When they finally arrived at the ex–Mrs. Caxton’s flat in a converted convent not far from York city center, they found that her day had hardly been anywhere near as abstemious as theirs.

The woman who answered the doorbell was short and plump, with a fuzz of pinkish-white hair over chipmunk cheeks and a small, pinched mouth. The tight T-shirt and tartan slacks she wore didn’t do her any favors. But she probably didn’t care about that. She had a glass in her hand, and Banks could smell the gin from where he stood.

“Mrs. Caxton?” he asked, identifying himself.

“As was,” she said. “Then Mrs. Braithwaite, but the second one was no better than the first, so I’ve gone back to my maiden name—Canning. But you can call me Carol. Don’t stand out there in the hall, or you’ll have the neighbors talking. Nosy lot, they are. Come in, make yourselves at home. Is this about Danny?”

“Why do you ask?” said Banks, as he and Winsome followed Carol Canning into her living room. The large picture window framed a view of the main road, where traffic slowed for a large roundabout. The flat was cleaner and neater than Banks would have expected from the state of Carol Canning so early in the day. Maybe she had someone to come in and “do” for her, or perhaps she was just a fastidious, house-proud drunk. Maybe the drink was her way of celebrating a day’s housework. Whatever the reason, the mantelpiece was dust-free, and the wood surfaces shone with recent polish.

“Well, nobody’s interested in little old me anymore, my second husband wouldn’t say boo to a goose, but Danny always was a bit of a lad, to say the least. He sailed a bit close to the wind, if you catch my drift. Besides, you called me Mrs. Caxton. It’s been a long time since anyone called me that. What is it? Tax evasion? Not that I care. I don’t get a penny from him. Not anymore.”

“It’s not tax evasion,” said Banks.

“Sit down. Tea? Something stronger? Gin?”

“Tea would be really nice.”

Carol Canning headed for the kitchen. Winsome looked at Banks and widened her eyes. Banks smiled at her. Carol seemed to him the sort of drunk who could hold her liquor; at least, she didn’t wobble when she walked, and her speech wasn’t slurred. A steady drip throughout the day, Banks guessed, causing and maintaining a gentle buzz. She returned several minutes later with a tray bearing a rose-patterned china teapot with gilded edges and two matching cups and saucers. There were also similar bowls of sugar and milk. Banks, who preferred his tea in a mug, accepted milk and sugar and took the proffered saucer. Not a trace of a tremor in Carol Canning’s hand. Banks could hardly get his finger through the handle of the cup. He noticed that the level of gin in Carol’s glass was considerably higher than it had been before she went into the kitchen.