“That’s enough, Superintendent Carver,” said Banks. “We take your point, but we do have a murder investigation to carry out. It seems you’re running a slack ship, as far as I can tell. The artist’s impression of Mimosa Moffat—done, by the way, because her face was beaten to a pulp—was circulated throughout the country, including Wytherton. Someone clearly isn’t doing their job right.”

“I resent that.”

“Resent away. How would you suggest we approach the problem?”

“Well, you’ve got all the facilities, and your minds are made up, so you hardly need my advice.”

Banks could tell that Carver was annoyed that he had a difficult area to police, while Homicide and Major Crimes was housed at the more peaceful Eastvale Police HQ and had a mini forensic lab attached. But Banks could hardly help it if Carver was trying to pass off his manor as Fort Apache, the Bronx. “Humor me,” he said. “What about CCTV on the Strip?”

“You can try,” said Carver. “But there isn’t very much. Besides, it was over a week ago. They’ll have recorded over the hard drives or DVDs or whatever they use by now. You might try questioning some of the local shopkeepers.”

“I get it,” said Banks. “Basically, not much chance of finding out if there was a car or a van parked near the kebab and pizza takeaway and the minicab office a week ago?”

No.” Carver shot Annie and Gerry a withering glance.

“So where do you suggest we start?”

Carver puffed up his chest. “I don’t know how you go about doing things down here, but I’d suggest you start by taking the Moffat house apart. We’ve had cause to pay more visits there over the years than we have to the entire Muslim community.”

“Well, that’s no surprise if you’re too frightened to say boo to them, is it?” said Annie. “You can’t have it both ways.”

“Let Superintendent Carver speak,” said Banks.

“Thank you,” said Carver. “Let me tell you about the Moffats. When it came to handing out brain cells they weren’t exactly at the front of the queue. By now they’re second-generation unemployed, third, if you discount Albert Senior’s artistic pursuits. He never did a day’s work in his life, either, just sat around smoking joints and splashing paint on canvas. Albert and his common-law wife, Maureen, moved there in the late sixties and had Johnny and Sinead about five years apart. The family was called Kerrigan back then, no Moffat on the horizon for a while. Touch of the Irish about them, a background of wandering navvies and horse traders. Albert Kerrigan bought 14 Southam Terrace in the eighties when Mrs. Thatcher made it possible for less-well-off people to buy their own council houses in the hopes they would become more law-abiding and house proud.”

“Spare us the political lecture, Superintendent Carver,” said Banks.