Banks decided he might as well read up on it and find out as much as he could, so on Tuesday he had gone to Waterstone’s and bought Stephen Dorril’s MI6 and Peter Hennessy’s The Secret State. He had read Hennessy’s Having It So Good a few months ago and liked his style.
On Wednesday evening, Banks was in the kitchen in his jeans and an old T-shirt putting together an Ikea storage unit, now that his collection of CDs and DVDs was getting close to pre-fire proportions again, cursing because he had got the top on the wrong way around and wasn’t sure he could get the back off to fix it without ruining the whole thing.
Stanford’s Symphony No. 2 was playing in the background, and the agitated movement he was listening to at the moment echoed his frustration with IKEA. When he heard the knock at the door and got up off his knees to go and answer it, he realized that he hadn’t heard a car. That was odd. His cottage was isolated, even from the village it belonged to, at the end of a long driveway that ended with the beckside woods beyond, and nobody walked there except the postman. The music hadn’t been playing so loudly that he wouldn’t have heard.
Banks answered the door and found a slightly stooped man of around sixty, with thinning gray hair and a neat gray mustache, standing there. Though it was a warm evening, and the sun hadn’t gone down yet, the man was wearing a light camel overcoat on top of his suit. His shirt was immaculately white, and his tie looked like old school, or old regiment, the emblem of a castle keep dotted between its maroon and yellow stripes.
“Mr. Banks?” he said. “Detective Chief Inspector Banks?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry to bother you at home. My name is Browne, with an e. Er... may I come in?”
“I don’t mean to be rude,” said Banks, “but I’m busy. What’s it about?”
“Laurence Silbert.”
Banks paused for a moment, then stood aside and gestured for Mr. Browne to enter. He did so, glanced around the front room and said, “Cozy.”
“I was working in the kitchen.”
“Ah,” said Browne, and followed him through.
The media storage unit lay on the floor, the untreated edge of wood that formed its top plain to see. “You’ve got the top the wrong way around,” said Browne.
“I know,” Banks grunted.
Browne grimaced. “Quite a job to put it right. I know. I’ve done it myself. It’s the back that’s the problem, you see. Flimsy stuff. I suppose you’ve already nailed it on?”
“Look, Mr. Browne,” said Banks, “much I as appreciate your advice on constructing IKEA products, I do know the problem I’m facing. Please, sit down.” He gestured to the bench at the breakfast nook. “Would you like a drink?”
“Thank you,” said Browne, wedging himself into the corner. He hadn’t taken off his overcoat. “A small whiskey and soda wouldn’t go amiss.”
Banks found a bottle of Bell’s in the booze cupboard and added a touch of soda. He poured himself a small Macallan 18-year-old with the merest threat of water. He used to be a confirmed Laphroaig drinker, but a bad experience had put him off, and he was only recently starting to enjoy whiskey again. He found that he couldn’t take the peat, seaweed and iodine taste of the Islay malts anymore, but he could handle the richer, more caramel tones of the old Highland malts in small quantities. Mostly, he still stuck to wine or beer, but this seemed an occasion for whiskey.
Browne raised his glass as Banks sat down opposite him. “Slainte,” he said.
“Slainte.”
“Stanford, I hear,” Browne said. “I knew you were a big classical music aficionado, but I would have thought Stanford was very much out of fashion these days.”
“If you know that much about me,” Banks said, “then you must also know that I’ve never been very concerned about what’s in or out of fashion. It’s good music to build storage units to, that’s all.” As he took a sip of whiskey the desire for a cigarette flooded his being. He gritted his teeth and fought it off.
Browne studied the rough edge of the top. “So I see,” he said.
“I’m happy to banter about storage units and Charles Villiers Stanford for a while,” Banks said, “but you told me you came about Laurence Silbert. Whose interests do you represent?” Banks had a damn good idea of exactly who Browne was, or at least whom he worked for, but he wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.
Browne played with his glass, swirling the amber fluid. “I suppose you could say that I represent Her Majesty’s government,” he said finally, then nodded. “Yes, that would be the best way of looking at it.”
“Is there another?”
Browne laughed. “Well, there’s always another point of view, isn’t there?”
“You’re one of Laurence Silbert’s old bosses?”
“Please, Mr. Banks. Surely even you must know that MI6 doesn’t operate on British soil. Haven’t you seen Spooks?”
“MI5, then,” Banks said. “I stand corrected. I suppose seeing some identification is out of the question?”
“Not at all, dear chap.”
Browne took a laminated card out of his wallet. It identified him as Claude F. Browne, Home Office Security. The photo could have been of anyone of Browne’s general age and appearance. Banks handed it back. “So what is it you want to tell me?” he asked.
“Tell you?” Browne sipped some more whiskey and frowned. “I don’t believe I mentioned wanting to tell you anything.”
“Then why are you here? If you don’t have anything to say relevant to the case under investigation, you’re wasting my time.”
“Don’t be so hasty, Mr. Banks. There’s no need to jump to conclusions. We can work together on this.”
“Then stop beating about the bush and get on with it.”
“I was simply wondering what point your... er... investigation has reached.”
“I can’t tell you that,” said Banks. “It’s not our policy to discuss active investigations with members of the public.”
“Oh, come on. Technically speaking, I’m hardly a member of the public. We’re on the same side.”
“Are we?”
“You know we are. All I’m interested in is whether we are likely to encounter any potentially embarrassing situations, any unpleasantness.”
“And how would you define that?”
“Anything that might embarrass the government.”
“A trial, for example?”
“Well, I must admit, that wouldn’t exactly be a welcome outcome at this juncture. But there’s very little likelihood of that happening. No, I was asking if there might be any, shall we say, fallout we should be worried about?”
“What did Silbert do?” Banks asked. “Put Strontium ninety in someone’s tea?”
“Very funny. I’m afraid I can’t tell you what he did,” said Browne. “You know I can’t. That information is classified, protected by the Official Secrets Act.”
Banks leaned back and sipped some Macallan. “Then we’re at a bit of an impasse, aren’t we? You can’t tell me anything and I can’t tell you anything.”
“Oh dear,” said Browne. “I was hoping it wouldn’t be like this. Some people get so very agitated at the mere idea of a secret intelligence service. We are on the same side, you know. We have the same interests at heart, the protection of the realm. Our methods may differ somewhat, but our ends are the same.”
“The difference is,” said Banks, “that you work for an organization that believes the ends justify the means. The police try to operate independently of that, of what various governments need to get done on the quiet so they can stay in power.”