Outside at the car she turned to Gerry. “I never knew you were a First Aid Kit fan.”

“Hidden depths,” said Gerry, with an enigmatic smile. “Hidden depths.”

THE BOTTOM of the door slid easily over the few scattered bills and junk mail the postman had delivered after Banks left for work that morning. He didn’t even bother bending to pick them up. They could wait.

His front door led directly into a small study where he kept his computer, a comfortable armchair, table lamp and couple of bookcases. It used to be his main living room, but that had changed after the fire, when the insurance had allowed him not only to have the gutted cottage restored, but to enlarge the kitchen, add a conservatory at the back and an entertainment room along one side. That was where he usually watched TV or DVDs, kept his audio and video equipment and entertained visitors. He had speakers rigged up all over the house, so he could listen to music in just about every room. And now there was an extra en suite bedroom upstairs for when Brian or Tracy wanted to stay.

The problem was that Banks rarely saw his children these days. Brian was either on the road with his band, the Blue Lamps, or in the recording studio, and Tracy was studying for a master’s degree in Newcastle, working part-time as a research assistant to one of the profs. She also had a boyfriend, Geoff, who lived in St. Andrews, and she spent most of her spare time up there with him. Still, they both phoned from time to time, and both were happy and doing fine as far as Banks knew. For a while, Banks’s last girlfriend, Oriana, had lived with him on and off, but they had split up, amicably enough, a month ago and all vestiges of her presence were gone. Definitely off. She was a beautiful, intelligent and desirable young woman, and he missed her. But he was used to living alone, and he soon settled back into his old routines.