Christ, thought Banks. Monaghan had gone to Leeds and confronted Caxton with his decision, perhaps evidence in the form of the Polaroids, and threatened him with the police. But it had to be more than that. Caxton knew he had the police in his pocket, that they wouldn’t listen to Monaghan. They must have turned a blind eye to Caxton’s transgressions before then, as they certainly had later. It was more likely than not that Tony’s betrayal angered him more than fear of exposure. Caxton was a man used to having his own way, demanding loyalty, and here was his loyal servant, his chosen one, come to threaten him with exposure. Caxton no doubt knew enough people capable of doing the job. Banks had even heard of a few ex-coppers hiring themselves out for strong-arm work, even the occasional murder. It wouldn’t have been difficult to arrange. And along came the Stott brothers, bouncers in his disco, old mates from the boxing club.

Ursula remained silent for so long that Banks felt she was looking to him for exoneration, for both herself and her husband. Banks didn’t feel that was something he had the right to give. As if she were reading his thoughts, she said, “I’m sorry. I know your main concern is the poor victim. I didn’t know her. Tony never mentioned any names. I don’t even think he knew.”

Banks was about to tell her: Linda Palmer. But he didn’t.

“After Tony had been killed,” he went on, “did you say anything about this? Did you talk to the police?”

“Yes. When I had to go up to Leeds to identify Tony’s body.”

“Who did you talk to?”

“Now, I know I remember,” she said. “He was high up. A chief superintendent, I think. I remember being impressed at the time.”

“It wasn’t an inspector, then? Detective Inspector Chadwick?”

“No. I’d remember that. It was a Scottish name. Smoked a pipe. McCullen. That’s who it was. Detective Chief Superintendent McCullen.”

Chadwick’s boss, Banks thought. “Did anyone takes notes?”

“No. There were just the two of us, after the identification. He had a big office. I never met with anyone else on the case, if there was anyone.”

“Oh, there was,” said Banks. “Was the interview recorded?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Were you asked to turn in a written statement?”

“No.”

So there was nothing at all, Banks realized. No record whatsoever of Ursula Monaghan’s chat with McCullen, or her fears for what had happened to her husband. McCullen himself, perhaps under instructions from the chief constable, had headed her off at the pass. “What did you do after that?”