"For me."

"Why?"

"Someone asked me to make a woman's handbag for his wife's birthday, wanted to know what the options were."

"You didn't have samples in the shop?"

"Some, but not the ones I wanted."

"Why were you in such a hurry?"

"The birthday is on Tuesday. It was a rush job. I thought if I got off to a quick start..." He paused and adjusted his glasses again. "Look, Mr. Banks, I can see why this might seem odd to you, but it isn't. I don't go to church. I'm not married. I have no hobbies. Outside of my work, I don't have a great deal to do with my time except watch television and read the papers. This project was on my mind, the shop isn't far away, so I thought I'd get started rather than idle around with the News of the World."

That wouldn't take long, Banks thought, but he could see Randall's point. "Very well," he said. "Can you give me the woman's name and address? The one whose birthday it is on Tuesday?"

Randall frowned but gave Banks the information.

"Is there a back or side entrance to your shop?"

"No, just the front."

"Is there a way from the shop to the storeroom from the inside?"

"No. You have to go down Taylor's Yard. I rent it very cheaply, and that's one of the minor inconveniences."

"Okay. Now tell me exactly how it happened," Banks went on. "How did you approach the building? What did you see?"

Randall paused and glanced at the rain-splattered window. "I approached the place as I usually would," he said. "I remember being annoyed about the weather. There was a sudden shower. My umbrella had broken near the top of King Street, blown inside out, and I was getting wet."

"Did you notice anything unusual in the market square, anyone behaving oddly?"

"No. Everything was normal. You surely don't think...?"

Banks had a pretty good idea from Dr. Burns that Hayley Daniels had been killed late the previous night, but that didn't rule out the killer returning to the scene, or leaving it, having revisited. "Anyone heading out of the Maze?"

"No. Only people going to church, late for the service. And a small queue waiting for the Darlington bus."

"That's all?"

"Yes."

"All right. Go on."

"Well, as I said, I was put out by the weather, but there was nothing I could do about that. Anyway, the rain had stopped when I got to the storeroom"

"What did you notice first?"

"Nothing."

"You weren't aware that it had been broken into?"

"No. The door looked closed as usual. It opens inwards. There's only a Yale lock and a handle to pull it shut."

"And it was shut?"

"As far as I could see, yes, but I wasn't really paying much attention. This was something I'd done hundreds of times before. I was just on automatic pilot, I suppose. There must have been a small gap, if the lock had been broken, but I didn't notice it."

"I understand," said Banks. "Carry on."

"When I went to unlock the door, it just started to swing open. Obviously it couldn't have been pulled all the way shut, because the lock was broken, as if someone had forced it from the outside."

"In your opinion, would that have taken much pressure?"

"No. The wood was old, the screws loose. I never really worried about it as I...well, all I kept there were scraps and remnants, really. They weren't valuable. Who'd want to steal them? As I think I've told you, they're usually the bits left over from various projects, but they're often useful for patchwork and as samples, so I just throw them in there whenever the basket gets full. I've got a workshop in the back of the shop where I do most of the cutting and sewing and repairs."

"Do you have any employees?"

Randall barked. "Ha! You must be joking. Most of the time I hardly have enough work to pay the rent, let alone hire an employee."

"Enough work to get you there very early on a Sunday morning, though."

"I told you. That was a special commission. A rush job. Look, I'm getting tired of this. I had a hell of a shock to my system a few hours ago, and now here you are practically accusing me of attacking and killing that poor girl. By all rights I should be under sedation. My nerves are bad."

"I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression," said Banks. "Calm down. Take it easy. I'm just trying to find out as much as I can about what happened this morning."

"Nothing happened this morning! I went to the storeroom and I saw...I saw..." He put his hands to his head and his chest started heaving, as if he were having difficulty breathing. "Oh God...I saw..."

"Can I get you anything?" Banks asked, afraid that Randall was having a heart attack.

"Pills," he gasped. "They're in my jacket pocket." He pointed, and Banks saw a navy sports jacket hanging on the back of the door. He took out a small bottle of pills, noting that it was labelled Ativan sublingual, prescribed by a Dr. Llewelyn, and passed it to Randall, who opened it with shaking hands and placed a tiny tablet under his tongue.

"Water?" Banks asked.

Randall shook his head. "See what I mean?" he said a few moments later. "It's my nerves. Shattered. Never been strong. I get anxiety attacks."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Randall," said Banks, feeling his patience running out. It wasn't that he didn't feel compassion for anyone who found a dead body, but Randall seemed to be pushing everything just a little over the top. "Perhaps we can get back to your account of what happened next, if it isn't too painful."

Randall gave him a glare to indicate that the sarcasm wasn't lost on him. "It is painful, Mr. Banks. That's what I've been trying to tell you. I can't get the image out of my mind, out of my memory. That poor girl. As if she were just...asleep."

"But you knew she was dead?"

"Yes. You can tell. I mean, there's something...something missing, isn't there? Nobody home. Just a shell."

Banks knew the feeling and had often put it that way himself. "The image will fade in time," he said, though he doubted that it would. None of his had. "Just tell me exactly what happened. Try to visualize it. Concentrate on the details. There might be something important you've overlooked."

Randall seemed to have calmed down. "All right," he said. "All right, I'll try."

"How dark was it in the room?"

"Quite dark. I mean, I couldn't really make anything out until I turned on the light. It's just a bare bulb, as you probably know, but it was enough."

"And you saw her straight away?"

"Yes. On the pile of remnants."

"Did you know her?"

"Of course not."

"Ever seen her before?"

"No."

"Did you touch her at all?"

"Why would I touch her?"

"To check if she was still alive, perhaps?"

"No, I didn't. It never really occurred to me."

"So what did you do next?"

Randall shifted in his chair and tugged at his collar. "I just...I suppose I just stood there a few moments, in shock, taking it all in. You have to understand that at first it seemed so unreal. I kept thinking she would get up and run out giggling, that it was some sort of practical joke."

"Have any of the local young people played practical jokes on you before?"

"No. Why?"

"Never mind. You said earlier that you knew she was dead."

"That was later. These things can run through your mind at the same time. It was the shock, I suppose."

"Did you touch anything in the room?"

"Only the door. And the light switch. I never got beyond the doorway. As soon as I saw her I stopped where I was."

"And when you'd got over the shock?"

"I thought I'd go into the shop and dial 999, then I realized the police station was just across the square, and it would probably make more sense to go over there. So I did."

"Can you give me any idea of how long it was, between your finding the body and getting to the station?"

"Not really. I had no concept of time. I mean, I just acted. I ran across the square."

"You said you found the body at quarter past eight."

"That's right. I checked my watch when I got there. Habit."

"And you reported it at eight twenty-one. Does that sound right?"

"If you say so."

"Six minutes, then. How accurate is your watch?"

"It's accurate as far as I know."

"You see," said Banks, shifting in his chair, "we have a witness who saw you enter the Maze at ten past eight by the church clock, and we know it's no more than thirty seconds or so from the entrance on Taylor's Yard to your storeroom. What do you make of that?"

"But that would mean...eleven minutes. I surely can't have been that long?"

"Could your watch have been fast?"

"I suppose so."

"Mind if I see it?"

"What?"

Banks gestured towards his wrist. "Your watch. Mind if I have a look?"

"Oh, not at all." He turned the face towards Banks. Twelve twenty-seven, the same as his own and, he knew, the same as the church clock.

"Seems to be accurate."

Randall shrugged. "Well..."

"Have you any explanation for those eleven minutes?"

"I didn't even know there were eleven minutes," said Randall. "As I told you, I have no conception of how long it all took."

"Right," said Banks, standing. "That's what you said. And it's only five minutes' difference from what you told us, after all, isn't it? I mean, what could possibly happen in five minutes?" Banks held Randall's eyes, and the latter broke away first. "Stick around, Mr. Randall," Banks said. "I'll be sending someone along to take your official statement later this afternoon."

Mapston Hall was an old pile of dark stone squatting on its promontory like a horned toad. Beyond the high gates in the surrounding wall, the gravel drive snaked through a wooded area to the front of the building, where there was parking for about ten cars. Most spots were already taken by staff or visitors, Annie guessed, but she found a place easily enough and approached the imposing heavy wooden doors, Tommy Naylor ambling beside her, nonchalant as ever, taking in the view. Despite the Aspirins, Annie's headache was still troubling her, and she felt in desperate need of a long, regenerative soak in the tub.

"Must cost a bob or two to run this place," Naylor speculated. "Wonder who pays the bills."

"Not the NHS, I'll bet," said Annie, though the sign outside had mentioned that the National Health Service had a part in running the place and that Mapston Hall specialized in care for people with spinal cord injuries.

"Rich people in wheelchairs," said Naylor. "Where there's a will...Just a thought. Some relative couldn't wait for the cash? Or a mercy killing?"

Annie glanced at him. "Funny way to go about it, slitting her throat," she said. "But we won't forget those angles." How aware would the victim have been of her life slipping away from her? Annie wondered. Perhaps her body had been incapable of sensation, but what emotions had she felt during those final moments? Relief? Horror? Fear?

Though the inside of the hall was as old and dark as the exterior, like a stately home, with its parquet floor, wainscoting, broad, winding staircase, high ceiling complete with crystal chandelier, and oil paintings of eighteenth-century dignitaries on the wallsthe Mapston clan, no doubtthe computer set-up behind the reception desk was modern enough, as was the elaborate stairlift. The place was surprisingly busy, with people coming and going, nurses dashing around, orderlies pushing trolleys. Controlled chaos.

Annie and Naylor presented their warrant cards to the receptionist, who looked like a frazzled schoolgirl on her weekend job, and told her they were making inquiries about a patient. The girl probably wanted to work with handicapped people and was getting some work experience, Annie thought. She certainly seemed earnest enough and had that slightly bossy, busybodyish, passive-aggressive way about her that so often indicated a social worker. Her name badge read, Fiona.

"I can't tell you anything," she said. "I'm only part-time."