn’t very full, even though weekend upgrades weren’t terribly expensive, and she had managed to get an unreserved single forward-facing seat. Soon they were passing the Emirates Stadium, then on past Alexandra Palace and through the London suburbs into open countryside. The attendant came around with weak coffee and took breakfast orders. Zelda wasn’t hungry, but she realized she hadn’t eaten since lunchtime the previous day, so she ordered some eggs and a croissant and sat back to try and relax.

It was a journey she usually enjoyed, splitting her time between reading and gazing out of the window. And it was another beautiful day. But Zelda felt cut off from it all, as if the world outside were merely projected on a screen. There was no way she could concentrate on her book.

The events of the previous evening at the Hotel Belgrade were still fresh in her mind, and whenever she shut her eyes, she saw Goran Tadić opening his, then the knife flash down and the mess that followed. Her breath would get stuck in her throat, and she would start to panic, certain that anyone who saw her would know what she was reliving.