“You have to let the police decide things like that, Linda,” said Banks. “People don’t always know what matters and what doesn’t, what’s important and what isn’t.”

“But doesn’t having every little thing thrown at you clutter up your investigations?”

Banks smiled. “We’ve got a special unclutter gadget that separates the wheat from the chaff.” He paused. “No, seriously, please tell me everything that comes to you. Don’t self-censor.”

“OK. But I don’t think I can remember anything more right now. I’m exhausted.”

Banks handed her his card. “Ring me anytime if you do. And I mean anytime.”

She took the card and read it, then shifted her eyes back to Banks. They seemed filled with a kind of dreamy wistfulness, or it could have been tears. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Would you be willing to repeat all you’ve told me in court, if it came to that?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“You’d better be certain. The defense counsel won’t make things easy for you.”

“They’d do their job, I suppose. I’d be more comfortable doing it if I wasn’t alone. If there were others.”

“I think you can count on that.”

“You know, sometimes I feel a bit like a phony in all this.”

“Why?”

She gestured around her. “My life wasn’t ruined. I’ve made a successful life for myself. Oh, I get jumpy sometimes, I have panic attacks and I still have bad dreams—long winding corridors, something nasty behind the door, rooms beyond rooms, but they’re just typical nightmares.”

“Drugs? Drink?”

Her eyes narrowed, with a glint of humor. “Are you asking me if I’m a junkie or an alcoholic?”

“Not at all.” Banks felt himself blush. “It’s just that sometimes people who’ve experienced . . . you know, they reach for . . .”

“Oblivion?”

“Something like that.”

“I had my moments. I was seventeen, eighteen in the late sixties, early seventies. People were experimenting. I was deep into that scene, the poetry, the music, the Eastern philosophy, the clothes, and, yes, the drugs. It took a while for the psychedelic drug culture to work its way up to Leeds, but my friends and I tried pot and acid, mescaline, speed, mandies. Never the hard stuff, though. No coke or heroin.”

“What happened?”

“I got bored with it all, like watching the same cartoon show over again and again at the News Theatre. So I went to university to study English literature.”

“And drink?”

“At university? Who didn’t?”

“In general. Now.”

“The occasional glass of wine. Hell, the occasional bottle of wine. So what?”