ON HIS way down the A1 to Leeds later that day, Banks listened to Jeremy Irons reading T. S. Eliot’s Four Quartets. He wouldn’t have professed to understand it, though there were moments of surprising clarity, but he responded to the music of the language, and Irons performed it beautifully. He was supposed to get together with his poet friend Linda Palmer to discuss it over a long leisurely Sunday lunch next week, and she would no doubt, as usual, enlighten him.

That morning in the station had produced one interesting lead. Vic Manson had managed to pull several sets of fingerprints from the red bicycle frame abandoned in Howard Stokes’s backyard, and one belonged to a boy called Greg Janson, who turned up on IDENT1. Janson had been arrested two weeks ago in a round-up of suspected drug users in a Leeds squat, so his address was on record. He hadn’t been charged with any crime yet, but his fingerprints and DNA were still on the database, and could be kept there for up to six months. Tyler Cleary had mentioned to Gerry that his contact on Hollyfield Lane was called Greg, so this was most likely the fair-haired boy Margery Cunningham had told Gerry about. If he was, then he should know something about the county lines operation in Eastvale. It also made perfect sense that the other end of the line, where the drugs came from, was Leeds.

DCI Ken Blackstone had said he would be happy to meet Banks at Greg’s place of work, a garage on the ring road near the Horsforth exit. Janson worked the four until midnight shift, so Banks timed his arrival for five. They had arranged to meet in the Asda car park behind the garage, and Banks figured the quickest way to get there was to turn off the A1 at Wetherby and join the ring road near the golf club, then head west through Moortown and Weetwood.

He switched off Four Quartets as he negotiated the numerous ring road roundabouts and the Leeds rush-hour traffic. He had just got to the start of “East Coker,” with its famous opening about the end being in the beginning. It seemed a good place to stop.

He found the car park at the big roundabout without much trouble and immediately saw Ken Blackstone leaning against his silver Focus enjoying the mild May weather. Banks angled his Porsche into the next spot.

“Looking a bit shabby, isn’t it?” Blackstone said by way of greeting.

“All it needs is a good wash and brushup,” Banks replied. “Besides, there’s no such thing as a shabby Porsche. It’s just got character, that’s all.”

Blackstone laughed and held out his hand. “Good to see you again, Alan.”

Banks shook it. “You, too.”

Blackstone nodded toward the garage. “Shall we?”

“Lead the way.”