"At this moment," said Gervaise, "we don't know enough to say one way or another. Let's wait at least until we get some forensics and talk to the girl, then we'll have another session."

"I'll talk to her now," said Banks. "And there's another thing."

"What?"

"Kev's throat was cut. You can see it clearly. That's the same way Lucy Payne was killed out Whitby way."

"Oh, bloody hell," said Gervaise. "Another complication we could do without. Right, I think you'd better start trying to find some answers." She eyed the team grimly. "I want everybody out there on the streets, all night if necessary. Knocking on doors, checking CCTV footage. Wake the whole bloody town up if you have to. I don't care. There has to be something. Kevin Templeton may have been an arsehole, but let's not forget he was our arsehole and he deserves our best efforts." She clapped her hands. "Now go to it!"

Banks paid another visit to the crime scene before heading for the hospital to see Chelsea Pilton. It was about half past two in the morning, and the market square was deserted except for the police cars, the SOCO van and the constable guarding the entrance who jotted Banks's name down and let him through. Some bright spark had chalked yellow markings on the pavements and flagstones to guide the way. Not exactly a ball of twine, but the next best thing, and it did make the Maze a lot easier to negotiate.

The SOCOs had erected a canvas covering over the square in which Templeton's body had been found, and it was brightly lit from all directions. Officers were walking the ginnels and connecting passages with bright torches, searching for clues of any kind. The area immediately around the body had already been thoroughly searched, and Crime Scene Coordinator Stefan Nowak gestured for Banks to come forward into the covered area.

"Alan," he said. "I'm sorry."

"Me, too," said Banks. "Me, too. Anything?"

"Early days yet. From what we've been able to gather from the blood spatter analysis so far, he was attacked from behind. He wouldn't have known what hit him. Or cut him."

"He would have known he was dying, though?"

"For a few seconds, yes, but there are no messages scrawled in blood, if that's what you're thinking."

"One lives in hope. Pocket contents?"

Stefan fetched a plastic bag. Inside it, Banks found Templeton's wallet, some chewing gum, keys, a Swiss Army knife, warrant card, ballpoint pen and a slim notebook. "May I?" he asked, indicating the notebook. Stefan gave him a pair of plastic gloves and handed it to him. The handwriting was hard to read, perhaps because it had been written quickly, but it seemed as if Templeton liked to make brief notes, like an artist's sketches. He hadn't written the murderer's name in there, either. There was nothing since the previous evening, when it appeared that he had also been haunting the Maze, to no avail, as Banks had suspected. He would examine the notebook in more detail later to see if there was anything in the theory that Templeton was following leads of his own, but for now he handed it back. "Thank you. Dr. Burns finished yet?"

"He's over there."

Banks hadn't noticed the doctor in another corner of the square, dressed in navy or black, jotting in his notebook. He went over.

"DCI Banks. What can I do for you?"

"I'm hoping you can tell me a few things."

"I can't really tell you much at all," said a tired Burns. "You'll have to wait until Dr. Wallace gets him on the table."

"Can we start with the basics? His throat was cut, wasn't it?"

Burns sighed. "That's the way it looks to me."

"From behind?"

"The type of wound certainly supports DS Nowak's blood spatter analysis."

"Left-or right-handed?"

"Impossible to say at this point. You'll have to wait for the post-mortem, and even that might not tell you."

Banks grunted. "Weapon?"

"A very sharp blade of some sort. Razor or scalpel, something like that. Not an ordinary knife, at any rate. From what I can see on even a cursory examination, it's a clean, deep cut. The way it looks is that he simply bled to death. The blade cut through both the carotid and the jugular and severed his windpipe. The poor devil didn't have a hope in hell."

"How do you think it happened?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. I understand there was a witness?"

"Yes," said Banks. "A girl. She saw it happen. I'm on my way to talk to her."

"Then she might be able to tell you more. Perhaps he was following her?"

"Why? To warn her, protect her?"

"Or attack her."

Kev Templeton, the Maze killer? Banks didn't want to believe it, even though he had been the first to voice the possibility. "I don't think so," he said.

"I'm just trying to keep an open mind," said Dr. Burns.

"I know," said Banks. "We all are. I wonder what the killer thought Kev was doing, though?"

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing. I was just thinking of something else." Annie's case had come into his mind again. Lucy Payne sitting in her wheelchair, her throat cut with a sharp blade, a razor or a scalpel, a similar weapon to the one that had killed Templeton.

"I'm sure that Dr. Wallace will attend to the post-mortem as soon as she can on this one," Dr. Burns said. "She should be able to give you more answers."

"Right," said Banks. "And thanks. I'd better get to the hospital now and talk to the witness." As he walked away, he was still thinking about Lucy Payne, and he knew that as soon as it reached a reasonable hour in the morning he would have to ring Annie in Whitby and see if they could get together to compare notes.

It wasn't as if Annie was sleeping well, or even sleeping at all. Banks could have rung her right then, and she would have been awake enough to hold a conversation. A sound had woken her from a bad dream, and she had lain there not moving, listening hard, until she was sure it was just a creak from the old house and nothing else. Who did she think it was, anyway? Eric come to get her? Phil Keane returned? The men who had raped her? She couldn't let her life be ruled by fear. Try as she might, by then she couldn't remember the dream.

Unable to sleep, she got out of bed and put on the kettle. Her mouth was dry, and she realized she had polished off the best part of a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc by herself last night. It was getting to be a habit, a bad one.

She peered through the curtains across the pantile rooftops down to the harbour, where the moon frosted the water's surface. She wondered if she should have gone home to Harkside for the night, but she liked being close to the sea. It reminded her of her childhood in St. Ives, the long walks along the cliffs with her father, who kept stopping to sketch a rusty farm implement or a particularly arresting rock formation while she was left to amuse herself. It was then that she had learned to create her own world, a place she could go to and exist in when the real world was too tough to handle, like when her mother died. She only remembered one walk with her mother, who had died when she was six, and all the way along the rough clifftop path her mother had held her hand as they struggled against the wind and rain and told her stories about the places they would visit one day: San Francisco, Marrakesh, Angkor Wat. Like many other things in her life, that wasn't going to happen.

The kettle boiled and Annie poured water on the jasmine tea bag in her mug. When the tea was ready, she lifted the bag out with a spoon, added sugar and sat cradling her fragrant drink, inhaling the perfume as she stared out to sea, noting the way the moonlight shimmered on the water's ripples and brought out the texture and silvery-grey colour of the clouds against the blue-black sky.

As she sat there watching the night, Annie felt a strange connection with the young woman who had come to Whitby eighteen years ago. Was it Kirsten Farrow? Had she looked out on the same view as this, all those years ago, planning murder? Annie certainly didn't condone what she had done, but she felt some empathy with the damaged psyche. She didn't know what the young woman had felt, but if she had done the things Annie thought she had, and if she had been Kirsten Farrow, it had been because that was her only way of striking back at the man who had condemned her to a kind of living death. There are some kinds of damage that take you far beyond normal rules and systems of ethics and moralitybeyond this point be monsters, as the ancients used to say. The young woman had gone there; Annie had only stood at the edge of the world and stared into the abyss. But it was enough.

Annie had the overwhelming sensation that she was at an important crossroads in her life, but she didn't know what the directions were; the signposts were either blurred or blank. The only thing she knew was that she had been behaving and feeling so strangely of late. She couldn't trust herself to get close to a man. Consequently, she had abandoned her control to alcohol and gone home with a boy. Whatever demons were driving her, she needed to get sorted, get a grip, develop a new perspective and perhaps even a plan. Maybe she even needed outside help, though the thought caused her to curl up inside and tremble with panic. Then she might be able to read the signposts. Whatever she did, she had to break the circle of folly and self-delusion she had let herself get trapped in.

And there was Banks, of course; it seemed that there was always Banks. Why had she kept him at arm's length for so long? Why had she abused their friendship so much this past week, thrown herself at him in some sort of drunken rage, then lied to his face about having a row with her boyfriend when he tried to help? Because he was there? Because she...? It was no use. No matter how hard she tried, Annie couldn't even remember what it was that had split them apart. Had it been so insurmountable? Was it just the job? Or was that an excuse? She knew that she had been afraid of the sudden intensity of her feelings for him, their intimacy, and that had been one thing that had caused her to start backing away, that and the attachment he inevitably felt for his ex-wife and family. It had been raw back then. She sipped some hot jasmine tea and stared out to the horizon. She thought of Lucy Payne's body, sitting there at the cliff edge. Her last sight had probably been that same horizon.

She needed to get things back on a professional footing, talk to Banks again about the Kirsten Farrow case and its history, especially since her conversation with Sarah Bingham. If Kirsten had disappeared, there was a good chance she had turned up in Whitby to kill Eastcote, the man who had stolen her future. Sarah Bingham had certainly lied about Kirsten's movements, and the truth left her with no alibi at all.

Annie finished her tea and noticed it had started to rain lightly. Perhaps the sound of the raindrops tapping against her window would help her get back to sleep, the way they had when she was a child, after her mother's death, but she doubted it.

The Sexual Assault Referral Centre, new pride and joy of Eastvale General Infirmary, was designed in its every aspect to make its patients feel at ease. The lighting was mutedno overhead fluorescent tubes or bare bulbsand the colours were calming, shades of green and blue with a dash of orange for warmth. A large vase of tulips stood on the low glass table, and seascapes and landscapes hung on the walls. The armchairs were comfortable, and Banks knew that even the couches used for examinations in the adjoining room were also as relaxing as such things could be, and the colours there were muted too. Everything was designed to make the victim's second ordeal of the night as painless as possible.

Banks and Winsome stood just outside the door with Dr. Shirley Wong, whom Banks had met there on a number of previous occasions and had even had drinks with once or twice, though only as a colleague. Dr. Wong was a dedicated and gentle woman, perfect for the job. She also made a point of keeping in touch with everyone who passed through her doors and had a memory for detail Banks envied. She was a petite, short-haired woman in her late forties and wore silver-rimmed glasses. Banks was always surprised by her Geordie accent, but she had been born and bred in Durham. He introduced her to Winsome and they shook hands.

"I'm sorry to hear about your friend," Dr. Wong said. "Detective Sergeant Templeton, wasn't it? I don't think I knew him."

"He wasn't really a friend," Banks said. "More of a colleague. But thank you." He gestured towards the room. "How is she?"

Dr. Wong raised her eyebrows. "Physically? She's fine. From what I've seen there are no signs of injury, or of sexual assault, or even sexual activity. But I suspect you already knew that. Which sort of brings me to the question..."

"Why is she here?"

"Yes."

Banks explained the chaotic situation in the Maze, and the less than satisfactory option of taking Chelsea to the station and offering her a set of paper overalls while they bagged her clothes, no doubt with her parents fussing around, all under bright fluorescent light.

"You did right, then," said Dr. Wong. "The parents are in the family room, by the way, if you need to talk to them."

"So you're not going to report us to the board for wasting hospital resources?"

"I don't think so. Not this time. Given a suitable donation to the victims' fund, of course, and a single malt of my choice. Seriously, though, she's all right physically, but she's had a terrible shock. Sobered her up pretty quickly, I'd say. I gave her a mild sedativenothing that will knock her out or interact badly with the alcohol she had clearly been drinkingso she should be lucid enough if you want to talk to her."

"I would, yes."

Dr. Wong pushed the door open with her shoulder. "Follow me."

She introduced Banks and Winsome to Chelsea, and Banks sat opposite the girl in a matching deep armchair. Winsome sat off to the side and took out her notebook unobtrusively. Soft music played in the background. It was nothing Banks recognized but was no doubt calculated to induce maximum relaxation and a sense of calm. They could at least have used Brian Eno's ambient music, he thought, say, Ambient 1: Music for Airports or Thursday Afternoon. Either of those would have worked as well.

Chelsea wore a blue hospital gown, and her long hair was tied back in a ponytail, making her appear more like a lost little girl than a young woman. Her eyes were redrimmed, but clear and focused. She had a nice bone structure, Banks noticed, high cheekbones, a strong jaw and pale, freckled skin. She sat with her legs curled under her and her hands resting on the arms of the chair.

"Coffee?" asked Dr. Wong.

Chelsea declined the offer, but Banks and Winsome said yes. "I'm not fetching it for you, myself, you understand," Dr. Wong said. "I wouldn't stoop that low."

"I don't care who gets it," said Banks, "as long as it's black and strong."

Dr. Wong smiled. "I just wanted you to know." Then she left the room.

Banks smiled at Chelsea, who seemed wary of him. "Doctors," he said with a shrug.

She nodded, and a hint of a smile flitted across the corners of her lips.

"I know this is tough for you," Banks went on, "but I'd like you to tell me in your own words, and in your own time, exactly what happened in the Maze tonight, and my friend Winsome over there will write it all down. You can start with why you were there."

Chelsea glanced at Winsome, then at the floor. "It was so stupid of me," she said. "A dare. Mickey Johnston dared me. Just five minutes. I didn't think, you know, the papers said it was her ex-boyfriend or someone. My mum told me to be careful, but I really couldn't believe I would be in any danger."

Banks made a mental note of the name. Mr. Mickey Johnston could expect a whole lot of grief to come in his direction soon. "Okay," he said, "but it must have been a little bit scary, wasn't it?" A nurse walked in quietly with the two coffees on a tray, which she placed on the table beside the tulips. It was from the machine down the hall. Banks could tell by the plastic cups before he even took a sip. It had both milk and sugar. He let his sit there, but Winsome took hers over to her corner.

"I jumped at my own shadow and every noise I heard," said Chelsea. "I couldn't wait to get out of there."

"You knew your way around?"

"Yes. I used to play there when I was little."

"Tell me what happened."

Chelsea paused. "I was near the end of the five minutes, and I heard..." She paused. "Well, I don't think I really heard anything at first. It was more like a feeling, you know, like something itchy crawling in your scalp. Once there was an outbreak of nits at school, and the nit nurse came around. I didn't get them, but my best friend Siobhan did, and she told me what it was like."

"I know what you mean," said Banks. The nit nurse had visited his school on more than one occasion, too, and he hadn't always been as lucky as Chelsea. "Go on."

"Well, that's what I felt at first, then I thought I heard a noise."

"What sort of noise?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Behind me. Just like there was somebody there. A jacket brushing against the wall, perhaps. Something like that."

"Did you hear any music?"

"No."

"What about footsteps?"

"No, more of a swishing sound like your jeans or your tights make sometimes when you walk."

"All right," said Banks. "What did you do next?"

"I wanted to run, but something told me to slow down and turn around, so that's what I was doing when...when..." She put her fist to her mouth.

"It's all right, Chelsea," said Banks. "Take a few deep breaths. That's right. No hurry. Take your time."

"That was when I saw him."

"How close was he?"

"I don't know. A few feet, maybe five or six. But I know I felt that if I turned and ran right then I'd be able to get away from him."

"Why didn't you run?"

"I had to get my shoes off first, and by then...He wasn't the only one there. And we were sort of frozen. I couldn't move. It's hard to explain. He stopped when he knew I'd seen him, and he looked, I don't know, I mean, he wasn't wearing a mask or anything. It was dark but my eyes had adjusted. I know this sounds well stupid and all, but he was really good-looking, and his face, you know, his expression, it was concerned, like he cared, not like he wanted to...you know..."

"Did he say anything?"

"No. He...he was just going to open his mouth to say something when..."

"Go on," said Banks. "What happened?"

She hugged her knees tighter. "It was all so fast and like slow motion at the same time. All such a blur. I saw a movement behind him, another figure."

"Did you see a face?"

"No."