Annie had looked rough at breakfast, and they hadn’t spoken much. Banks didn’t suppose that sleeping on the chair in the conservatory had done her much good. Whether it was her intended meaning or not, she certainly hadn’t needed the spare bedroom. The ex–detective constable Simon Bradley, Winsome had discovered on the computer before they set off, still lived in the same stone-built detached house off Shaw Lane in Headingley that Banks remembered from his previous visit. Banks rang him, and he agreed to see them whenever they could get there. After an uneventful drive down the busy A1 listening to a live Jerry Garcia Band CD, Banks and Winsome pulled up in the quiet, leafy street near the end of “Dear Prudence.” Beyond the green gate, the garden was in full bloom. Banks didn’t even know what half the flowers were called, but the riot of shape and color certainly created a joyous effect. It had been almost ten years since he had last visited, but he remembered the garden had been Mrs.
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