"Hello, Alan," she said. "I'm so glad you could come." Banks handed her the wine. "You shouldn't have. Come in."

Banks followed her into the hall, where he hung up his coat, then they went through to the living room. Most of the guests had already arrived and were sitting in the convivial glow of orange-shaded table lamps, chatting and drinking. There were twelve people in all, and Banks knew two couples from his years next door: Colin and Stella Hutchinson, from number twenty-four, and Ray and Max, the gay couple from across the street. The others were either Harriet's friends from the library, or her husband David's colleagues from the arcane and, to Banks, deadly dull, world of computers. Some of them he had met before briefly.

He had driven straight from the station, about five minutes away, stopping only to pick up the bottle of wine from Oddbins, having spent most of the day in his office going over the statements and forensic reports on the Hayley Daniels case. He had also been occasionally distracted by the thought of Annie's case: Lucy Payne in a wheelchair with her throat slit. He remembered Lucy lying in her hospital bed, in some ways a pitiful, fragile figure with her pale, beautiful, half-bandaged face, in other ways enigmatic, scheming, manipulative, and perhaps truly evil. Banks had never made up his mind on that score, though he was one of the few who had seen the videos, which convinced him that Lucy had been as involved as her husband, Terry, in the abduction and sexual torture of the girls. Whether she had actually killed anyone was another matter entirely, and one the courts never had to decide upon. Everyone believed she did, no matter what. Her eyes had given nothing away and her instinct for self-preservation had been strong.

It was always difficult to make the transition from the macabre to the mundane, Banks found, but sometimes inconsequential small talk about England's chances of scoring against Andorra after their pathetic 00 draw with Israel, or the Tories' chances in the next election, were a welcome antidote to the day's preoccupations.

Dinner parties always made him nervous for some reason, and he couldn't even drink too much to take the edge off because he had to drive home. He wasn't going to take the kind of risk that Annie had the other night. She had been lucky. Thinking about Annie, he realized that he would probably have invited her as his "date" if they had been on better terms. Even though they were no longer romantically involved, they gave one another moral support in social situations like this from time to time, strength in numbers. But after her odd behaviour on the last two occasions they had met, he didn't know how things stood between them, or how they would develop.

Greetings over, Banks took the glass of wine David offered and sat next to Colin and Stella. Colin was a paramedic, so he was hardly likely to start going on about RAM and gigs. Dead or dying bodies Banks could handle. Stella ran an antiques shop on Castle Road, and she always had an interesting tale or two to tell.

As he made small talk, Banks glanced around at the others. There were a couple of supercilious prats he recognized from a previous party and didn't particularly like, the kind who got a few drinks in them and became convinced that they could do a better job than anyone else of putting the world to rights. But the rest were okay. Most were around his age, mid-fifties, or a little younger. Harriet had put on some soft classical music in the background, Bach by the sound of it, and the smell of lamb roasting with garlic and rosemary drifted in from the kitchen. A couple of plates of hors d'oeuvres were doing the rounds, and Banks helped himself to a small sausage roll when it came his way.

Fortunately, he wasn't the only stray of the group. Most of the guests were couples, but Banks knew that Graham Kirk, from the next street over, had recently split up with his wife, and Gemma Bradley, already three sheets to the wind, had driven her third husband out two years ago and hadn't found a fourth yet. Harriet worked with Gemma, though, and clearly felt sorry for her. The other odd man out was Trevor Willis, a rather surly widower who kept nipping outside for a smoke with Daphne Venables, wife of one of David's colleagues. Banks knew from previous occasions that Trevor was the kind who got quieter and more morose the more he drank, until he ended up nodding offonce, with dramatic effect, right into his trifle.

It was at times like this when Banks dearly wished he still smoked, especially on a mild March evening. Sometimes it was good to have an excuse to escape outside for a few minutes when the conversation got too loud or too dull.

Colin was in the middle of a story about an old woman who regularly called an ambulance just to get a lift to her hospital appointments, and how, just to scare her, one of the paramedics had remarked upon noticing a problem with her leg and said it would have to come off, when Harriet called them through to dinner.

It took her a few minutes to get everyone seated according to the plan, and Banks found himself between Daphne and Ray, opposite Max and Stella. It could have been worse, he reflected, accepting a refill of wine from David as Harriet dished out plates of goat's cheese and caramelized onion tart. The only ones already drunk were Gemma and Trevor, though Daphne seemed well on her way, judging by how she kept squeezing Banks's arm whenever she spoke to him. The tart was delicious, and there was enough free-flowing conversation for Banks to sit quietly and enjoy it without being drawn in.

He had just finished his tart, and Daphne was holding his arm telling him a funny story about a runaway mobile library, when the doorbell rang. Everyone carried on with their conversations while Harriet got up and rushed out to answer it. Daphne was demanding all Banks's attention, breathing Sancerre and stale tobacco his way, while exuding wafts of whatever strong perfume she was wearing.

The next thing he knew, Harriet was pulling up another chair at the end of the table. Thirteen for dinner, Banks thought, remembering the Poirot story. It was supposed to be unlucky. Conversations paused, men gawped and women stiffened. Banks still couldn't escape Daphne's grip on his left arm. He felt as if he'd been cornered by the Ancient Mariner. Over to his right, he heard an unfamiliar female voice say, "I'm sorry I'm so late."

Finally, Daphne let go of him, and, without being rude, he was able to glance over and see Harriet fussing about how being late was no problem, setting an extra place for the new guest, who looked over at him and smiled. Then he remembered: Sophia had arrived at last.

Chelsea was running late. She put her mascara on too thickly but didn't really have time to apply it all over again. It would have to do. She tugged at her bra under the skimpy top and squirmed until it felt comfortable, then dashed downstairs and put her heels on.

"Bloody hell," said her father, turning away from the television for a rare moment as Chelsea teetered on one leg in the hallway. "Do you have any idea what you look like, girl?"

"Shut up, Duane," her mother said. "Leave the poor lass alone. Didn't you ever go out and have a good time when you were a young lad?"

"Maybe, but I didn't dress like a fucking"

Chelsea didn't wait to hear what he said. She'd heard it all before anyway. It would be tart, trollop, whore, tom or some such variation on the theme. She snatched up her handbag, where she kept her cigarettes, a touch of makeup and some extra money in case she needed to buy a round of drinks or pay for a taxi home, blew a kiss to her mother, who called after her to be careful and to remember what happened to that poor girl, and dashed out, hearing raised voices as the door closed behind her. They would be at it for a while, she knew, then her mother would give up and go to bingo, as usual. When Chelsea got home late, her mother would be in bed and her father would be in front of the TV snoring through some naff old thriller or horror movie on Freeview, a full ashtray and a few empty beer cans on the ringed and stained table beside him. They were just that bloody predictable.

How she wished she lived in Leeds or Manchester or Newcastle, then she'd be able to stay out later, all night if she wanted, but Eastvale had pretty much closed down by half past twelve or one o'clock on a Saturday night, except for the Bar None, where they had a naff DJ and lousy music, and the Taj Mahal, which was full of sad, drunken squaddies drinking lager by the gallon and shovelling down vindaloo before they got shipped off to Iraq. Tomorrow she was going to see the Long Blondes at the Sage, in Gateshead, with Shane, in his car, their first real date without anyone else around. That would be excellent. Then on Monday it was back to work in the shop. Such was her life.

They were all meeting in the market square. Chelsea couldn't see a bus anywhere, they were so few and far between after six o'clock on the East Side Estate, so she'd have a fifteen-minute walk to get there, across the river, then up the hill past the gardens and the castle. It was already dark and her high heels made it tough going. They would be starting out at the Red Lion, she knew, and if she missed them there, they would most likely drop by the Trumpeter's for a couple of games of pool before moving on to the Horse and Hounds, where there was usually a band playing covers of famous old songs like "Satisfaction" and "Hey Jude." They weren't bad sometimes. Better than the decrepit traditional jazz they had on Sunday lunchtimes, at any rate.

Chelsea picked up her pace after she had climbed the hill and walked around Castle Road, down into the market square, already jumping with young people well on their way. She said hello to a few people she knew as she crossed the square. The cobbles were really difficult to manage in the shoes she was wearing, and she almost tipped over on a couple of occasions before she got to the pub, opened the door, and saw them all there. Shane grinned at her through the smoke and she smiled back. It was going to be all right, then. Saturday night had started, and it was going to be all right.

To say that Sophia's arrival changed the tenor of dinner-table conversation would be an understatement. The men almost visibly puffed themselves up and set about impressing her. Colin started commenting on the wine, findings hints of chocolate, vanilla and tobacco that he had clearly memorized from a book, and Graham Kirk began a lecture on the future of computing, ostensibly to Max, but with the occasional sideways, approval-seeking glance at Sophia, who wasn't listening. Sophia appeared, to Banks, quite oblivious to it all. She couldn't help it that men fell all over her, her confident demeanour seemed to say. And if she found the phenomenon amusing, she didn't give that away, either.

Banks found himself enjoying the show tremendously. He felt invisible, lighter than air, a fly on the wall, noting facial expressions, body language of all kinds, as if no one were aware of his presence. Disappearing was a skill he had possessed since childhood, and it often came in useful in his job. It used to drive Sandra crazy, he remembered. She thought it was rude, not joining in. But then Sandra was very social and was very much always there all the time.

Since Sophia's arrival, even Daphne had stopped hanging on to his arm and talking to him, and had taken instead to sulking and sipping her wine rather faster than she had before. Someone at the far end spilled a glass of red all over the white tablecloth and everyone oohed and fussed over that for a while with cloths and sponges while Harriet tried to calm them down and told them to ignore it, it would all come out in the wash.

In the confusion, Banks stole a glance at Sophia. That she was beautiful had been obvious enough even before he had clapped eyes on her. The mere effect of her entry into the room had been enough to tell him that. But the more he looked, the more he understood. Her dark hair was tied loosely behind, at the nape of her long neck, her olive skin smooth and flawless. She wore a jade top, scooped just low enough to show the promise of cleavage without showing anything, and an antique locket on a thin silver chain around her neck, which she touched with her thumb and forefinger every now and then. Her lips were full, and her eyes were the darkest and most beguiling that Banks had ever seen. A man could drown himself in those eyes. She caught him staring at her and smiled again. He felt himself blush. He was no longer invisible.

Conversation moved around, as it inevitably did, to the crime statistics, to binge drinking, gangs, robbery, the unsafe streets, general murder and mayhem, and the apparent inability of the plods to solve even the simplest and most obvious of crimes, or keep the tax-paying citizens safe from muggers and burglars and rapists. Though none of this was specifically directed at Banks, there were nonetheless certain pointed challenges and expectations, and when he didn't rise to the bait, Quentin, Daphne's husband and one of the supercilious prats, started to zoom in on specifics, like the Hayley Daniels case.

"Look at that poor girl who got herself murdered right here in town just last week," he said, lips a little too wet and red from the wine, a shine in his eyes and a sheen of sweat on his upper lip and brow. Daphne sat stiffly next to Banks, arms crossed, looking as if she'd just sucked on a lemon. "According to all the papers," Quentin went on, "it was someone close to her, an ex-boyfriend or something. It always is, isn't it? But has there been an arrest? No. I mean, what's stopping them? Are they dim or something? You'd think they'd know by now."

Someone started laying the blame on the lenient judges, the Crown Prosecution Service and the slick defence barristers, and still Banks didn't say anything. One or two people laughed nervously and Max said, "Oh, they probably just misplaced the evidence. They're always doing that, aren't they? Or faking it." He glanced at Banks.

Then Sophia's voice cut through the rest. "For crying out loud, you should hear yourselves talk. Are you all such sheep that you believe everything you read in the papers or see on the news? If you ask me, you've all been watching too many police programs. Too much Frost and Morse and Rebus. How do you think it happens? Do you really believe the policeman wakes up in the middle of the night with a brilliant idea and says to himself, 'Ah-ha, eureka, I've got it! I have the solution!?' Grow up. It's hard slog."

That silenced them. After a short pause, Banks glanced over at Sophia and said, "Well, I do occasionally wake up in the middle of the night with a brilliant idea, but most of the time it turns out to be indigestion."

There was another pause, and then everyone laughed. Sophia held Banks's gaze and seemed to be searching him with those dark eyes of hers. Then she smiled again, and this time there was something different about it, something more intimate about their contact.

The conversation split into smaller groups and moved on. Banks found himself talking to Sophia about how much she enjoyed walking around London at night, and he told her about some of his favourite Dales walks, then Harriet joined in with a few funny stories about when she used to drive a mobile library. Dessert came, an apple-and-rhubarb crumble with custard, then they returned to the living room for coffee and after-dinner drinks, which Banks declined.

The evening was winding down. The drunks had subsided into silence, punctuated only by the occasional snore from Trevor and twitch from Gemma. Those left talked quietly as the steam rose from their coffee cups, everyone feeling full and sleepy from all the food and wine. Even the lamplight in the living room seemed dimmer and warmer. Bach had been replaced by Paul Simon's Graceland, quiet and in the background. Banks felt warm and comfortable enough to fall asleep in his chair, but that wouldn't do. People started to get up and head for the hall. It was time to go, time for the long drive back to Gratly, perhaps with something loud on the iPod to keep him awake.

"Time, ladies and gentlemen, please," the landlord of the Horse and Hounds called out close to half past eleven. "Come on, let's be having you. Haven't you got no homes to go to?"

Chelsea still had half a Bacardi Breezer in front of her. Her fifth, or was it her sixth, of the evening? She couldn't remember. Most of the others had varying degrees of alcohol left, too, mostly lager for the blokes and white wine for the girls. The band had stopped half an hour ago, but the place was still full and noisy. They hadn't been too bad tonight, she thought, but if she had to hear one more cover version of "Satisfaction" she would scream. She had never liked the song anyway, never even liked the Rolling Stones. They were wrinklies when she was born.

Chelsea lit a cigarette. She knew they could probably hang on another ten minutes or so if they behaved. If she got home after midnight, things were bound to be quiet by then. She could put her headphones on and listen to the new Killers CD in bed. It had been a good night, and she was feeling a bit woozy and tired. Shane had kissed her on the couple of occasions they had passed one another in the corridor on the way to the loo, and they were still on for the Sage tomorrow. She would have to spend some time thinking about what to wear, going through her wardrobe.

For the moment, though, everyone seemed to be finishing up their drinks and moving on. Outside, the market square was busy, and there were already a couple of female slanging matches and a fight, Chelsea noticed. A police van stood on the other side, but no one paid much attention. The police would only get involved if a full fledged gang fight broke out.

In front of the police station, one girl was hitting a skinny young man with her handbag, and everyone was laughing except the young man. Another girl, apparently on her own, seemed to be staggering across the cobbles with a broken heel, crying, her mascara running. Occasionally, a whoop went up from some group or other over towards York Road, on their way to the Taj Mahal. Down the alley beside the pub, two boys were sharing a joint. Chelsea could smell it as she passed. She turned away. She didn't want them fixing their stoned and screwed-up attention on her. She linked arms with Katrina and Paula and they swayed from side to side, singing an old Robbie Williams song as they headed across the square towards Castle Road. Chelsea hated Robbie Williams almost as much as the Rolling Stones, but you couldn't get away from him. He was sort of a national institution, like Manchester United, and she loathed them, too. The weather was still mild, and the waxing moon shone down from the clear night sky. The boys walked in front, smoking and shoving one another playfully.

"We could go to the Three Kings," said Shane. "They'll probably be open for another half-hour or more. Have another drink?"

"The Three Kings is really crap," said Katrina. "Full of old geezers. Makes my fucking skin crawl when I walk in there, the way they look at you."

"Not at this time of night," said Shane, walking backwards as he spoke to them. "All the old geezers will be home and tucked up in bed by now. What about the Fountain? They're usually open till midnight."

"No," said Chelsea. "That was where the girl was. Hayley Daniels. The one who got killed." Chelsea didn't know Hayley, but she had seen her now and then in one pub or another on a Saturday night. She used to play in the Maze when she was a child, and the thought of someone being killed there was really creepy to her.

"Spoilsport," said Shane, turning and accepting a cigarette from Mickey.

"What's up?" Mickey said to Chelsea in that mocking, challenging tone she hated. "Scared of being too close to the Maze, are you? Scared of the dark? Of the ghosties? Hannibal the Cannibal?"

"Oh, shut up," said Chelsea. "I'm not scared. It's all taped off, anyway. Look at it."

"That's only the Taylor's Yard entrance," Mickey shot back. "You can get in easily from Castle Road or the car park at the back. I bet you daren't. I bet you're well scared."

"What do you mean?" said Chelsea, feeling the ground under her wobble. She wasn't sure whether it was because she was drunk or afraid.

"You heard me," said Mickey with a wink at his mates. "I bet you daren't go in there, in the Maze. By yourself."

"Of course I dare," said Chelsea.

"Go on, then."

"What?"

They had all stopped now, and Mickey turned to face the girls. "I dare you. I dare you to go in there for just five minutes. Alone."

"What do you bet?" Chelsea asked, hoping she sounded braver than she felt.

"If you do it, I'll take you back to my flat and give you a good tonguing."

"Hang on a minute, Mickey," Shane said. "That's out of order."

"Sorry, mate," said Mickey, laughing. "But they just can't say no." He eyed Chelsea again. "What do you say, love?"

"You can keep your tongue for the slappers you usually go down on," Chelsea said, "but I'll take ten quid off you for five minutes alone in the Maze."

"You don't have to do it, Chel," Shane pleaded. "He's well pissed. He's being an arsehole, as usual, that's all. Just ignore him."

"So what's new?" Chelsea stood her ground, hands on her hips. "What about it, then, big boy?" she said. "Or can't you afford to lose a tenner?"

"You don't know what you're missing out on," said Mickey, sticking out his tongue and running it over his rubbery lips. "But all right. Seeing as it's you. And if you come running out screaming before your five minutes are up, you owe me a tenner. All right?"

"You're on."

They shook hands and the group headed towards Castle Road, past the Fountain, which Chelsea noticed was already closed. Maybe what had happened last week had affected their business, she thought.

Chelsea was beginning to wish she hadn't been so impulsive as to accept Mickey's dare. But what had she to fear, really? Everyone was saying that Hayley Daniels's ex-boyfriend, or someone else she knew, had killed her, and he'd hardly be likely to do it to Chelsea as well, would he? Besides, she knew her way around the Maze, knew shortcuts and ways out most people had no idea existed. And a tenner. That would be a bit extra to spend at the Sage tomorrow. Why not? She'd do it, she decided. She'd take stupid Mickey's dare and win the tenner.

Why it always seemed to take forever for people to say goodbye at the end of a dinner party was beyond Banks. Urgent new conversations began, it seemed, at the eleventh hour, and people finally got around to saying what they had been wanting to say all evening. Eventually, maybe twenty minutes or so after they had made their first moves towards the front door, they all drifted away in the directions they had come from. Trevor and Gemma needed help, which their neighbours kindly gave them. Helen seemed to be able to walk without Quentin's assistance, and insisted on doing so with a wobble in her step. Banks thanked Harriet and David, promised not to be such a stranger in future, and wandered down the path in the mild night air, looking up at the clear sky. The lightest of breezes blew, hardly even ruffling the new leaves. It felt cool on his skin after the warmth of the dining room.

Somehow or other, he found himself leaving at the same time as Sophia, and they both ended up at the bottom of the path under the glow of a street lamp. Sophia was waiting for Harriet, who had dashed upstairs to fetch an old family photo album she had promised to lend her. It was the first time they had been alone, and Banks didn't quite know what to say. He was also seeing her for the first time away from the table, and he noticed that she was wearing skin-hugging jeans, which suited her long legs, and that she was taller than he had first imagined.

Finally, they both spoke at once. It was one of those embarrassing moments you can laugh at, and it broke the ice.

"I was going to say," Sophia went on, "that I met you once before, years ago."

"I don't remember that."

She made a mock pout. "I'm hurt." Then she smiled. "It was twenty years ago. I was at uni, visiting Harriet. I think you'd just moved in and she introduced me to you."

"Twenty years," said Banks. "A lot's changed since then."

"For you and me both. Look, I was thinking. Even a big hotshot detective like you must get a few hours off once in a while. I just wondered if you'd fancy going on one of those long walks you were telling me about? Maybe tomorrow afternoon?"

"I'd love to," said Banks.

"Great. I'll give you my mobile number. Got some paper? And I don't mean your policeman's little black book. I don't want to end up in there with all the usual suspects and perverts."

"Don't worry." Banks pulled a Somerfield's receipt from his trouser pocket and a pen from his jacket. "Go on."

She told him the number. He hurried to scribble it down on the back, for some reason feeling as if they were doing something furtive, something they didn't want Harriet to see.

"I'll give you a ring tomorrow when I see how things are going," he said, "but I don't think it'll be a problem."

"Excellent."

They both stood in the pool of light from the street lamp. For a moment, Banks had the strangest feeling that the world outside of it no longer existed. "Right, then," he said. "I'd better be off. Can I give you a lift anywhere?"

"No. Really. It's not far. I like to walk."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. Here's Harriet." She turned away. "I'll see you tomorrow," she whispered over her shoulder.

"Yes," said Banks. Then he walked out of the strange light back into the real world of shadows, where he immediately heard shouting and a bottle smash in the distance. Saturday night in Eastvale. He got in the Porsche, turned on the iPod and cranked up the volume on the Jesus & Mary Chain's "Just Like Honey" as he sped off towards Gratly.

Despite her show of bravado, Chelsea was feeling decidedly nervous as she walked down the arcade off Castle Road, past the closed shopsPast Times, Whittard's, Castle Booksand entered the dark Maze. Five minutes could be a long time, and a lot could happen.

Her footsteps echoed from the high walls, and the occasional dim, overhanging bulb over a warehouse door cast her long shadow on the cobbles. She almost tripped over a cat, which screeched loudly and ran off, causing her heartbeat to speed up and get louder. Maybe she shouldn't have taken Mickey's bet. Ten quid didn't buy you much these days. But it wasn't the moneyshe knew thatit was her pride.

An ex-boyfriend had killed Hayley Daniels, Chelsea repeated to herself. Remember that. Then she wondered if any of her ex-boyfriends might want to kill her. She had been cruel enough in her short time, she realized. She had two-timed Derek Orton, for a start, and he hadn't been too happy when he found out. And she hadn't replied to any of Paul Jarvis's letters or e-mails for months after he went off to Strathclyde University until he'd finally given up on her. Maybe he had started stalking her? He had said many times that he loved her. Then she had slept with Ian McRae's best friend just to hurt him, and made sure he knew about it. That had been about the worst. But Ian was still in jail for mugging that old woman, surely?

Chelsea turned a corner and ventured farther into the Maze. She knew where she was going. It would take her about five minutes to get through from the Castle Road arcade to the car park exit. But the deeper in she got, the more anxious she became, the more she jumped at each little noise and shadow and cursed Mickey for goading her into it in the first place.

As she was crossing a small, ill-lit square, she thought she heard a swishing noise behind her, like the sound someone's clothes make when they walk. She turned, and when she saw a man all in black, his face in shadows, she froze. In her mind she was making the calculations. If she ran now, she could probably get to the exit before he could catch her. But those damn high heels she was wearing would be a hindrance. She would have to lose them.

As she started to kick her shoes off, he came towards her, and she saw him open his mouth as if to say something, but before she knew what was happening, another figure appeared behind him, this one also wearing dark clothing, impossible to make out clearly. The figure moved quickly, drawing a hand across the man's throat from behind. They were only about three feet away now, and a warm and faintly sweet, metallic spray hit Chelsea on her face and chest. The man seemed confused and put his fingers to his neck. The other figure disappeared back into the shadows.

Chelsea staggered back a few paces. She was left alone with the man now, but he seemed fixed to the spot. He took his hand away from his throat and looked at it, then he opened his mouth as if he was trying to say something to her, but no sound came out. Then he dropped to his knees. Chelsea heard them crack as they hit the flagstones. As she stood there, hand to her mouth, the man toppled forward and fell on his face. She heard another crack as his nose hit the ground. Only then did she start screaming and running for the exit.

Josh Ritter was singing "Girl in the War" as Banks drove the dark, winding road on the daleside just above the river. He was finally beginning to like the Porsche, he realized. It was starting to fit him better. It was a bit shabbier now, more lived-in, less ostentatious, and it handled beautifully on winding, hilly roads like this. Maybe he would hang on to it after all. The daleside rose steeply to his left, fields giving way to outcrops of limestone and moors of gorse and heather, just looming shapes in the night, and the river gleamed in the moonlight as it meandered over the wide, lush valley bottom through the Leas. He passed the drumlin with the four trees permanently bent by the wind and knew he would soon be on the home stretch.

As he drove and half listened to the music, he thought of Sophia and what a breath of fresh air she had breathed into Harriet's dinner party. He wondered if she was married. An attractive woman like her probably had a serious boyfriend, at the very least, perhaps even lived with him. He knew there was no point, not even for a moment, in allowing himself to think that her invitation to go for a walk together meant anything more than it seemed, and he remembered his earlier advice to himself not to fall in love with her. Not much chance of that. He hoped he would at least have time to see her again on Sunday, though. As she had said, even a hotshot detective needed a few hours off now and then. And he was the boss, or close enough.

The so-called random shuffle seemed to go into folk mode, as it did from time to time. Eliza Carthy's "Worcester City" followed Kate Rusby's "No Names." Then came Isobel Campbell's "O Love Is Teasin'." Sometimes Banks didn't believe it was random at all but had a devious mind of its own. Once it had followed the Small Faces' "Here Come the Nice" with the Nice's "America." Nobody could convince Banks that was random.

A mile or so past the drumlin, Banks's mobile rang. He fumbled with it and managed to get it to his ear without losing the rhythm of his driving. He was in a very dodgy area for coverage, and what came over the line was crackly and faint, fading in and out. He got the impression that it was Winsome talking, and he thought he heard the words murder and the Maze before reception broke down completely. With a growing sense of anxiety, he switched off his mobile and at the next farm gate turned around and headed back towards Eastvale.

13.

It was with a terrible sense of dej vu that Banks pulled into the market square around one o'clock in the morning and saw the crowds held back by police barriers. Many of the onlookers were drunk, having just staggered from the pubs at closing time and seen all the activity by the entrance to the Maze. One or two of them had become aggressive, and the uniforms were having a hard time keeping them back. When Banks saw the sergeant from the station, he asked him to call for reinforcements. They might not need anydrunks often lost interest as quickly as they found itbut it was better to be safe than sorry. Still feeling a sense of deep anxiety, Banks told the officers to block off the entire Maze this time, all exits.

"But, sir," one of the constables argued. "There are four terraced cottages near the back. People live there."