Even if they found evidence later that Frankie had been involved, it wouldn’t be too difficult to track him down in Glasgow, or wherever he went. Banks had asked the local forces to keep a discreet eye on him, and his car number plate had been flagged for ANPR recognition. Wherever Frankie Wallace went, he wouldn’t be completely out of their sight until this was all over. In addition, Banks had already arranged to send out a CSI team from York CID to carry out some blood tests on Blaydon’s Merc and have a good poke around his mansion and grounds. Just in case.

It was getting dark. The sun was setting west of Tetchley Fell outside the conservatory windows, and the sky between the hills was streaked with vermillion, purple and gray. Satisfied the place was as spic and span as he could get it without hired help, he checked Apple Music on his mobile—set up for him by his son Brian on his last visit—and streamed a Sally Beamish viola concerto. Then he poured himself a glass of Nero d’Avola and settled down to read Ben Macintyre’s The Spy and the Traitor and wait.

It was about half past nine when Zelda pulled up in her little Clio runabout and rang his doorbell. Banks put his book aside and went through to answer the door. She followed him along the hall and into the kitchen.

“Sorry I’m so late,” she said. “You know what it’s like when you get back from being away for a while.”

“No problem,” said Banks. “Drink?”

“What are you having?”

“Red wine.”

“That’ll be fine, please.”

Banks poured her a glass and invited her to follow him into the conservatory. She had visited before, with Ray, and seemed quite comfortable, taking the same wicker chair she had sat on the last time she was there.

She looked a little drawn, Banks thought, as if she hadn’t been sleeping very well. She wore hardly any makeup, so it was easy to see the dark shadows under her eyes contrasting the paleness of her skin. She was still beautiful, with classic bone structure, perfectly proportioned features and eyes a man could lose himself in. Tonight she wore her hair in a long ponytail and had dressed in jeans and a red knitted polo-neck jumper. She never wore much perfume, but a fresh and pleasant scent of orange and bergamot drifted over from her general direction.

They clinked glasses and drank.

“Nice,” said Zelda. “What is it?”

Banks told her about the Sicilian Nero d’Avola he had enjoyed on a short break in Taormina earlier that year and the case he had ordered to be delivered from a wine merchant there. “You can’t get it here. Not this particular winery, anyway. Like most countries, they keep their best wines for themselves and only export the rest.”

“It’s very good,” said Zelda.