"I didn't think she'd have gone far. I know it's confusing back there, so I figured she'd stick close to the square, just out of sight, maybe round the first corner. I don't know what I was thinking. Honest. I suppose it was my plan to follow her and see where she went afterwards, try to find out who she was seeing. I certainly wasn't going to hurt her or anything."

"What happened next?"

"You know what happened next. I didn't find her. I was quite deep in the Maze before I knew it, and I thought I heard something from back towards the square. I walked closer, but I didn't hear it again."

"Can you describe the sound again?"

"It was like a muffled sort of thump, as if you hit a door or something with a pillow round your fist. And there was like a screamno, not a screamthat would have really made me think there was something wrong, but like a gasp, a cry. I mean, to be honest"

"What?" Banks asked.

Kinsey shot a sheepish glance at Winsome, then looked back at Banks. "I thought it was, you know, maybe someone having a quick one."

"Okay, Stuart," Banks said. "You're doing fine. Carry on."

"That's it, really. I was scared. I scarpered. I didn't want to interrupt anyone on the job. It can make a bloke pretty violent, that, being interrupted, you know, on the job."

"Did you hear anything else?"

"There was the music."

"What music? You didn't mention that before."

Kinsey frowned. "I don't know. I'd forgotten. It was familiar, just a snatch of some sort of rap-type thing, but I just can't place it, you know, the way it drives you crazy sometimes when you know what something is, it's like on the tip of your tongue. Anyway, it just came and went, like...just a short burst, as if a door opened and closed, or a car shot by...I don't know."

"Like what?" said Banks. "Try to remember. It could be important."

"Well, it just started and stopped, really short, you know, passing by, like a car going by."

"Can you remember anything else about it?"

"No," said Kinsey.

"What did you do next?"

"I went back to the Bar None. I walked down that arcade that leads into Castle RoadI'd gone that far into the Maze and it was the closest exit. Then I had to go back in the club the front way because the back door only stays open if you wedge it, and I hadn't. It's got one of those bars you push down, but only on the inside. I had a stamp on my hand so I could get back in no problem."

"And that's it?"

"That's it. I'm sorry. Can I go? I really have to finish that essay."

There was no point keeping him, Banks thought. "Try to remember that music you heard," he said. "It might help. Here's my card."

Kinsey took the card and left.

"Do you really think the music's important, sir?" Winsome asked.

"I honestly don't know," said Banks. "There was a car passing by on the CCTV tape, and Stuart said he thought the music might have been coming from a passing car. But the timing isn't quite right, and we're pretty sure the people in the car were going home from an anniversary dinner. They were in their fifties, too, so I doubt they'd have been listening to rap. Still, it's a new piece of information. Who knows what might come of it?"

"What do you think, sir?" said Winsome. "I mean, in general. Where are we?"

"I think we're running out of suspects pretty damn quickly," Banks said. "First Joseph Randall, then Malcolm Austin and now Stuart Kinsey."

"You don't think he did it?"

"I doubt it. Oh, I suppose he could be lying. They all could. Hayley Daniels certainly had a knack for turning young men into pale and panting admirers. Talk about la belle dame sans merci. We should certainly check Austin's alibi, see if anyone saw him the way the neighbour saw Joseph Randall. But I believe Kinsey. I don't think he's the sort of person who could rape and murder someone he cared about and then return to a night out with his mates as if nothing had happened. He's the kind of person who's affected by things, even little things. Give him a kiss and he'll be trembling and putting his fingers to his lips all night."

"No, thank you, sir!"

Banks grinned. "I was speaking metaphorically, Winsome. Stuart Kinsey is a sensitive kid, a romantic. A poet, like he said. He's not a dissembler, probably not a very good actor, either. Pretty much what you see is what you get. And if something important happened to him, or he did something important, people would know. If he'd killed Hayley, he'd probably have staggered into the station and admitted it."

"I suppose so," said Winsome. "Which leaves?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," said Banks. "Come on, let's call it a day."

"What about DI Cabbot, sir?"

"Don't worry," Banks said with that sinking feeling. "I'll have a word with DI Cabbot."

Annie was glad she had decided to come home to Harkside after her visit with Claire Toth, rather than go all the way back to Whitby. It would mean an early start in the morning, but she could handle that, especially if she didn't drink too much. She was feeling as if she had been put through the wringer after her disastrous lunchtime meeting with Eric and her afternoon chat with Claire. A few home comforts might help. Glass of wine, book, bath, lots of bubbles. Heat magazine.

At least Les Ferris had phoned her mobile on her way home and told her he had a line on the hair samples and should be able to get his hands on them before the weekend, so that was one piece of good news.

As darkness fell, Annie closed the curtains and turned on a couple of small shaded table lamps that gave a nice warm glow to the room. She wasn't very hungry, but she ate some cold leftover pasta and poured herself a healthy glass of Tesco's Soave from the three-litre box. Banks might have turned into a wine snob since he had inherited his brother's cellar, but Annie hadn't. She couldn't tell a forward leathery nose from a hole in the ground. All she knew was whether she liked it, or if it was off, and usually if it came from a box it wasn't off.

She picked up the second volume of Hilary Spurling's Matisse biography, but she couldn't concentrate on the words for thinking about Claire and the events that had stunted her life so early. She could get beyond it, of course; there was still time, with the right help, but could she ever recover from that much damage? When Annie remembered the look Claire gave her when she said she was seeking Lucy's killer, she felt like giving up. What was the point? Did anyone want the killer of the notorious Friend of the Devil brought to justice? Could anyone ever forgive Lucy Payne? Had Maggie Forrest forgiven her? And had she moved on?

Annie remembered a TV film she'd seen a few months ago about Lord Longford's campaign to free Myra Hindley. It had been hard viewing. The Moors Murders were well before her time, but like every other copper, she had heard all about them and about the tape recording Brady and Hindley had made. On the one hand, the church asked you to forgive, told you that nobody was beyond forgiveness, held the possibility of redemption sacred, but Lord Longford aside, you'd be hard-pushed to find anyone Christian enough to forgive Myra Hindley her crimes, even though, as a woman, she had been judged less responsible for the murders than Brady had. It was the same with Lucy Payne, though circumstances had conspired both to deliver her from justice and imprison her in her own body at the same time.

Tommy Naylor and the other members of the team had been out all day in West Yorkshire questioning the Paynes' victims' families, while Ginger had been busy trying to come up with leads in the Kirsten Farrow business. Annie had talked to Naylor on her mobile and got the impression that they all felt as depressed as Annie did tonight, if not more so. When you expose yourself to so much accumulated grief and outraged sense of injustice, how can you keep a clear focus on the job you're supposed to be doing?

Annie was just about to take a bath when she heard a knock at the door. Her heart leaped into her mouth. Her first thought was that Eric had found out where she lived, and she didn't want to see him now. For a moment, she thought of ignoring it, pretending she wasn't home. Then whoever was there knocked again. Annie risked tiptoeing over to the window and peeking through the curtain. She couldn't see very well from that angle in the poor light, but she could tell it wasn't Eric. Then she saw the Porsche parked just along the street. Banks. Shit, she didn't really want to see him right now, either, not after the embarrassment of the other night. He wouldn't give up easily, though. He stood his ground and knocked again. She had the TV on with the sound turned off, and he could probably see the light flickering.

Finally, Annie answered the door, stood aside and let him enter. He was carrying a bottle of wine in a gift bag. Peace offering? Why would he need that? If anyone needed to offer the olive branch it was Annie. Ever the bloody tactician, Banks, disarming the enemy before a word was spoken. Or perhaps that was unfair of her.

"How did you know I was here?" she asked.

"Lucky guess, I suppose," said Banks. "Phil Hartnell said you'd been in Leeds talking to Claire Toth today, and I thought you might decide to come home rather than go all the way back to Whitby."

"I suppose that's why you're a DCI and I'm a mere DI."

"Elementary, my dear Watson."

"You could have rung."

"You only would have told me not to bother coming."

Annie fidgeted with a strand of hair. He was right. "Well, you might as well sit down, seeing as you're here."

Banks handed her the bottle and sat on the sofa. "I assume you want to drink some of this?" she asked.

"I'll have a glass, please, sure."

Annie went into the kitchen for the corkscrew. The wine was a Vacqueyras she had drunk with Banks before and enjoyed. Nothing special, but nice. An understated gesture, then. She poured him a glass, filled her own with the cheap Soave and went back and sat in the armchair. Her living room suddenly seemed too small for the two of them. "Music?" she asked, more for a distraction than that she really wanted to listen to anything in particular.

"If you like."

"You choose."

Banks got on his knees by her small CD collection and picked Alice Coltrane's Journey in Satchidananda. Annie had to applaud his choice. It suited her mood and the swirling harp figures over the slow, melodic bass line always soothed her when she was troubled. She remembered that John Coltrane had been playing when she visited Banks the other night, but she found him a lot harder to listen to than his wife, except on the one CD she owned, The Gentle Side.

"How was your interview with Claire Toth?" Banks asked when he had sat down again.

"Bloody awful and not very useful," said Annie. "I mean, I didn't think she had anything to do with it, but she, well, she's angry, but I'm not even sure she's got enough left in her to go after revenge. What happened to her friend had an appalling effect on her, too."

"She still blames herself?"

"To the point of deliberately making herself unattractive and underselling her brains and ability. The father did a bunk. That probably didn't help. Mum seems in a bit of a Prozac haze."

"What about the victims' families?"

"Nothing yet. The general consensus seems to be that the justice system let them down but God didn't, and they're glad she's dead. It gives them 'closure.'"

"Covers a multitude of sins, that word," said Banks, "the way it's bandied about by everyone these days."

"Well, I don't suppose you can blame them," said Annie.

"So you're no closer?"

"I wouldn't say that. I had a quick chat with Charles Everett before I came back here, too. He says he doesn't know what happened to Maggie Forrest, but if she's in the country, I'd say we'll certainly be viewing her as a prime suspect. Lucy Payne befriended her and used her, then betrayed her, and Maggie might have come to see revenge as a way of putting her life back together, of redeeming the past."

"Maybe," said Banks. "Any idea where she is?"

"Not yet. Ginger's going to check with the publishers tomorrow. There's something else come up, too." Annie explained briefly about Les Ferris's theory, and Banks seemed to allow it far more credence than she would have expected. Still, Banks had solved his share of crimes spanning different eras, so he was less cynical about these connections than most. "And Ginger tracked down Keith McLaren, the Australian," Annie added. "He's back in Sydney working for a firm of solicitors. Seems he made a full recovery, so maybe he's even got bits of his memory back. He's not a suspect, of course, but he might be able to help fill in a few blanks."

"Going over there?"

"You must be joking! He's supposed to ring sometime this weekend."

"What about the girl, Kirsten Farrow?"

"Ginger's been trying to trace her, too. Nothing so far. It's odd, but she seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. We've checked just about every source we can think of, and beyond about 1992 there's no Kirsten Farrow. Her father's been dead for ten years, and her mother's in a homeAlzheimer'sso she's not a lot of use. We're trying to find the old university friend she was staying with in Leeds when she disappeared: Sarah Bingham. Ginger's discovered that she went on to study law, so we do have a line to follow, but it's just all so bloody slow and painstaking."

"The toughest part of the job," Banks agreed. "Waiting, digging, checking, rechecking. Have you thought that Kirsten may be living abroad?"

"Well, if she is, she's not the one we want, is she? Les Ferris also says he can come up with the hair samples in the 1988 murders, so we can compare Kirsten's with the hairs found on Lucy Payne. That should tell us one way or another whether this outlandish theory has any basis in reality at all."

"Hair matches are often far from perfect," said Banks, "but in this case I'd say it's good enough for rock and roll. So what's your plan?"

"Just keep on searching. For Kirsten and for Maggie. And Sarah Bingham. For a while longer, at any rate, until we can either count them in or rule them out. It's not as if we've got a lot of other lines of inquiry screaming us in the face. Still," Annie said after a sip of wine and a harp arpeggio that sent a shiver up her spine, "that's not what you came all this way to talk about, is it?"

"Not exactly," said Banks.

"Before you say anything," Annie began, glancing away, "I'd like to apologize for the other night. I don't know what...I'd had a couple of drinks with Winsome and then some more at your place, and it just all went to my head for some reason. Maybe because I was tired. I shouldn't even have been driving. I'd had way too much. It was unforgivable of me to put you in a position like that. I'm sorry."

For a while, Banks said nothing, and Annie could sense her heart pounding under the music. "That's not really why I came, either," he said eventually, "though I daresay it has something to do with it."

"I don't understand. What, then?"

"You and I have been finished for a long time," Banks said, "so I won't deny it came as a shock when you...anyway...that's always difficult, that side of whatever we have. I never stopped wanting you, you know, and when you act like that, well, you were right, I mean, there's not a lot going on in my life that I can afford to turn down an offer as good as that. But it didn't feel right. It wouldn't have been right. At least I thought we were friends, however difficult it seems sometimes. That you'd tell me if anything was bothering you."

"Like what?"

"Well, it's not every night you come around drunk and practically jump on me. There must be something wrong."

"Why must there be something wrong?" Annie said. "I've told you I was drunk and overtired. Pressure of work. I'm sorry. There's no point making a mountain out of a molehill."

"You said some very odd things."

"What things?" Annie pushed her hair back. "I'm sorry, I don't remember." She remembered perfectly well what she had said to Banksshe hadn't been as drunk as on that woeful night with Ericbut she was damned if she was going to let him know that.

"About toyboys."

Annie put her hand to her mouth. "I didn't, did I?"

"You did."

"But that's terrible of me. I shouldn't tell tales out of school."

"What do you mean?"

"Another drink?"

"I'd better not. I'm driving."

"I think I will."

"It's your house."

Annie hurried into the kitchen and refilled her glass. It also gave her a moment to think and let her heart calm down. The last thing she wanted was Banks messing around in her personal life again like some knight in shining armour. She could handle the Eric situation herself, thank you very much. She didn't need anyone to go and beat him up for her, or warn him off.

She sat down again and said, "What I said the other night. It was just...Look, if you must know, I'd had an argument with my boyfriend and I"

"I thought you'd been out for dinner with Winsome?"

"Before that. I was angry and upset, that's all. I said some things I should never have said. I regret them now."

Banks sipped some wine and Annie could see that he was thinking, the frown line etched in his forehead. "Is that this toyboy you were talking about?" Banks asked. "Your boyfriend?"