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“This is absurd. You have no evidence for any of this.”

“We've got the photograph,” Banks said.

“As I said before, photographs can be faked.”

“They can be authenticated, too,” Banks said.

Mandeville stared at them, assessing the damage. Finally, he stood up, put his hands on the table, palms down, and leaned forward. “Well,” he said, “that's quite a story the two of you have concocted. It's a pity that none of it will stand up in court, or anywhere else, for that matter.”

“Maybe you're right,” Michelle said. “But you still have to admit that it doesn't look good. Some mud's bound to stick.”

“I'm not without influence, you know.”

“Is that a threat?”

“I don't stoop to threats.”

“No, you get someone else to do that for you.”

“What do you intend to do now?”

“Whatever I can to make sure you pay for what you did. For a start, we'll have a nice chat with Mr. Janson.”

Mandeville walked over and leaned against the fireplace, smiling. “Derek won't tell you anything.”

“You never know. We're not without influence, either, especially with ex-cons. Then there's Geoff Talbot's notebook. Jet Harris didn't bother to remove that from the archives. No reason to. There was no investigation.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Names,” said Banks. “Talbot made a note of the names of the people he talked to when he came up here. I'm sure if we dig around a bit, we'll find one or two people who remember the old days: partygoers, perhaps, or club patrons.”

Mandeville's face darkened and he went back to sit at the table. “I'm warning you,” he said. “If you attempt to spread these vicious lies about me, I'll have your jobs.”

But Michelle was already out of the room, striding toward the front door.

Banks took the opportunity of a few seconds alone with Mandeville to lean in close, smile and lower his voice. “And if DI Hart so much as trips on a banana skin, I'll be right back here to rip out your spine and shove it down your throat. Your lordship.”

He couldn't swear to it, but judging by the change in
Mandeville's expression, he thought he had got his point across.

 

It was already the evening of a long day, and the shadows were lengthening when Lauren Anderson led Annie into the book-lined living room. Classical music was playing, a violin concerto of some sort, but Annie didn't recognize it. Banks would have done, she thought. Lauren was barefoot, wearing ice-blue jeans and a white sleeveless top. Her shoulders were pale and freckled, like her face. Her mane of auburn hair was fastened behind her head by a leather barrette. “What do you want?” she asked. “Have you caught them?”

“I think so. But first sit down and listen to what I have to say. You can correct me if I'm wrong about anything.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“You will in a minute. Sit down, Lauren.” Annie crossed her legs and leaned back in the armchair. She had worked out how to approach Lauren on the drive back from Harrogate, then made a couple of phone calls and picked up DC Winsome Jackman, whom she had instructed to stay outside in the car for the time being. She didn't expect any trouble, and it would be easier for her to talk to Lauren alone. “We know where Luke was shortly before he was killed,” she began. “Did he ever mention a girl called Liz Palmer to you?”

“No. Why?”

“Are you sure? She meant a lot to Luke.”

Lauren shook her head. “No, that can't be true. I don't believe you.”

“Why not, Lauren? Why can't it be true?”

“Luke…he didn't…he wasn't like that. He was devoted to art.”

“Oh, come off it, Lauren. He was just a randy adolescent, like any other. This Liz was a bit older than him and she—”

“No! Stop it. I won't listen to this.”

“What's the problem, Lauren?”

“I won't have you tarnishing Luke's memory.”

“Tarnishing? What's so wrong about a fifteen-year-old boy losing his virginity to an older woman? It's a time-honored tradition, even if it is technically having sex with a minor. Who cares about a few petty rules and regulations? Especially if it's the boy who's underage and not the woman. At least we know now Luke got to enjoy the pleasures of sex before he died.”

“I don't know why,” Lauren said, looking into Annie's eyes, “but you're lying to me. There is no ‘Liz.'”

“Yes there is. I can introduce you.”

“No.”

“What is it, Lauren? Jealous?”

“Luke meant a lot to me. You know he did. He was so talented.”

“It was more than that, though, wasn't it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You were lovers, weren't you?”

Lauren hesitated for a moment, then said, “What if we were? Are you going to arrest me for that?”

“No. I'm going to arrest you for murder.”

Lauren jerked upright. “You can't be serious.”

“I'm serious, all right. You see, Liz and her boyfriend live about five minutes' walk away from here, and Luke was distraught when he left their flat. I asked myself: Where would he go? Maybe it took me too long to come up with the right answer, the
only
possible answer, but that was because of the clever smokescreen you put up. The kidnapping. We thought we were looking for a man or someone closer to home. But Luke couldn't have gone home because the last bus had gone and we checked all the taxis. We suspected his music teacher, Alastair Ford, too. But Luke couldn't have gone to his house because it's so remote, and he had no means of getting there. That leaves you, Lauren. Luke didn't have a wide circle of friends and acquaintances. Also, he was very upset. You're the one he talked to about
his emotional problems. How long had you been lovers, Lauren?”

Lauren sighed. “Near the end of term. It just happened. It was so…so natural. I wasn't trying to seduce him or anything like that.” Annie could see tears clouding her eyes. “We were looking at some pictures. Pre-Raphaelites. He remarked on my resemblance to one of the models.”

“Elizabeth Siddal, Dante Gabriel Rosetti's first wife. You do look a lot like her, Lauren. Or a lot like the paintings of her. A typical Pre-Raphaelite beauty, as someone said.”

“You know?”

“I should have made the connection sooner,” Annie said. “My father's an artist, and I do a bit of painting myself. I've picked up a thing or two over the years.”

“But how could you have known?”

“We found Luke's shoulder bag at the other flat, too. I read over his recent writings and found a lot of classical references I didn't understand. One thing I did understand is that they were of a sexual nature, very intimate, and they stressed a kind of Pre-Raphaelite look. There were also references to Ophelia, but I don't think it was Shakespeare Luke had in mind. It was John Everett Millais. He painted Ophelia and used Elizabeth Siddal as a model. She caught pneumonia lying in a tepid bath every day posing as Ophelia floating down the river. Very romantic. But what I don't understand is why. Why did you do it, Lauren? Why did you kill him? Was he going to leave you?”

“You don't understand anything. I didn't kill him. You've got no proof. I've got an alibi. Talk to Vernon.”

“I've already talked to Vernon,” said Annie, “and I'd trust him about as far as I could throw him. Your brother lied for you, Lauren. Only natural. But I'm willing to bet that he's the one who helped you get rid of the body. You couldn't have done it all by yourself. And he's the one who hatched the kidnapping scheme. That had all the hallmarks of an afterthought. It wasn't the reason for Luke's disappearance and death. Your brother thought he'd try and cash in on it
and he's small-time enough to ask for only ten thousand. Besides, you'd probably talked about Luke and told him the family wasn't quite as wealthy as people assumed. He's a gambler, Lauren. And a loser. He needs the money. I talked to his bookie. Your brother's in debt up to his eyeballs. Did you even know what he'd done after he'd helped you?”

Lauren looked down into her lap. Her fingers were twined together, grasping so tightly, all the knuckles were white. She shook her head. “I don't believe Vernon would do anything like that.”

“But you must have suspected, after you heard about the kidnap demand?”

“It confused me. I didn't know what was going on. Maybe I had my suspicions, I don't know. I was too upset to think about it.”

“The thing is,” Annie went on, “that our scene-of-crime officers found minute traces of blood on the wall where Luke was shoved over into Hallam Tarn. Minute, but enough to provide a DNA profile. I think that profile would match you or your brother. I'm also certain that when our men come in here and go over your place, they'll find traces of Luke's blood. Now, that might not be conclusive in itself, as we know Luke was punched in the nose before he came here, but it's all starting to add up, Lauren.”

Lauren looked at Annie, her eyes red-rimmed and almost unbearably sad. “I didn't kill him,” she said, in a small, distant voice. “I would never have harmed Luke. I loved him.”

“What happened, Lauren?”

Lauren reached for her cigarettes and lit one. Then she eyed Annie sadly and began her story.

 

“Do you think I might have a word alone with your husband?” Banks asked Mrs. Marshall at her house that evening.

“Bill? I don't know what he can tell you,” she said. “You know he can't talk.”

“There might be one or two little things.” Banks looked at the invalid who, judging by the hard expression in his eyes, certainly knew he was being talked about. “Can he write?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Marshall. “But he can't hold a pencil properly. He can only grasp it in his fist and scribble a few letters.”

“That'll do,” said Banks. “Can you get me a pad and pencil, if it's no trouble?”

Mrs. Marshall brought Banks a lined pad and a pencil from the sideboard drawer.

“Come on,” said Michelle, taking her arm and leading her toward the kitchen. “Let's go make some tea. I've got a few things to tell you.” Banks and Michelle had agreed on a sanitized version of events to tell Mrs. Marshall. If the media dug too deeply and the story hit the news, then she might find out more than she wanted about her son's life and death, but that was for the future. Now, maybe it was enough for Michelle to tell her that Donald Bradford killed Graham because he found out something about Bradford's illegal activities.

When they had gone into the kitchen and closed the door, Banks put the pad and pencil on Bill Marshall's knee and settled in front of him, gazing into the expressionless eyes. “I think you know why I want to talk to you,” he said.

Bill Marshall made no sign that he understood.

“You used to spar with Reggie and Ronnie Kray in your younger days,” he said. “Then, when you came up here, you fell in with Carlo Fiorino and did a few strong-arm jobs for him. Am I right? Can you nod or write something down?”

Bill Marshall did nothing.

“Okay, so that's how you want to play it,” Banks said. “Fine. I'm not saying you had anything to do with Graham's death. You didn't. You'd never have done anything like that. But you knew who did it, didn't you?”

Bill Marshall just stared at Banks.

“See, the trouble with people like you, Bill, is they insist on working outside the law. You've no use for coppers, have
you? Never have had, I shouldn't think. Just like my own dad. Want to know what I think happened? Well, I'll tell you anyway. I think Donald Bradford just wasn't cut out to be a killer of young boys. I don't think he had much choice in the matter, though. Fiorino pushed him into it. After all, Graham was
his
responsibility, and Graham was in a position to do a lot of serious damage. There was just too much at stake. Not just the empire as it existed then, but the future. The city was expanding, becoming a new town. Soon it would double in population. What an opportunity for a man like Fiorino. He supplied what people always seemed to want, for a good price. Are you with me so far?”

Marshall just glared at Banks. A little drool slid down his stubbly chin.

“Fiorino had no use for the law, either, unless it was in his pay, so he used other people to do his dirty work. Shortly after the killing, Bradford sold up and moved out. Fiorino didn't like that. Didn't like people escaping his control, being out of his line of sight. Especially if they knew as much as Bradford did and were fast becoming unstable and unreliable. Bradford was guilt-ridden by what he had done. Also, I think he took some of Fiorino's goods with him, though that's just a minor matter. What really counted was that Bradford was out of sight and untrustworthy. And he knew too much.”

Marshall still showed no reaction. Banks could hear muffled voices from the kitchen. “So what does he do when he has a problem with Bradford? Well, he could pay for a hit, I suppose, and that's one option. But he knows you. That's an easier one. He knows that whatever you do, you'll do it yourself, you won't go running to the police. So he tells you that Bradford killed your son, though not on
his
orders. He convinces you that Bradford was a pervert. He also gives you Bradford's address. Easy. All he had to do next was leave the rest up to you. Am I right so far, Bill?”

Banks could tell by the anger and hatred in Bill Marshall's eyes that he was right. “You went up to Carlisle,
didn't you? Probably told everyone you were looking for work. Then you broke into Donald Bradford's flat and waited for him to come home. You knew Bradford was a tough customer, so you attacked him from behind with a cosh. I don't blame you, Bill. The man murdered your son. I'd want to do the same to anyone who harmed either of my children. But you let your wife suffer all those years. You
knew
Graham was dead and you knew who killed him. Maybe you didn't know where the body was, but I'll bet you could have found out. Instead, you went up there and murdered Bradford and said nothing to your wife or your daughter. All these years they've lived not knowing what happened to Graham. That's unforgivable, Bill.” Banks nodded toward the pad. “What do you have to say about that? Come on, tell me something.”