"It fits. Small-time con-man, wants to be in with the big boys. So you're thinking that might give us somewhere to look for his killer?"

"Well, there could be a connection, couldn't there?" Susan said, pushing her empty plate away.

Banks lit a cigarette, taking care that the smoke didn't drift directly into Susan's face. "You mean he might have been playing out of his league, tried a double-cross or something?"

"It's possible," said Susan.

"True. At least it's an angle to work on, and there don't seem very many. I dropped by The Barleycorn last night and found Les Poole. I just thought I'd mention Johnson to him, seeing as they're both in the same business, so to speak."

"And?"

"Nothing. Poole denied knowing him-well, of course he would-and he's not a bad liar. No signs in his voice or his body language that he wasn't telling the truth. But ..." Banks shook his head. "I don't know. There was something there. The only way I can describe it is as a whiff of fear. It came and went in a second, and I'm not sure even Les was aware of it, but it was there. Anyway, no good chasing will-o'-the-wisps. Adam Harkness's Golf Club alibi checks out. I still think we might bring South Africa up whenever we question someone, though. Johnson could have been blackmailing Harkness, and Harkness could afford to pay someone to get rid of him. Have you had time to ask around the other flats?"

"Last night, sir. I meant to tell you, but I set off for Bradford so early. There's a student on the ground floor called Edwina Whixley. She heard male voices occasionally from Johnson's room. And she saw someone coming down the stairs one day she thought might have been visiting him."

"Did you get a description?"

"Yes." Susan fished for her notebook and found the page. "About five foot five, mid-thirties, cropped black hair and squarish head. He was wearing a suede zip-up jacket and jeans."

"That's all?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ring a bell?"

Susan shook her head.

"Me, neither. Maybe you can get her to come and look at some mug-shots. And you might as well check into Johnson's form, his prison mates, that kind of thing. See if you can come up with any local names, anyone fitting the description."

"Yes, sir." Susan picked up her bag and left.

She had a very purposeful, no-nonsense walk, Banks noticed. He remembered the trouble she had had not so long ago and decided it had actually done her good. Susan Gay wasn't the kind to throw her hands up in the air and surrender. Adversity strengthened her; she learned from her mistakes. Maybe that hardened her a bit, made her more cynical and less trusting, but perhaps they weren't such bad qualities for a detective. It was hard not to be cynical when you saw so much villainy and human misery, but in many cases the cynicism was just a sh.e.l.l, as the sick jokes at crime scenes and post-mortems were ways of coping with the horror and the gruesomeness of death, and perhaps, too, with the fact that it comes to us all at one time. The best coppers, Banks thought, are the ones who hang onto their humanity against all odds. He hoped he had managed to do that; he knew Gristhorpe had; and he hoped that Susan would. She was young yet.

The tourists decided to go home, partly because their youngest child was making a fearful racket, and the farmers had moved on to discuss the prospects for the three-forty at Newmarket. Banks drained his pint, then headed back to the office. There was paperwork to be done. And he would make an appointment to meet with Linda Fish, from the Writers' Circle, tomorrow, much as the thought made him wince, and see what light she could shed on Mr Adam Harkness.

V.

The strange woman called on Brenda Scupham shortly after Les had left for the pub that Monday evening. She was washing the dishes and lip-synching to a Patsy Cline record when the doorbell rang. Drying her hands with the tea towel, she walked through and opened the door.

"Mrs Scupham? Brenda Scupham?"

The woman stood there in the rain, a navy-blue raincoat b.u.t.toned up to her neck and a dark scarf fastened over her head. Wind tugged at the black umbrella she held. Beyond her, Brenda could see the nosy woman from number eleven across the street peeking through her curtains.

Brenda hugged herself against the cold and frowned. "Yes. What do you want?"

"I'm Lenora Carlyle," the woman said. "You might have heard of me?"

"Are you a reporter?"

"No. Can I come in?"

Brenda stood back, and the woman let down her umbrella and entered. Brenda noticed immediately in the hall light her intense dark eyes and Romany complexion. She unfastened her scarf and shook out her head of luxuriant, coal-black hair.

"I don't want anything," Brenda went on, suddenly nervous.

"I'm not a reporter, Brenda, and I'm not selling anything," the woman said in soft, hypnotic tones. "I'm a psychic. I'm here because of your daughter, Gemma. I want to help you."

Brenda just gaped and stood back as the woman unb.u.t.toned her raincoat. Numbly, she took the umbrella and stood it on the rubber mat with the shoes, then she took the woman's coat and hung it up.

Lenora Carlyle was heavy-set, wearing a chunky-knit black cardigan covered with red and yellow roses, black slacks, and a religious symbol of some kind on a chain around her neck. Or so the odd-looking cross with the loop at the top seemed to Brenda. Lenora straightened her cardigan and smiled, revealing stained and crooked teeth.

Brenda led her into the living-room and turned off the music. She still felt a little frightened. The supernatural always made her feel that way. She wasn't sure if she believed in it or not, but she'd heard of enough strange things happening to people to make her wonder-like the time her old friend Laurie Burton dreamed about her father for the first time in years the very night he died.

After they had sat down, Brenda lit a cigarette and asked, "What do you mean, help? How can you help?"

"I don't know yet," Lenora said, "but I'm sure I can. If you'll let me."

"How much do you want?"

"I don't want anything."

Brenda felt suspicious, but you couldn't argue with that. "What do you want me to do?" she asked.

Lenora put a friendly hand on her knee. "Nothing, dear, except relax and be open. Are you a believer?"

"I ... I don't know."

"It's all right. The Lord knows His own. Do you have something of Gemma's? Something personal."

"Like what?"

"Well, hair would be best, but perhaps an article of clothing, a favourite toy. Something she felt strongly about, touched a lot."

Brenda thought of the teddy bear one of her ex-boyfriends- Bob? Ken?-had bought Gemma some years ago. Even now she was older, Gemma never slept without it. Brenda felt a pang of guilt as she thought about it. If there were any chance that Gemma was alive, she would miss her teddy bear terribly. Being without it would make her so miserable. But no. Gemma was dead; she had to be.

She went upstairs to Gemma's room and Lenora Carlyle followed her. While Brenda walked to the tiny bed to pick up the bear, Lenora stood on the threshold and seemed to take several deep breaths.

"What is it?" Brenda asked.

Lenora didn't answer. Instead, she walked forward, reached out for the bear, and sat down on the bed with it. The bedspread had Walt Disney characters printed all over it: Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Bambi, Dumbo. How Gemma loved cartoons. They were the only things that made her smile, Brenda remembered. But it was an odd, inward smile, not one to be shared.

Lenora clutched the bear to her breast and rocked slowly, eyes closed. Brenda felt a shiver go up her spine. It was as if the atmosphere of the room had subtly changed, somehow become thicker, deeper and colder. For what seemed like ages, Lenora hung onto the bear and rocked silently. Brenda clutched her blouse at her throat. Then finally, Lenora opened her eyes. They were glazed and unfocused. She began to speak.

"Gemma is alive," she said. "Alive. But, oh, she's so alone, so frightened. So much suffering. She wants you. She wants her mother. She needs you Brenda. You must find her."

Brenda felt light-headed. "She can't be," she whispered. "They've found her clothes... . I've seen them."

"She's alive, Brenda." Lenora turned and grasped Brenda's wrist. Her grip was tight.

Brenda steadied herself on the back of the small chair by Gemma's desk. She felt dizzy, her skin cold and clammy, as if she had had too much to drink and the world was spinning fast. "Where can I find her?" she asked. "Where do I look? Tell me, where do I look?"

EIGHT.

I.

By Tuesday morning, the searchers had turned up nothing buried in the garden of the holiday cottage; nor had anything of interest been discovered on the moors where Gemma's clothing had been found. Gristhorpe sat in his office going over the paperwork, waiting to hear from forensics about Parkinson's car. Outside, mucky clouds, like b.a.l.l.s of black wool, started to attack from the west.

It was close to twelve when Vic Manson called.

"What did you find?" Gristhorpe asked.

"Plenty. The girl was in there all right. We found her prints.

Windows, back of the front seat, all over. I checked them with the ones on file, and they match."

"Good work, Vic."

"And we found yellow fibres."

"The dungarees?"

"Looks like it. I'm still waiting for the confirmation." "Anything else?"

"A bit of black hair-dye smeared on the driver's headrest. Soil and gravel in the wheels, could have come from just about anywhere locally. Lay-by, track, drive, quarry."

"No particular kind of limestone deposit you only find on Aldington Edge, or anything like that?"

Manson laughed. "Sorry, no. Look, remember that whitish powder I told you about on the kid's dungarees? It's a lime solution, most likely whitewash."

"Where from?"

"Same as the soil and gravel, it could have come from anywhere, really. A pub wall, a cellar, outhouse."

"You can't be more specific?"

"Whitewash is whitewash. Now if you'll kindly get off the b.l.o.o.d.y phone and let me get on with the confirmations, we'll have a pile of stuff that just might stand up in court when you catch the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

"All right, all right. And Vic?"

"Yes."

"I'm eternally grateful."

"I'll remember that."

Gristhorpe hung up. He no longer had to sit around waiting for the phone to ring. There were things to do: question Parkinson again, and his neighbours; get in touch with the press and television. They could run this on "Crimewatch." And where had he seen whitewash recently? Calling for Richmond on his way, he swept down the corridor towards the stairs.

II.

Why was it, Banks thought, as he sat in Corrigan's Bar and Grill on York Road near the bus station, that so many people gravitated towards these trendy, renovated pubs? What on earth was wrong with a down-to-earth, honest-to-goodness old pub? Just look at Le Bistro, that place he had met Jenny last week. All coral pink tablecloths, long-stemmed wine gla.s.ses and stiff napkins.

And now this: eighteenth-century Yorkshire translated almost overnight into twentieth-century New York, complete with booths, bra.s.s rails, square Formica-top tables and waitresses who might bustle in New York, but in Yorkshire moved at their normal couldn't-care-less pace. At least some things didn't change.

And then there was the menu: a large, thin laminated card of bold, handwritten items with outrageous prices. Burgers, of course, club sandwiches, corned beef on rye (and they didn't mean Fray Bentos), and such delights for dessert as raspberry cheesecake, pecan pie and frozen yoghurt. All to the accompaniment (not too loud, thank the Lord) of Euro-pop.

Maybe he was getting conservative since the move to Yorkshire, he wondered. Certainly in London, Sandra and he had happily embraced the changes that seemed to happen so fast from the sixties on, delighted in the varieties of food and ambience available. But somehow here, in a town with a cobbled market square, ancient cross, Norman church and excavated pre-Roman ruins, so close to the timeless, glacier-carved dales and towering fells with their jagged limestone edges and criss-cross dry-stone walls, the phoney American theme and fashionable food seemed an affront.

The beer was a problem, too, just as it was in Le Bistro. Here was no Theakston's bitter, no Old Peculier, no Tetley's, Marston's or Sam Smith's, just a choice of ga.s.sy keg beer and imported bottled lagers from Germany, Holland, Mexico and Spain, all ice cold, of course. Funnily enough, he sat over a gla.s.s (they didn't serve pints, only tall heavy gla.s.ses that tapered towards their thick bases) of Labatt's, one of the less interesting lagers he remembered from his trip to Toronto.

Such were his thoughts as he puzzled over the menu waiting for Linda Fish, the Champagne socialist, to show. Corrigan's had been her choice, and as he wanted information, he had thought it best to comply. The sacrifices a copper makes in the course of duty, he thought to himself, shaking his head. At least there was an ashtray on the table. He looked out of the window at the lunch-time shoppers darting in and out of the shopping centre opposite in the rain. Raincoats, waxed-jackets, a chill in the air: it looked as if autumn had arrived at last.

Linda walked in after he had been musing gloomily for ten minutes or so. She packed up her telescope umbrella and looked around, then waved and came over to join him. She had always reminded Banks of an overgrown child. It was partly the way she dressed-today blue sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt with a pink teddy bear on its front-and partly the slightly unformed face, a kind of freckled, doughy blob on which had been stuck two watery eyes accentuated by blue shadow, a b.u.t.ton nose and thin lips made fuller by lipstick. Her straw-coloured hair looked as if she had just cut it herself with blunt scissors in front of a funfair mirror. As always, she carried her oversized and scuffed leather shoulder-bag, something she had picked up in Florence, she had once told him, and with great sentimental value. Whether it was stuffed with bricks and toiletries or unpublished ma.n.u.scripts, he had no idea, but it certainly looked heavy.

Linda squeezed her bulk into the booth opposite Banks. "I hope you don't mind meeting here," she said conspiratorially, "but I'm afraid I've become quite addicted to the chili-burgers."

"It's fine," Banks lied. She wasn't from Yorkshire, and her slight lisp seemed to make the Home Counties accent sound even posher. Whatever you might say or think about Linda, though, Banks reminded himself, she was far from stupid. Not only did she run the local Writers' Circle with such energy and enthusiasm that left most bystanders gasping, but she was indeed a published writer, not a mere hopeful or dilettante. She had, in fact, published a short novel with a large firm only a year ago. Banks had read it, and admitted it was good. Very good, in fact. No, Linda Fish was no fool. If she wanted to look ridiculous, then that was her business.

"I'm afraid I won't be able to tell you very much, you know," she said.

"Even a little will help." Banks flapped the menu. "Anything you'd recommend?"

Her blue eyes narrowed in a smile. "I can see you're uncomfortable," she said. "I'm sorry I suggested we meet here. Men are obviously much happier in pubs."

Banks laughed. "You're right about that. But let's see what I can salvage from the situation. Who knows, I might even find something I like."

"Good," said Linda. "Well, you know what I'm having. Are you not familiar with this kind of food?"

"American? Yes. I've never been to the States but I was in Toronto a couple of years ago. I think I can find my way around. I always found it was best to stick with the burgers."

"I think you're right."

A waitress ambled along, playing with her hair as she approached. "Yes?" She stood beside the booth, weight balanced on her left hip, order pad in one hand and pencil in the other. She didn't even look at them. Linda ordered her chili-burger and a bottle of San Miguel, and Banks went for the mushroom-and-cheese burger and another gla.s.s of Labatt's. He leaned back on the red vinyl banquette and lit a Silk Cut. The grill had filled up a bit since Linda arrived, mostly truant sixth-formers buzzing with conversation and laughter, and the Euro-pop droned on.

"Do you want to interrogate me before lunch or after?" Linda asked.

Banks smiled. "I always find a full stomach helps. But if you're-"

She waved her hand. "Oh no, I'm not in a hurry or anything. I'm just interested." She stuck her hand deep in her bag and frowned, leaning slightly to the side, as she rummaged around in there like a kid at a fairground lucky-dip. "Ah, got them." She pulled out a packet of menthol cigarettes.

"You know," she said, lighting up, "I'd never really thought about it before, but you could be useful to me."

"Me? How?"