Victor said he would drop them off at their car in Reeth village green. As they picked up their bags and walking sticks, Banks couldn’t get Victor’s story out of his mind. It was a bygone age, or so it seemed to him, the world he knew about only from reading Le Carre and Deighton. But Laurence Silbert had lived it. James Bond. 007. He wished Victor had known more details. Banks remembered the mysterious Mr. Browne telling him that there were now as many Russian spies in the U.K. as there were during the height of the Cold War, and he wondered whom they were spying on, what they wanted to know. Of course, the Americans were still here; there were early warning systems and satellite spy stations at Fylingdales and Menwith Hill and countless other places. No doubt there were still places like Porton Down, conducting their scientific experiments into germ and chemical warfare. Could Laurence Silbert’s, and by extension Mark Hard-castle’s, death be in any way connected with that clandestine world? And if so, how on earth could Banks find out about it? It seemed he not only had the secret intelligence services against him in this, but also his own organization. He was convinced that Superintendent Gervaise had been got at.
Before they left through the back door to cross the little beck over to the car park, Banks glanced at the man at the bar reading a Mail on Sunday and sipping a half-pint of ale. The man looked up as they passed and gave them a vague smile. Banks went to The Bridge fairly often and knew most of the regulars, but he hadn’t seen this man before. Still, that didn’t mean much. He didn’t know everyone, and lots of tourists dropped in on Sundays, but not usually alone, and not wearing a suit. There was just something about him. He certainly wasn’t dressed for walking, and he wasn’t one of the local farmers. Banks put it out of his mind as Victor drove them the half mile or so to Reeth, back to the car, and he and Sophia said good-bye to her parents.
“Well,” said Sophia, as she settled into the Porsche. “Even a simple family lunch becomes quite an adventure with you.”
“Anything to stop him getting on to the age difference and my job prospects.”
“I was doing my A levels.”
“What?”
“The period Dad was talking about. I was at an English school in Bonn doing my A levels. Sometimes we used to go to Berlin and I’d hang out in underground bars dressed in black, with transvestites and coke dealers listening to David Bowie and New Order clones.”
“What a checkered life you’ve led.”
She gave him an enigmatic smile. “If only you knew the half of it.” They took the back roads home, winding south over the moors back to Gratly, Cherry Ghost singing “Thirst for Love” on the iPod. It was an unfenced road crossing high moorland of gorse and heather, beautiful and wild, where the sheep roamed freely. Only the occasional burned patch of ground and warning signs to watch out for red flags and slow-moving tanks reminded Banks that the landscape they were driving across was part of a vast military training range.
8
Annie Cabbot wondered what Banks wanted with her as she slipped out of the squad room at four o’clock on Monday afternoon and headed for The Horse and Hounds, which had become the secret getaway for anyone who wanted to avoid Superintendent Gervaise and enjoy a contemplative pint during the day. It was almost knocking-off time, anyway, barring any unusual occurrences in the next hour or so.
She was in good spirits, as she had enjoyed a teetotal weekend, got all her washing done, meditated, worked out at the fitness center and spent a few pleasant hours in the open air painting a Langstrothdale landscape from a vantage point above Starbotton. The only bad moments had come on Saturday night, when she had had another nightmare about the end of her last case. Fragmented images and emotions of blood and fear made her heart beat fast, and floods of pity and pain surged through her. She had awoken crying, drenched in sweat, at about half past two and been unable to get back to sleep. After making a cup of tea, finding some quiet music on the radio and reading her Christina Jones novel for an hour or so, she had felt better and finally drifted off just as the sun was coming up.
Most of her working time had been taken up with the East Side Estate business, especially as it seemed that Superintendent Gervaise had kicked the Silbert-Hardcastle case into touch. Annie had spoken briefly with Donny Moore at the hospital on Friday. His injuries weren’t life-threatening, but he claimed to remember nothing of what happened the night he was stabbed, except that he was just innocently walking along the street when a big bloke in a hoodie came at him. Benjamin Paxton, the man who had reported finding Moore, had also mentioned a largish bloke heading away, so it was definitely worth following up. Winsome and Doug Wilson had tracked down most of the gang members they suspected had been present and, as expected, discovered nothing. None of them was particularly large, being just kids, but Winsome had nonetheless noted that one or two of them merited a follow-up visit, and Annie intended to be in on that over the week.
Annie had also gone for a radical haircut on Saturday, swapping her tumbling masses of auburn waves for the short layered style. She had been shocked to find a few traces of gray, but her hairdresser had applied the right chemicals and, voilà, all was well. She wasn’t sure whether she liked it yet, worried that it perhaps made her appear older, emphasized the crow’s-feet around her eyes, but she also thought it made her seem more professional and businesslike, which couldn’t be a bad thing for a detective inspector. She would have to get rid of the jeans and red boots, though, she decided, as they undermined her general air of competent authority. But she liked them. One thing at a time, perhaps.
Anyway, there was no way she was having a pint with Banks, she thought, walking into the dim interior. Whatever he drank, she would have a Britvic Orange. As expected, Banks was in the little window-less room, which had become a sort of home away from home, a copy of The Independent spread on the table in front of him and a full pint of Black Sheep Bitter in his hand.
He folded up the newspaper when he saw her. “Are you alone?” he asked, glancing toward the doorway behind her.
“Of course I am,” she said. “Why? Who else are you expecting?”
“You weren’t followed?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Drink?”
Annie sat down. “Britvic Orange please.”
“Sure?”
“Certain.”
Banks went to the bar. She got the feeling he went to check out who was in there as much as to buy her a drink. While he was gone, Annie studied the hunting prints on the wall. They weren’t bad, if you liked that sort of thing, she thought. At least the horses were quite realistically portrayed, their legs in the right positions, which was a difficult thing to achieve. Usually horses in paintings looked as if they were floating an inch or two above the ground and their legs were about to fall off. She was quite proud of her Langstrothdale landscape, even though there were no horses in it. It was the best thing she’d painted in ages.
Banks came back with her drink and settled down opposite her.
“What’s all this about, me being alone, not being followed?” Annie asked.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Banks replied. “Just that you can’t be too careful these days.”