Banks remembered his early days with Sandra and the kids in Kennington. They were good times, certainly, and often full of joy, even though he was doing a job that constantly brought him into contact with the worst elements of society. “We all romanticize the past to some extent,” he said. “You know, every childhood summer was glorious, every spring a new birth. And every winter there was enough snow for sledding and building snowmen and having snowball fights and the occasional day off school, but never so much that it made life miserable. I suppose there must be at least a grain of truth in it.”

“Yes. A grain, perhaps. Oh, Tony and I argued from time to time, but nothing serious, just little things.”

“So you’d say on the whole it was a happy marriage?”

“For as long as it lasted. Yes. Except . . .”

“What?”

“Towards the end.”

“What happened then?”

“Shall we sit down for few moments?” She patted her chest. “I do get a little out of breath sometimes these days.”

They came to a bench. There was a brass plaque screwed to the backrest that said: “This bench is erected in honor of Private Charles Waters, 1920–1944, by his widow Judith Waters. Let all who sit here contemplate the beauty and the brevity of life.” Private Charles Waters hadn’t lived as long as Tony Monaghan, Banks thought, and both had met violent deaths.

“I always like to sit here when I bring the dogs for a walk,” Ursula said. “I don’t know why.” They faced the sea, Lindisfarne off to their right amid the other Farne Islands, mostly nature reserves for seabirds. Gulls swooped and squawked above them. The dogs sat at Ursula’s feet, panting hard after their exertions on the cliffs. Banks let the silence stretch for a few moments while Ursula got her breath back.

“When did things start going wrong?” he asked after a while.

“Nothing really went wrong, at least not at first. It was just that Tony started changing. He became more moody, more preoccupied, spent more time away from home. It was part of his job, of course, but I do think the long separations took their toll on us.”

“Did you worry about him being unfaithful?”

She shot him a sideways glance. “It wasn’t so much that. I’m not saying it never entered my mind. He was a very good-looking man. But no . . . it was more . . . we were just used to being together. Silly, really. Almost like an old couple. Comfortable.”

“When did that start to change?”

“When he started working for Danny Caxton. I presume that’s why you’re talking to me about all this? I do still read the newspapers.”

“I’m handling the case,” Banks said. “At least part of it. So anything you can tell me might be of use.”

“Anything that could be of use in putting away that evil bastard would be all right with me.”