Annie smiled. “Ever the practical one, Gerry. Ask the locals to check known dealers—especially in ketamine. But it hardly narrows down the field much, does it?”

“Same general area?”

“For the time being. If we draw a blank we can expand the search.”

“I said there were traces of sperm from three distinct sources,” said Jazz. “Not that she was raped by three men.”

“You didn’t see the body,” said Annie. “But we’ll bear that in mind.”

“The dental records and tats photos are still doing the rounds,” Gerry added. “We might get something from them, though it doesn’t appear she visited a dentist very often.”

Annie turned to Jazz. “Thanks for getting this done so quickly,” she said. “And we’ll keep our fingers crossed there’s a hit with the DNA database.”

“Even if there isn’t, I should have a bit more information on the assailants for you later. Pity DNA doesn’t indicate home address.”

Annie laughed. “It would certainly make our job a hell of a lot easier. Thanks again.”

“IT’S ABOUT time we had that celebratory drink,” said DCI Ken Blackstone. “Congratulations on the promotion, Alan.”

They raised their glasses and clinked. Banks sipped some of his Sam Smith’s and forked up a piece of black pudding and smoked bacon Scotch egg. Blackstone was eating a prawn and Marie Rose sandwich washed down with a glass of chilled California blush.

“I’m not sure ‘congratulations’ is the right word for it,” Banks said. “But thanks, anyway.”

Blackstone scratched his head. “What do you mean? Too much paperwork?”

“That, too. But . . . that’s not why I wanted to see you. The drink, of course, but . . .”

“Something on your mind?”

“My first big case as a superintendent.”

“Yes?”

“Danny Caxton.”

Blackstone put his sandwich down. “Oh, bloody hell. They certainly chucked you in at the deep end.”

“That’s an understatement. Though I must say, having talked to both the accuser and the man himself, I’m a lot more keen than I was a couple of days ago.”

They were sitting opposite each other at the end of a wooden bench in the narrow alley outside Whitelock’s, one of Leeds city center’s oldest pubs, and usually one of the most crowded. That lunchtime was no exception. Summer students sat on nearby benches smoking and idling over their pints, shop girls from the Trinity Centre gossiped over a gin and orange or white wine spritzers and office clerks chatted over a quick half of bitter. The used plates, emptied of their beef in ale pies, burgers, hotdogs or cheese and chutney sandwiches, were piling up. The staff could hardly keep up with the serving, let alone the clearing away. The buildings were high on both sides of the narrow alley, letting in no sun, but the heat certainly had everyone wilting, Banks included. Blackstone remained immaculate and cool in suit, shirt and tie. With the glasses, bald spot on top and tufts of hair above his ears, he was getting to resemble Philip Larkin or Eric Morecambe a bit more every time Banks saw him. He had also put on a little weight, Banks noticed. Though the alley was crowded, there was a gap between Banks and Blackstone and the group of students, German by the sound of them, sitting next to them. And it wasn’t too noisy to have a conversation.