“Seeing as the weather’s still holding up,” said Banks, “let’s try outdoors.” The sky remained cloudy, and Banks could still feel that sort of electric crackle in the air that presaged a storm. He hoped it wouldn’t hit before he and Winsome could set off back to Eastvale. Sometimes you got enormous hailstones in a summer storm, and visibility could quickly dwindle to practically nothing in no time.

“Excellent. Pam’s just making a pot of tea. She’ll be out with it shortly.”

As they walked through the living room, Banks noticed that the floor-to-ceiling collection of first-edition crime fiction he remembered from his previous visit was still there.

“Pam complains endlessly about the books and the space they take up,” Bradley said, “but what can I do? She came up with a one in, one out scheme, but I’m afraid it’s not working too well. Some of these people just keep on writing. And it’s not only the collecting, you know. I do read them all.”

“But surely you must find their stories a bit different from the reality you remember?”

“You’re not a fan?”

“I can’t say I am. I’ve read a bit of Christie and Doyle, of course, but I don’t really think anyone was expected to believe that their exploits in any way reflected reality. I prefer spy thrillers, myself.”

“Oh, I’m definitely with you on espionage fiction. Le Carré, Eric Ambler, Len Deighton, Alan Furst. Among the best. But do you know, that whole realism bit never really bothers me in the least. Sure, they get the procedures and the lingo wrong, but that’s not such a terrible thing. And the lingo changes all the time. I bet I wouldn’t understand a word if I found myself back in the old cop shop again. No, as long as the stories are gripping and the cops are interesting characters, I’m fine with it. What do you think, DS Jackman?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much time for reading,” Winsome said. “But when I do, I prefer nonfiction. History. Biography. Nature writing. That sort of thing.”

“Admirable.”

“And when I read crime fiction,” Winsome went on, “I prefer mine hard-boiled and American. Chandler, MacDonald—both of them—and Hammett. When men were men and dames were broads.”

Bradley gave a little bow. “Of course. What exquisite taste.”

Banks gave Winsome a quizzical look, but she gave him inscrutable back. They sat at the patio table, and almost before they had made themselves comfortable, Bradley’s wife, Pam, came out to say hello and serve tea, saying she hoped Earl Grey was all right, but she always thought it more refreshing than Darjeeling on a warm day. Banks had often wondered how tea could be so perfect for such weather, but it was. They thanked her, and she disappeared back inside the house.