“So why didn’t you?”

“Well, you already have three women working under your command: DS Jackman, DC Masterson and DI Cabbot. You also have a female boss, Area Commander Gervaise. I just felt you were sort of trapped between women. I didn’t think you were up to handling another. It didn’t seem fair to add to your burdens.”

“So you let me off the hook? That’s very considerate of you,” said Banks. “And you’re absolutely right. I’m looking for a big, strapping Neanderthal knuckle-dragger to stick by my side when the going gets tough.”

Joanna laughed.

“Now tell me your real reason,” Banks said before taking a long refreshing slug of Timothy Taylor’s Landlord.

“Simple, really. You don’t need another DI. You’ve already got Annie Cabbot. You need another DC. Besides, I’m told my prospects of promotion before too long are pretty good exactly where I am.”

“Congratulations. I’m glad for you. Really. And I suppose you’re right, we do need a new DC, especially now Doug Wilson’s left us.” Banks took a sip of beer. “So what is it you want to see me about?”

“You’re investigating the suspicious death of a young Middle Eastern boy, right?”

“You’re pretty quick off the mark,” Banks said.

“Hardly need to be. It was all over the six o’clock news.”

Banks drank some more beer. The Shadows had given way to The Temperance Seven singing “Pasadena.” Banks had never liked The Temperance Seven. “Yes,” he said. “The reporters are already pouring off the London trains. Our media liaison officer Adrian Moss is under siege. But it’s only to be expected. Our victim is very young. About twelve or thirteen, we think. And, as you say, Middle Eastern, which is pretty unusual around these parts. Victim of knife crime in a small northern town. Found dead in a wheelie bin in an alley at the back of Malden Terrace, on the East Side Estate, with nothing on him but a small quantity of cocaine in his pocket. Dr. Burns said at the scene that the lad was stabbed four times in the chest and abdomen. There are no defensive wounds. It doesn’t resemble a fight gone wrong or anything like that. We don’t even know the victim’s identity yet. We’ve got a computer-generated likeness, based on a photograph, out all over the place: newspapers, TV, government agencies, asylum seekers’ hostels, Islamic groups, immigrant communities and organizations. But we don’t even know that he was an immigrant or asylum seeker. Or a Muslim. And perhaps he was born here. Anyway, why are you interested? Can you help us?”

“I don’t know. Not with the identification, but maybe with other things.”

“More coffee? Something stronger?”

Joanna held on to her cup. “No. Nothing for me, thanks. I’m fine. Have you ever heard of a man called Blaydon? Connor Clive Blaydon.”

“Sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t think from where. Just a minute—wasn’t he a mate of The Farmer’s?”

“The Farmer?”

“George Fanthorpe. ‘Farmer Fanthorpe.’ A bit before your time, perhaps. Nasty piece of work. On the surface he was a wealthy country squire—owned and trained racehorses; kept a few sheep, rare-breed pigs and cows; operated a factory that made posh cheese for tourists.”