"I know," said Annie. "But Ginger thinks it was more than that with Julia Ford. I trust her instincts."

"Maybe I should go and have a word with Ms. Ford," Banks said. "It's been a while since we crossed swords."

"Sarah Bingham's a lawyer, too, though she says she hasn't seen Kirsten in years."

"Believe her?"

"I think so," Annie said.

"Okay. Who else?"

"A doctor?" Annie suggested. "Perhaps from the hospital she was in near Nottingham. Or Mapston Hall. There are doctors and nurses there."

"Good point," said Banks.

"One thing still gets me, though," said Annie. "If we're on the right track, why would she kill Templeton?"

"Another mistake?" Banks suggested. "She thought he was the killer stalking the girl, when in fact he was protecting her, like she must have thought Grimley was her attacker eighteen years ago? But you're right. We need much more corroboration than we've got so far that the murders are linked. Who's your crime scene coordinator?"

"Liam McCullough."

"He's a good bloke," said Banks. "Have him consult with Stefan on this. There has to be trace evidence in common: hairs, fibres, blood, the dimensions of the wound, something to link Lucy Payne and Kev. Let's see if we can get the pathologists talking to one another, too, when Dr. Wallace has finished with Kev."

"Okay," said Annie. "Les Ferris has tracked down the hair samples from the Greg Eastcote case to compare Kirsten's with the ones Liam and his team collected from Lucy Payne. He says he should be able to get a comparison fixed up for tomorrow morning. That could at least tell us once and for all whether it's her we are dealing with. We also need to know why, if it is Kirsten, she started again after all this time."

"If we're right about her motivation," said Banks, "then I'd guess it's because she hasn't been close to any other sex murderers over the past eighteen years. I'm going down to Leeds again sometime this week. While I'm there, I'll talk to Julia Ford, see if I can push her in the right direction, and I'll have a read through the old Chameleon post-mortem reports Phil Hartnell got out. I have to check, but I seem to remember that the wounds the Paynes inflicted on their victims were similar to those that Kirsten's attacker inflicted on her, from what you tell me. I know it can't have been the same killerTerence Payne is dead, and this Greg Eastcote seemed pretty definite for the killings eighteen years backbut maybe the similarity set her off."

"But how could Kirsten know that the Paynes inflicted similar wounds on their victims?" Annie asked.

"There were plenty of media reports at the time, and later, after Lucy Payne was kicked loose. The press didn't waste a moment in reminding people exactly what had been set free amongst them by our legal system, whether she could walk or not. Kirsten Farrow is also scarred physically, remember, and that could help us, too."

"I don't see how," said Annie. "We can hardly ask every woman connected with the case to strip to the waist."

"Pity," said Banks. "But you're right."

Annie rolled her eyes.

"Anyway," Banks went on, "we've got more than enough to be going on with. Let's compare notes again when you've talked to Maggie Forrest."

Annie stood up. "Right you are." She paused at the door. "Alan?"

"Yes?"

"It's good to be working together again."

The rest of Banks's Sunday went by in a whirl of meetings and interviews, none of which threw any more light on either the Hayley Daniels or the Kevin Templeton murdersboth, apparently, killed by different people, for different reasons, in the same place.

Templeton's parents arrived from Salford to identify their son's body, and Banks had a brief meeting with them in the mortuary. It was the least courtesy he could offer under the circumstances. He thought it would also be a good idea to let them believe their son had been killed in the line of duty rather than acting on his own initiative. Templeton's mother broke down in tears and talked about how they'd failed him, and how it all went back to when his sister ran away from home at seventeen, though she swore it wasn't really their fault, that they couldn't keep a girl who was sleeping with men the way she was in a God-fearing house. They'd tried to find her afterwards, the father explained, even reported her missing to the police, but to no avail. And now they'd lost their son, too.

Banks now thought he knew who was in the photograph on Templeton's bedside table, and why Kev had sometimes been so hard on families he interviewed. Christ, he thought, the secrets and burdens people carry around with them.

He needed to talk to Stuart Kinsey again about the snatch of music he had heard in the Maze the night Hayley was killed. Templeton said he had heard something similar in his notes, and Banks had a theory he wanted to put to the test.

As a result of all that, it was past six o'clock before he realized that he hadn't rung Sophia about their proposed walk. It wasn't that he hadn't thought of her often during the dayin fact, she was powerfully and frequently present in his thoughts for someone he had only just metbut time and events had conspired to push making the call out of his consciousness. It was too late for the walk now, he realized, reaching for the telephone, but at least he could apologize. He dialled the number she had given him. Her voice answered on the fourth ring.

"Sophia? It's Alan. Alan Banks."

"Oh, Alan. Thanks for calling. I heard about what happened last night on the news. I thought it would keep you busy."

"I'm sorry about the walk," said Banks.

"Well, maybe some other time."

"You go back home on Tuesday?"

"Yes. But I'll be back again."

"Look," Banks said, "even under the circumstances, I was thinking I've got to eat. I haven't had anything except Fig Newtons all day. There's a nice bistro on Castle Hill. Cafe de Provence. Would you consider having dinner with me instead?"

There was the briefest of pauses, then she said, "Yes. Yes, that would be nice. I'd like that. If you're sure you can make it."

Banks felt a knot of excitement in his chest. "I'm sure. I might not be able to stay long, but it's better than nothing." He checked his watch. "How about seven? Is that too early?"

"No, seven's fine."

"Shall I pick you up?"

"I'll walk. It's not far."

"Okay. See you there, then. Seven."

"Right."

When he put the receiver down, Banks's palm was sweaty and his heart was beating fast. Grow up, he told himself, and he reached for his jacket.

Maggie Forrest was not only still living and working as a children's book illustrator in the U. K., she was still living in Leeds. She had spent three years in Toronto before returning and subletting a flat on the waterfront, down by the canal, and going back to her old line of work.

Granary Wharf had been developed in an area of decrepit old warehouses by the River Aire and the Leeds and Liverpool Canal at the back of City Station in the late 1980s and was now a thriving area with its own shops, market, flats, restaurants, entertainment and a cobbled canal walk. On Sunday afternoon, when Annie arrived at the car park near the canal basin, it was quiet. She found Maggie Forrest in a third-floor flat. They had met briefly during the Chameleon business, but Maggie didn't appear to remember her. Annie showed her warrant card, and Maggie let her in.

The flat was spacious, done in bright warm shades of orange and yellow. There was also plenty of light coming in through a large skylight, which Maggie would need for her artwork, Annie guessed.

"What's it about?" asked Maggie as Annie sat on a beige modular couch. Maggie sat cross-legged in a large, winged armchair opposite. The window looked out on the building site at the back of the Yorkshire Post Building, where yet more flats were going up. On examination, Annie thought, Maggie Forrest certainly had that slight, waiflike look about her that Chelsea Pilton had noticed in the killer, and that Mel Danvers at Mapston Hall had spotted about Mary. Her nose was a bit long, and her chin rather pointed, but other than that she was an attractive woman. Her hair was cut short and peppered with grey. Her eyes looked haunted, nervous. Annie wondered if anyoneMel, Chelseamight recognize her from an identification parade?

"It's a nice flat," said Annie. "How long have you been here?"

"Eighteen months," Maggie answered.

"Never visit your friends down on The Hill? Ruth and Charles. It's not far away. They don't even know you're in town."

Maggie looked away. "I'm sorry. I've neglected Ruth and Charles," she said. "They were good to me."

"What about Claire Toth? She misses you."

"She hates me. I let her down."

"She needs help, Maggie. She's grown up now and what happened to her friend has left her with a lot of problems. You might be able to do some good there."

"I'm not a psychiatrist, damn it. Don't you think I've done enough damage? That part of my life is over. I can't go back there."

"Why not move farther away, then, make a clean break?"

"Because I'm from here. I need to be close to my roots. And it's far enough." She gestured towards the window. "Could be any modern development in any city."

That was true, Annie thought. "Married?" she asked.

"No. Not that it's any of your business," Maggie answered. "And I don't have a boyfriend, either. There's no man in my life. I'm quite happy."

"Fine," said Annie. Maybe she could be happy without a man in her life, too. She'd hardly been all that happy with one. Or then again, maybe she was doomed to repeat the patterns of her old mistakes.

Maggie didn't offer tea or coffee, and Annie was parched. She'd treat herself to something later in one of the city centre cafes. "Do you own a car?" she asked.

"Yes. A red Megane. What have I done now?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out," said Annie. "Where were you last Sunday morning, the eighteenth of March? Mother's Day."

"Here, of course. Where else would I be?"

"How about the Whitby area? Ever been there?"

"A few times, yes, but not last Sunday morning."

"Know a place called Mapston Hall?"

"Only from the news," said Maggie. "This is about Lucy Payne, isn't it? I should have known."

"I would have thought you did," said Annie. "Anyway, yes. It's about Lucy Payne."

"You think I killed her?"

"I never said that."

"But you do, don't you?"

"Did you?"

"No. I was here. I told you."

"Alone?"

"Yes. Alone. I'm always alone. I like it best that way. When you're alone, you can't hurt anyone, and no one can hurt you."

"Except yourself."

"That doesn't count."

A diesel train blew its horn as it entered Leeds City Station. "So there's no way you can prove you were here?" Annie asked.

"I never thought I'd have to."

"What did you do?"

"I don't remember."

"It's only a week ago," said Annie. "Try. Didn't you visit your mother?"

"My mother's dead. I was probably reading the Sunday papers. That's what I do on Sunday mornings. Sometimes, if it's nice, I take them down to that cafe with the tables outside, but I think that morning was windy and cold."

"Remember that, do you?" said Annie.

"It's why I stayed inside to read the papers."

"Ever heard of Karen Drew?"

Maggie seemed surprised by the question. "No," she said. "I can't say that I have."

"Funny," said Annie. "It was in the papers when they got hold of the story about Lucy Payne. It was the name she was going under."

"I didn't know that. I must have missed it."

"How do you feel about Lucy?"

"The woman tried to kill me. When it came time to go to court, you told me the Crown Prosecutor Service wasn't even going to bother prosecuting her. How do you think I feel?"

"Resentful?"

"You could start there. Lucy Payne took my trust, took my help when she needed it the most, then she turned around and not only betrayed me, but she would have killed me, I know, if the police hadn't arrived. So how do you think I feel?"

"Angry enough to have killed her?"

"Yes. But I didn't. I didn't know where she was, for a start."

"Do you know Julia Ford?"

"I've met her. She was Lucy's lawyer."

"Stay in touch?"

"I use her firm whenever I need legal work done, which isn't often. But do we play golf or go to the pub together? No. Anyway, I don't need a criminal lawyer. Mostly I deal with Constance. Constance Wells. We're quite friendly, I suppose. She helped me find this place."