BY SATURDAY night, when Banks again knocked on Linda Palmer’s door in Minton-on-Swain, a great deal had happened. Paul Warner was in custody for the murder of Mimosa Moffat, and the forensic evidence was fast building up against him. They also had his confession. Sunny and his colleagues were all under arrest and facing a number of serious charges, though DNA tests showed that none of them had any connection with Mimosa’s murder. The DNA of the three cousins from Dewsbury, however, were a clear match for the semen samples found inside Mimosa, and they faced a whole lot of charges, though they continued to deny rape and insist that the sex had been consensual. Mimosa had been under the age of consent, so it didn’t matter too much, but their sentences would certainly be a lot longer if a jury believed they had also physically assaulted her and forced her to perform sex acts against her will. The problem was that there was no one to say Mimosa wasn’t willing, though the three men who said she was had every reason to lie. The five other victims of Sunny’s grooming gang were being cared for and were all giving detailed statements of their own experiences, though the whereabouts of Jade, aka Carol Fisher, were still unknown. The Strip had quieted down a lot, but there were still isolated incidents and rumblings of unrest around the Wytherton Heights estate. Two more women had come out with complaints against Danny Caxton since he had made his grand entrance and exit to and from Eastvale Police HQ, one in Great Yarmouth and the other in Weymouth. Caxton was still in the hospital, hanging on by the thinnest of threads.

Linda Palmer opened the front door and led Banks through to the garden. It was another fine summer evening early in August, but Banks sensed a slight autumn chill already in the air. It wasn’t enough to drive them indoors, though, and Banks took the same chair as he had on his previous visit. Music played through the open French doors, swirling strings rising and falling, and there was a bottle of wine open on the table. Linda asked Banks if he would like some.

“Just a glass, please,” he said. It was a crisp Pinot Grigio, nicely chilled, and it went down well. The river was in the shadow of the trees, but Banks could hear it, and was constantly aware of its presence beyond the music, which he didn’t recognize. Persy was lying on the lawn near a flower bed.

“Who’s this?” Banks asked, referring to the music.

“Mahler’s Ninth. The last movement, the adagio. I’ll put something else on if it’s not to your liking. Some people have a hard time with Mahler.”