“Why not? Isn’t it better than riding a wave of failure? Besides, since when have you not risen to a challenge? This time they think we’re in with a chance. They rate this Linda Palmer as a credible complainant. According to them, she’s definitely not some fucked-up alcoholic with a chip on her shoulder.”

“That’s good to know,” said Banks. “Does Caxton know we’re on to him?”

“Probably. He shouldn’t, but I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s still got friends in high places. I want you to go and talk to him tomorrow. After that, we’ll get a team in to search his premises before he gets a chance to destroy any evidence there might be in his papers and on his computer. You can talk to Linda Palmer today. I trust your instincts enough to know that you won’t need a child protection expert to figure out whether she’s telling the truth. I know you, Banksy. I think once you get the bit between your teeth, you’ll take to it like a duck to water, if you’ll forgive the mixed metaphor, and you’ll be only too glad to bring down the wrath of God on arrogant bastards like Danny Caxton.”

“I will?”

“I think so.” Burgess finished his pint. “Another? I wouldn’t mind having another word with that buxom Australian barmaid. I like the way she pulls a pint.”

“You need real cask ale to get a full show of flexed muscle, not that piss you drink. All she has to do is flick the lever.”

“She can flick my lever any time. Why do you think I’m offering to buy you another one? Out of the goodness of my heart?”

Banks rolled his eyes. “I’d better not,” he said. “Not if I’ve got to get this crusade off the ground and talk to Linda Palmer this afternoon. Can you tell me anything about her, other than that she’s a poet and claims to be a victim of Caxton’s?”