Burgess rubbed his forehead. “I went to see Caxton yesterday. And that slimy lawyer of his. Confronted them with one or two things. I don’t think we’ll ever get a confession out of him. Bastard doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong.”

“That was the impression I got, too.”

“Thing is, I’d like you to have another word with him.”

“I don’t have much new to question him about.”

“You’ve got Tony Monaghan. The murder. Throw that in his face. See how he reacts. Suggest you know he had something to do with it. Play the gay card. He seemed to be faltering a bit yesterday. He’s old and he tires easily. Hit him while he’s on the ropes. That’s what I say.”

Banks felt a bit queasy about attacking a tired and weak old man, but he thought back on Linda Palmer’s ordeal, not to mention all the other victims, and reminded himself who he was dealing with. “Right you are,” he said. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow, while he’s still recovering from your visit.”

Burgess punched Banks’s arm. “I was nice as pie. Like a conversation between two old mates.”

“I’ll bet. What do you think, do we pester him at home or bring him in?”

Burgess frowned for a moment, then said, “Go see him at home once more. Gives ’em a feeling of intrusion, contamination. Next time, we’ll have him down the nick.”

“That’ll be fun.” Banks sipped some lager.

“Come on, Banksy, why don’t we finish our drinks and pay up? Then we can go and see how that buxom blond Australian barmaid’s doing at the Queen’s Arms.”

11

IT WAS DARK WHEN GERRY TURNED LEFT NEAR THE END of the Strip onto Wytherton Avenue, one of the broader streets that cut through the estate, with cars parked on both sides. There was practically no traffic as she drove deeper into the estate looking for the turn. She found it and parked her Corsa under the only functioning streetlamp on a side street facing the derelict factory, as Jade had suggested.

Before getting out, she glanced in her side and rearview mirrors to check that there was nobody around. The street was empty and dark and many of the streetlights were out as far back as she could see. These were old houses, not the compact brick council style of the sixties. They were tall, thin terraces built of solid, darker stone, and many of them seemed as deserted as the street itself. Beyond the steep front steps and high-pitched slate roofs, the night sky glowed with the lights of an urban conglomeration that blotted out all the starlight. She could still see the half moon over to her left.