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his car parked on North Market Street, outside St Mary’s, and set off on foot to Hawthorn Close. The fog appeared less menacing on the main road than it had in the unlit graveyard, though the high amber street-lights and the flashing Belisha beacons at the zebra crossing looked like the Martian machines out of War of the Worlds .
    Why had Rebecca Charters lied for her husband? She had lied, of that Banks was certain, even without the evidence of the tidy desk. Was she giving him an alibi? Perhaps tomorrow he would call on them again. She was certainly an odd one. Going to see the angel, indeed!
    Banks looked at his watch. Luckily, it was just after nine o’clock, and he still had time to nip into the off-licence at the corner of Hawthorn Road and buy twenty Silk Cut.
    After he had walked about two hundred yards down Hawthorn Road, he took Hawthorn Close to the right, a winding street of big, stone houses that traditionally housed Eastvale’s gentry.
    He found number 28, stubbed out his cigarette and walked up the gravel drive, noting the “O” registration Jaguar parked outside the front door. On impulse, he put his hand on the bonnet. Still a little warm.
    Barry Stott answered the door, looking grim. Banks thanked him for doing the dirty work and told him he could return to the station and get things organized; then he walked down the hall alone into a spacious white room, complete with a white grand piano. The only contrasting elements were the Turkish carpets and what looked like a genuine Chagall on the wall over the Adam fireplace, where a thick log burned and crackled. A white bookcase held Folio Society editions of the classics, and French windows with white trim led out to the dark garden.
    There were three people in the room, all sitting down, and all, by the looks of it, in a state of shock. The woman wore a grey skirt and a blue silk blouse, both of a quality you’d be hard-pushed to find in Eastvale. Her shaggy blonde hair was the expensive kind of shaggy, and it framed an oval face with a pale, flawless complexion, pale blue eyes and beautifully proportioned nose and mouth. All in all, an elegant and attractive woman.
    She got up and floated towards him as if in a trance. “Has there been a mistake?” she asked. “Please tell me there’s been a mistake.” She had a hint of a French accent.
    Before Banks could say anything, one of the men took her by the elbow and said, “Come on, Sylvie. Sit down.” Then he turned to Banks. “I’m Geoffrey Harrison,” he said. “Deborah’s father. I suppose it’s too much to hope there has been a mistake?”
    Banks shook his head.
    Geoffrey was about six foot two, with the long arms and broad shoulders of a fast bowler. In fact he looked a bit like a famous test cricketer, but Banks couldn’t put a name to him. He was wearing grey trousers with sharp creases and a knitted green V-neck sweater over a white shirt. No tie. He had curly fair hair, with some grey visible around the ears, and a strong, cleft chin, a bit like Kirk Douglas. Everything about his movements and features spoke of power, of someone used to getting his own way. Banks put his age at about forty-five, probably a good ten years older than his wife.
    All of a sudden, the realization hit Banks like a bucket of cold water. Christ, he should have known. Should have been able to add it all up. This damn cold must be addling his brain. The man in front of him was Sir Geoffrey Harrison. Sir . He had been knighted for services to industry—something to do with leading-edge computers, electronics, microchips and the like—about three years ago. And Deborah Harrison was his daughter.
    “Do you have a recent photograph of your daughter, sir?” he asked.
    “Over there on the mantelpiece. It was taken last summer.”
    Banks walked over and looked at the photograph of the young girl posing on the deck of a yacht. It was probably herfirst year in a bikini, Banks guessed, and while she hardly had the