“What now? What about work? The office?”

“Naturally, a replacement will be found for Mr. Hawkins, perhaps on a temporary basis at first. But certainly for the next few days the office will be closed, and the work of the department suspended until we conclude our investigation.”

“So I can go home?”

Danvers frowned. “We would prefer it if you stayed in London for the time being, Ms. Melnic,” he said. “Just until we’ve wrapped up our inquiries, you understand. We may need to talk to you again. You can let Deborah know the name and location of your hotel before you leave. And don’t forget to give her your mobile number, too.”

And that was it. Danvers resumed his seat and turned his attention back to the file folder. Zelda was dismissed. She wondered if they had been quite so thorough with everyone else, or had her past, her origins and her special role singled her out for suspicion?

“I LIKE your new hairstyle,” Banks said to DI Joanna MacDonald. “Or does that qualify as a #MeToo remark?”

Joanna smiled and touched her shaggy cap of blonde hair self-consciously. “Depends,” she said. “Maybe it’s more of a Time’s Up sort of thing. Especially as you’re not my boss. But thank you, anyway.”

“So what brings you all the way from the bright lights of Northallerton to a sleepy little outpost like Eastvale? Your phone message said it was work-related.”

Joanna raised an eyebrow. “So what else would it be?”

“I don’t know. The pleasure of my company?” Banks liked the contrast between her blonde hair and dark eyebrows, though he knew that it meant highlights. His ex-wife, Sandra, had the same combination, but in her case, it had been a quirk of nature. “It’s just that we don’t see you out here very often. Only in those dull meetings back at County HQ.”

“My job’s not always dull.”

“The meetings are. Seriously, though, have you never thought of applying for Homicide and Major Crimes? I’m sure you’d be in with a chance. I’d put in a word.”

Joanna laughed, then took a sip of coffee. They were in the Queen’s Arms on Eastvale market square that Monday evening. The storms had passed, and the weather was mild, the evening imbued with muted spring sunlight casting shadows over the rain-darkened cobblestones. Cyril, the landlord, had even optimistically risked putting some tables outside after the rain. It was a bit too soon for that, Banks thought, as there could easily be another shower, though one or two smokers clearly begged to disagree. Inside was as dead as usual for a Monday evening. Just the regulars who had been there most of the afternoon propping up the bar and chatting up Cyril’s latest barmaid, Louise, a petite Scouse lass with an accent to match. Cyril also had one of his early sixties’ playlists going. At the moment, The Shadows were playing “The Frightened City.”

“As a matter of fact,” Joanna answered, “the thought actually crossed my mind briefly once, when things seemed a bit too quiet.”