“I’d have to check, but he’s probably sold them all by now. He’s not in the rental business. It’s ironic, isn’t it, how most of the homes have ended up being owned by landlords who bought them for about seventy percent less than their market value and rent them out for more than the council ever did. Talk about a plan backfiring. Anyway, I’d assume that whoever killed the boy probably took his body there by car and dumped it. Right? The killing itself might have happened in one of the surrounding villages, or another part of town.”

“A good assumption,” said Banks. “We still need to know how long elapsed between the killing and the dumping, and it might not be easy for the pathologist to figure out. We won’t know until the post-mortem, at any rate—if then—unless we find out by some other means. But it doesn’t help us a lot at the moment to know he might have been killed elsewhere. We’re already extending inquiries out from the estate to the rest of town. Nobody so far recalls seeing any cars around the time he was dumped, only maybe hearing something. We’ll keep at it, but it’s like getting blood out of a stone.” Banks paused. “I’m having another pint. Why don’t you join me?”

Joanna glanced at her watch. “Better not. I should get home for dinner. Will you look into it, though? What we’ve been talking about, a possible connection with your murder? Will you talk to Blaydon?”

“Of course. Is someone waiting for you at home?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Sorry. I didn’t—”

“No, no. It’s just me. I didn’t mean to snap.” Joanna stood up to put on her tailored jacket, suddenly flustered, blushing. “I . . . I just . . . As a matter of fact, there isn’t anyone. It’s only me and a Tesco pizza. But I didn’t come here to—”

“Then, if you’ve no objection, I’ll skip the extra pint, you skip the pizza, and we’ll have a curry just around the corner.”

Joanna studied him through narrowed eyes. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but he thought she was every bit as attractive and elegant as he had found her when they had first worked together almost seven years ago: tall and slender, a smattering of freckles across her small nose, a generous mouth, watchful green eyes, finishing school posture and stylish dress sense. A Hitchcock blonde, perhaps: Kim Novak in Vertigo or Tippi Hedren in The Birds.

Finally, Joanna grabbed the back of the chair with both hands and leaned forward. “Very well,” she said. “I accept. But we’re going Dutch. That clear?”

Banks stood to leave. “As crystal,” he said. “A Dutch curry. Fine with me.”

3

WHEN BANKS GOT TO HIS OFFICE THE FOLLOWING MORNING, he found a message from Area Commander Gervaise asking him to report to her as soon as possible. He climbed the extra flight of stairs to the top floor and knocked on her door. She called for him to enter, and he wasn’t surprised to see Assistant Chief Constable Ron McLaughlin already ensconced in a chair, coffee in hand.