It also helped that Cyril, the landlord of the Queen’s Arms, was playing one of his most upbeat playlists. Even Ray would have appreciated the inclusion of “Lady Rachel” by Kevin Ayers among the more standard sixties fare of The Who, Kinks, Byrds and Stones. Banks slugged back some beer. The Beatles’ “And Your Bird Can Sing” came up next, two minutes of pure joy.

Sausage rolls and pasties appeared on their tables, courtesy of Cyril. It was a quiet night, and he clearly appreciated the business a solved case had brought him. Annie was there, deep in conversation with Stefan Nowak, whom Banks knew she fancied. Gerry chatted away with a very pregnant Winsome, demurely sipping orange juice, her husband, Terry, beside her. Jazz Singh and Vic Manson had got stuck with AC Gervaise—ACC McLaughlin had sent his congratulations, and regrets—and Banks felt outside it all, watching over them like a founding father. One thing was certain, he was the oldest in the group, though Vic couldn’t be too far behind.

The door opened and Joanna MacDonald walked in, a breath of fresh air. She smiled all around and made a beeline for Banks. He had invited her, but he hadn’t expected her to come.

“All by yourself?” she said, sitting down beside him.

“So it would appear. Drink?”

“I’ll have a G&T, please.”

Banks went to the bar and got her one, along with another pint of Timothy Taylor’s for himself. The cobbled market square was darkening fast outside, and one or two people still sat drinking and smoking at the tables Cyril had put out. The Beatles finished, and a more subdued Françoise Hardy came on singing “All Over the World” in English. How Banks had lusted after her when he was a teenager. It wasn’t merely her beauty or her voice, but the whole “Frenchness” of it all; her world was exotic, foreign, intoxicating; it reeked of Gauloises and Calvados. Her French version of Leonard Cohen’s “Suzanne” sounded particularly sexy.

Banks carried the drinks back to the table. Joanna took a dainty sip and said, “I’ve heard the edited highlights, but maybe you’d like to tell me the full story?”

“It seems ages since we sat last here and you told me about Blaydon,” Banks said.

“I gather he didn’t do it?”

“No. Not to worry, though. He’s done plenty, and he certainly had a hand in it. We’ll be paying him another visit before too long.”

“So what happened?”

“You were spot on about the county lines connection. They were using a house on the Hollyfield Estate. It belonged to an old sixties junkie called Howard Stokes, who let them use it as a dealing center in exchange for heroin. The whole estate has been condemned to make way for a new development—one of Blaydon’s projects—which I understand isn’t progressing too well.”

“Why not?”