“You’ve certainly been hitting the psychology textbooks, haven’t you?”

“Are you going to take this seriously?”

“I am taking it seriously.”

“Sure.” Joanna glared at him for a moment.

“Tell me why the recent interest in this Blaydon? There must be more to it than dodgy property developments.”

“Very perceptive. If you listen, you might find out. Have you heard about that new development at the bottom of the hill, across Cardigan Drive from the Elmet Estate, on what they used to call the Hollyfield Estate?”

“The Elmet Centre? Yes, I have.” The pre-war Hollyfield Estate had been in decline for years and was finally due for demolition as soon as all its inhabitants had been rehoused. The plan was to use the cleared land, along with an area of the fields to the west, to build more social housing and a new shopping center and multiplex cinema complex. So far, it was still at the planning stage, but the rehousing had already begun. Slowly.

“That’s Blaydon,” said Joanna. “Along with a couple of local lads known as the Kerrigan brothers.”

“Tommy and Timmy? We’re well enough acquainted with them, but we haven’t been able to prove anything yet.”

“We know. Anyway, we’ve been keeping a watching brief on Blaydon, and last night ANPR caught his Merc coming into Eastvale at twenty-five past seven and heading out in a southerly direction at around quarter past eleven.”

“OK. The old lady whose bin we found the body in says she thought she heard someone messing with her bin between eleven and half past, along with a car starting up. Two other neighbors think they heard the same, but we haven’t been able to pin down the time yet. I suppose if it were closer to eleven, it might fit with your ANPR timing. But what’s a dead boy got to do with a dodgy property developer?”

“Maybe nothing, but bear with me. Nobody saw anything?”

“Of course not. This is the East Side Estate we’re talking about. Surely you don’t think someone like Blaydon—”

“Shoved in the blade? No. I doubt it very much. Like most people in his position, he keeps the nasty stuff at arm’s length, uses his minions. But we don’t know who was with him in the car. One thing we have discovered is that he surrounds himself with a number of disreputable characters, ex-cons or ex-special forces, even ex-coppers. Tough guys. Mercenaries. Enforcers. And he’s lost his driving license, so he never goes anywhere without Frankie Wallace, his chauffeur. And Wallace is an ex-bruiser, trained in the Glasgow gangs. Surely this Farmer of yours had people to do his dirty work for him?”

Banks thought of Ciaran French and Darren Brody, two of The Farmer’s enforcers, who had ultimately contributed toward his downfall. “Yes. But you don’t even know that Blaydon himself was in the car,” he said. “All automatic number plate recognition can tell us is that a car with his number plate passed the cameras at a certain time.”