Banks held up his hand. “Linda, stop. You know I can’t talk to you in detail about this yet. If it were to get to court and it came up that I’d coached you in any way it could damage the case. I can interview you as a witness and him as a suspect, but that’s as far as it goes. It’s a delicate balance. All I can say is that he says he doesn’t remember you.”

Her mouth opened and shut. “He doesn’t remember me?”

“That doesn’t mean—”

Then Linda started to laugh. “The most soul-destroying, ugly, painful experience in my life, and he doesn’t even remember. Well, there’s irony for you.”

“What else would he say?”

“And there’s me feeling disappointed at not being remembered by my rapist. I should feel better for thinking he’s lying?”

Banks could think of nothing to say. He was used to comforting a different, more normal sort of victim. Linda Palmer was all over the place, up one minute, down the next. And what was he to say? That there had been so many victims, how could Caxton be expected to remember one from another? That he was just lying, that it was part of his denial? She knew all that.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You must forgive me. I’m afraid this has all sort of jumbled up my emotions. I don’t know what I’m feeling from one minute to the next.”

“I can understand that,” said Banks. “Best to stick to what’s going to help us.”

“The facts, ma’am, just the facts?”

Banks smiled. “Something like that.”

Linda stared into her glass. She seemed tired, Banks thought. Bags were forming under her striking dark blue eyes, a pallor on her skin. Banks noticed her hands, the long tapered fingers, nails bitten down, a chunky pewter ring, a silver bangle around her left wrist and a little black-faced Swatch watch with a checkered band on her right. She was wearing jeans and a tan suede jacket over a white blouse, and she carried a shoulder bag to match her jacket. “Here,” she said, reaching into the bag, which she had set on the empty chair beside her. “I’ve got something for you.” She brought out a book with her name on it, called Mnemosyne’s Children: Selected Poems, 1985–2012, and handed it to him. “I’ve published a new collection since then, but I thought this might be a good place to start. If you want to, that is. I hope this won’t be construed as trying to bribe a police officer.”

Banks took the book and thanked her. “Bribe? With a book of poetry? To do what?” Then he realized he’d implied an insult or a slight. “I don’t mean it’s not worth anything or not a good bribe or—”