“It doesn’t matter,” said Banks. “You were playing silly buggers with two oafs. Fair enough. You’ve had your fun, now just put it behind you and get back to work.”

“Christ, what a day,” said Annie. “Now Sinead Moffat hates me, too. She blames me for the search. And I’m pissed into the bargain. And I’m going to have another one.”

“My pleasure.” Banks poured the wine.

“Ta,” said Annie. “What’s that we’re listening to? It sounds a bit like Jeff Buckley.”

“It’s Tim Buckley,” said Banks.

“His dad. Blue Afternoon.” “His dad? Get away with you.”

“It is. He died young, too. Drug overdose.”

“All your lot did,” said Annie.

“I saw him once,” Banks said. “Knebworth Festival, 1974. It was one of the last gigs he did. Fantastic.”

They were sitting in the wicker chairs in Banks’s conservatory after a dinner of M&S lasagne and Caesar salad, with dressing that came in a sachet, a bottle of shiraz almost empty on the table between them and the lightest of breezes blowing through the open windows. The sun had gone down, but there was still a bluish glow in the sky behind Tetchley Fell. Banks had caught up with Annie in the corridor outside an interview room after he had got back from talking to Yvonne Reeves. It had been a long day, and Annie had looked drawn and haggard, so he had invited her to dinner, stopping off at Marks & Spencer on the way.

Maybe Annie deserved the opportunity to let off a little steam, Banks thought. It was a complex case she was on, and the death of a child—which Mimosa Moffat was, when you came right down to it—got to even the most hardened officers. The fact that Annie had herself been raped some years ago, and was still recovering from a recent shooting incident, made her even more vulnerable. But Banks was still convinced that she was more than up to the task. Not only that, but that she was the best person for it.

“What’s wrong with me, Alan?” she said when he had emptied the last of the bottle into her glass “Am I a racist? Is that it? Do you think I’m a racist?”

“I don’t think you’re a racist, Annie. It’s just complicated, that’s all. What do you think those mothers in Nigeria are thinking about, the ones whose daughters were kidnapped by Boko Haram?”

Annie squinted at him. “What? I can’t even begin to imagine what hell they’re going through, worrying if they’re ever going to see their daughters again, scared about what’s been done to them.” She gave a shudder. “It doesn’t bear thinking about.”