It had seemed apparent at first that the killer had wanted to delay the discovery of the victim’s identity for as long as possible. But perhaps that wasn’t the case at all. In Banks’s experience, most teenagers didn’t carry any identification; they didn’t usually have wallets on them. Why did it matter who the boy was? Maybe his killer had simply needed long enough to cover his tracks, escape, fix up an alibi, hide the evidence. Connor Clive Blaydon? Perhaps. But Banks very much doubted he would have carried out the task himself. As Joanna MacDonald had said, men like him used minions for jobs like that. Roberts, the butler? Frankie Wallace, the chauffeur? At least tomorrow he could check Blaydon’s alibi at Le Coq d’Or, and perhaps with a bit of luck find out what he was doing in Eastvale on the night the boy died.

Banks sipped his Macallan and let the music flow over him. All of a sudden, he knew what he wanted for his birthday: a guitar. Even if he had to buy one himself, having no one in his life likely to buy him an expensive present. It had been years since he’d played rhythm in a fledgling band called Jimson Weed, which hadn’t even managed to survive their first three gigs before splitting up. The lead singer had thought he was a cross between Roger Daltrey and Robert Plant, which also made him God’s gift to women.

Banks didn’t fool himself that he would ever be able to play the Takemitsu compositions he was listening to now, or any other classical works for guitar, but he could at least learn a few basic chords and belt out the occasional folk song, or strum an old Beatles tune or a bit of Dylan. His cottage was isolated enough that nobody would hear him. Besides, he had heard that learning a musical instrument was a healthy thing to do for the mind, that it helped keep dementia at bay, like learning a foreign language.

The phone started to ring.

Annoyed, Banks glanced at his watch. It was after midnight. Who would be calling at this hour? He didn’t recognize the number. Fearing some sort of emergency, he answered as quickly as he could.

“Dad?” came the disembodied voice on the other end.

“Brian? Is that you? Something wrong?”

“No. I’m fine. I’m sorry it’s so late, but I thought you’d still be up.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in Adelaide. It’s going on half eight in the morning here. I’m at the hotel.”

“What day is it?”

“Wednesday.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“It’s today here.”

“Smart arse. You know what I mean. Sure you’re OK?”

“Never better.”

“Then why the late-night phone call?”

“I’ve got something to tell you and I didn’t want you to find out from the newspapers.”

“You’re leaving the band?”

“Something like that. Actually, the band’s packing it in. We had a meeting last night and decided. It’s been on the cards for a while.”